Land Sharks

by S. L. Stoner

  This was a pain Sage knew well. His own father chose to leave when Sage was only a year older than little Faith. Thought of that deliberate abandonment still weighed him down unexpectedly. That deliberateness was the hardest aspect to forget or forgive. If Kincaid was not going to return to his wife and daughter, it was important to discover why. “Never knowing is like forever pouring salt in a wound so that it never heals,” Sage realized, “no matter how much time passes.” Sage transferred the picture to his outside suit coat pocket and focused on the scenery.

  Sage slipped in and out of Lucinda’s without catching sight of her. He felt bad about that. “Still,” he later told himself, “it’s better she wasn’t there.” Given his low spirits, he wouldn’t be good company.

  Mozart’s, however, didn’t allow him to brood. The supper hour was underway when he opened the front door. As his mother disappeared behind the kitchen doors, she flung him a harried look and nodded toward the group of guests who’d preceded him in the door.

  Two hours later, the distractions of his “charming host” role had lightened his mood. As he and his mother tidied the now-empty dining room, she explained that Fong had vanished without explanation, leaving Mozart’s shorthanded.

  Sage paused in his sweeping of the dining room floor. It was so unlike Fong to be irresponsible. “When did you last see him?” he asked.

  “That’s what’s so strange,” she said as she snapped a clean tablecloth down upon a table, her hands smoothing it flat with quick efficiency. “Mr. Fong scooted out of here right in the middle of the dinner hour, saying that he was going home for a minute. He told us he’d be right back. Except he didn’t come back. We haven’t seen hide or hair of him since.”

  “Well, maybe something happened at his shop and it was too late to return, so he just stayed home.” Fong and his wife operated a small provisions store in Portland’s Chinatown, just four blocks from Mozart’s. Fong divided his nights between the store where he and his wife lived and staying in his third floor room above Mozart’s. There was no particular pattern to his choices. “I’m sure he’ll give us a simple explanation,” Sage said.

  Her raised chin and compressed lips signaled she wasn’t buying that particular horse until she examined its teeth.

  Her response compelled him to add, “You worry too much.”

  “Someone has to around here. If you’d worry a little more, I wouldn’t worry as much.” She said, pausing in her activity with the table linen to look at him, her smile tweaking the sting from her words.

  “I worry,” he protested.

  “You do. Though not always about what’s happening right under your nose.”

  “You’re talking about Matthew now, I suppose?” he said.

  She nodded grimly. The boy’s sadness over the loss of his brother seemed to strike his spirits down on a frequent basis. When that happened, the boy disappeared into himself, leaving them to exchange worried glances. Still, only two months had passed since the boy’s horrific trip riding the rails. No one expected that Matthew’s awful memory of his brother’s brutal murder would fade easily or soon.

  “Did Matthew disappear today, too?” Sage asked. Generally, they could count on the cook’s nephew to help out whenever the restaurant got busy because he tended to stay close to hand. Yet, the boy had also been missing during the supper hour.

  “Yes, he left mid-afternoon and I haven’t seen him since. I am hoping he’s with that printer’s boy.” She idly picked up a napkin to sharpen its crease. “Don’t tell me I shouldn’t worry about him,” she added, dropping the napkin onto the table.

  He didn’t. It wouldn’t do any good. Until all the chicks were safely in the nest, his mother would worry.

  As if summoned by their mention of his name, Matthew burst into the dining room from the kitchen, words tumbling out before him, “Excuse me, ma’am, Mr. Adair. My aunt just told me that Mr. Fong didn’t come back. I’m sorry. I’d surely have stayed around if I’d known you needed help.”

  The reason for the boy’s wide-eyed look of excitement came clear as he continued, “My friend Danny took me to that new Kinescope parlor. The machines have moving pictures inside ‘em, pictures of horses running, people kissing,” Matthew blushed, shot a glance at Mae Clemens and hurried on, “and even one man sneezing. It looked right funny–that man sneezing. Boy, oh boy, that Mr. Edison is smart. I wonder how hard it is to be an inventor.” Matthew took the remaining tablecloth from Mae Clemens’s hand, expertly snapping it across the last uncovered table. “Once we used up all our pennies, we just walked around,” he said to finish his story.

  Sage shot his most smug, see-I-told-you-so, look at his mother.

  Her look in return was unabashed, even defiant. “Don’t you worry about it, boy,” she said to Matthew as she lowered herself into a chair and lifted her feet to rest them on a nearby chair rung. For the first time that night, the tired lines around her mouth showed deep. “We thought Mr. Fong planned to be here, too.”

  Now, Sage decided, was the time to spring his idea for perking up Matthew’s spirits. “Say, Matthew, I’m glad you’re here because I’ve been wanting to speak with you,” Sage told him. The boy’s posture stiffened and he turned toward them, a bristly bunch of cutlery clutched in his hand.

  Why, the boy fears I’m going to tell him that he has to leave, Sage realized and rushed to say, “You’ve been helpful running errands for us around here. Your aunt tells me that you also pick up some loose change running errands for our neighbors.”

  The boy waited for Sage’s next words with an anxious face, although a slight widening of his eyes meant curiosity was starting to take hold.

  Sage continued, “I’m thinking you might be able to help us out more around here, and maybe make more money, if you owned one of those bicycles. So, I propose to purchase one for your use. F. T. Merrill’s Bicycle Emporium sells good ones I hear,” he concluded and leaned back in his chair to judge the boy’s reaction.

  Matthew’s freckled countenance became instantly alert and his eyes sparked before gloominess caused his face to fall and he slowly shook his head. “I really thank you for that thought, Mr. Adair, but I must refuse. You’ve already done too much for me. You gave me a job, a place to stay and you’ve already paid my school tuition for this September. It just wouldn’t be right for me to accept any more help from you. My folks wouldn’t like it. Aunt Ida neither. I’m gonna make my own way. I can’t be beholden to you for so much. Just wouldn’t be right,” he told Sage. His jaw set, the boy turned back to laying out the tableware.

  Sage glanced at his mother. She arched an I-could-have-told-you-so eyebrow in his direction. He, however, did not relinquish the idea. “I thought that might be your position but the bicycle wouldn’t be a gift. You will pay me back a little at a time, and while you’re doing it, we’ll ask you to perform more errands for the business.”

  Matthew didn’t jump on that rationale as eagerly as Sage expected. Instead, the boy’s face remained solemn as he said carefully, “Well, I certain sure like the idea but I’d need Aunt Ida’s permission before I can take you up on your kind offer.”

  Despite this carefully measured response, Sage thought he detected a smidgen of that excitement he’d hoped to see. There’d been too many downhearted days for the boy, days when he tended to dog Sage’s heels like a lost pup. No doubt about it. Matthew needed a distraction.

  Sage nodded again. He was unconcerned about Ida’s reaction to the idea. A few days prior, Sage diplomatically plowed that field. She was agreeable. All it had taken was Sage reminding her of Matthew’s persistent preoccupation with the death of his younger brother. Agreeing to Sage’s plans for the bicycle, Ida expressed the hope that “the contraption might take his mind off things,” adding, “I’m at a point where I don’t know how much longer I can keep wringing my hands over that boy before they fall off.”

  Sage wasn’t being completely altruistic. Ida’s inability to console her nephew weighed heavily on her mind an
d that, in turn, resulted in less than inspired cooking. Business could drop off if he didn’t take action.

  Sage studied Matthew more closely, noting a certain vigor taking hold of the boy. Matthew didn’t seem to notice his scrutiny but he said, “Excuse me, ma’am, sir. I need to go talk to my aunt.” He dropped the cutlery with a clatter and hastily exited through the double doors, nearly upending two chairs on his way. Although the gaslights were dimmed, Sage caught his mother rolling her eyes toward the tin ceiling.

  “What?” he asked her with a touch of exasperation.

  “A bicycle now? Sage, just remember that hero worship usually ends in disappointment, and not in a way that feels good to the hero.”

  “So what am I supposed to do? You just told me to worry about him. You agreed he needs something to pull him out of the doldrums. Besides, a bicycle will be a useful addition around here–like I told him.”

  “Yes, and the new clothes are good for him, daily pocket money is good for him, you taking him to that new public library all the time is good for him.”

  He smiled ruefully. “Well, when you list it like that, I may be overdoing it a bit.”

  “Humph. A bit?” She said, before shrugging her shoulders and giving in by saying, “Though I can’t say I know of any better way to distract his thoughts.”

  He wasn’t sure he could explain why getting the boy a bicycle was the right move, he just knew it was. “I guess I know how it feels when the whole world jumbles up and turns ugly overnight,” he said at last, without accusation.

  The silence that followed thickened with memories. Sage had been nine years old, working inside a Pennsylvania coal mine. A methane gas explosion had killed his uncle, his cousin, and the mine owner’s only son. Stranded far below any hope of rescue, Sage saved himself and the mine owner’s young grandson. The mine owner, imbued with a Protestant sense of moral obligation, insisted on taking Sage to foster. Assuredly, he’d provided Sage with every material advantage denied to him by birth. Years later, however, Sage finally understood the reason for the nasty undercurrent that ran beneath the mine owner’s every generosity. The old man resented Sage surviving the mine explosion instead of his own son.

  The scraping sound of his mother’s chair being pushed back snapped Sage into the present. He thought of another argument, “Besides, I suspect he’s taken to following me around. I don’t want to lead him into trouble. A bicycle will send his mind somewhere else and away from my business,” he said.

  Mae stood and patted him on the shoulder, saying, “I am sure that’s the case.” Her tone said she didn’t share his confidence. “In the meantime, I’m so tired that I can’t wait any longer. I’m going to bed. Are you coming up?”

  Sage was tired, too. It had been a grueling day and the grit of exhaustion stung his eyes. But Mrs. Kincaid’s sobs seemed to echo inside his head and their pull was stronger. “Yes, but only to change clothes and head out again,” he answered. “I need to start looking for Joseph Kincaid. I promised his wife that I would find him. Too much time has elapsed already.” This news perked Mae up. She sat back down to listen as he related all he’d learned on his trip to Milwaukie.

  “I don’t like the sound of that. That poor young woman,” his mother said, her voice softening. “She told you that there was no one around to help her?”

  “Yes, my impression is that the couple was either shunned by their relatives or they are without any family. For certain, they’ve no people around here. She kept repeating that she and Faith were all alone. That there was ‘nobody’.”

  “Sounds like she feels hopeless on top of guilt and grief. Maybe I should take myself on out there to Milwaukie. See if there’s something I can do to help. Lord knows, I can remember how she feels.” Mae said that last sentence mostly to herself.

  She didn’t need to elaborate. Mae’d lost everything important the day the mine exploded–her brother and nephew. In the dire financial straits following those losses, she was forced to surrender her only child’s upbringing to the very man responsible for the whole disaster. He’d promised to provide Sage with every material advantage, including a university education. Her life, on the other hand, could offer Sage only poverty and a miner’s early death.

  “You wouldn’t mind going way out there on the train?” Sage asked. “You’d have to walk a good bit to get to the house from where the interurban drops off.”

  “No, I’d enjoy the fresh air. Anyways, I could do with looking at something besides this place.”

  Sage was relieved. She’d shifted some of the weight off his shoulders. “Thanks. I can’t seem to loosen her from my thoughts. I’m afraid she’s going to harm herself and that baby,” he said.

  She reached across the table to pat his hand before standing and heading toward their third-floor rooms. “Tomorrow, first thing,” she threw over her shoulder.

  Sage went into the kitchen to see if there was any coffee in the pot. The kitchen was clean and empty. Matthew and his aunt lay already abed in the second floor apartment where Ida, her husband, Knute, and now Matthew, resided. Lukewarm coffee remained in the pot. Sage poured a cup hoping it would liven him up. Leaning against the kitchen sink, he sipped, grateful for the dim gaslight filtering in through the window. It illuminated the various kitchen gadgets hanging on the wall. He hated the oppressive black of windowless rooms. His need for light was one reason he’d purchased a corner building to house Mozart’s.

  As he sipped, Sage made a mental list of the various saloons he’d visit that night under the guise of the itinerant worker, John Miner. As always, the biggest problem was how to ask his questions so that they would pass unremarked. Still, even as he planned his approach, the Milwaukie saloon keeper’s emphatic belief that Kincaid was dead weighed heavily. That idea kept stabbing into his thoughts like a hungry woodpecker on a rotten stump.

  FIVE

  AS HE TUGGED ON HIS John Miner canvas pants, faded flannel shirt and scuffed work boots, Sage considered how best to search for the missing union organizer. By the time he was dressed and heading down the hidden staircase, he’d formed his plan of approach. Asking after Kincaid by name would be a waste of time. According to his wife, Kincaid stayed close to home and seldom visited Portland. He hadn’t liked leaving her and the baby alone. Besides, in Portland’s North End, “Kincaid” was just one more unremarkable name among many. Throngs of destitute workers wandered through the City’s beer joints, looking for cheap eats and the temporary release of alcohol. Their names were quickly forgotten–to the extent their names were ever known. All of which meant the best approach was to show the couple’s picture to people and see if it stirred any recognition.

  His search focused on the saloons north of the City’s commercial center where poor men on a ramble always washed up, like so many pieces of bark trapped in a river’s eddy. The North End was a hard walk. On every side, the darkened doorways of the closed stores supplied niches. From those manmade grottos, sprawled men called and dull-eyed women beckoned–begging for a few coins. Money needed neither for food nor shelter, but for the oblivion of booze or worse. The scene meant a dismal trek between watering holes. Overhead, signs creaked in a stiff night breeze, their faded letters touting ten-cent rooms. They offered a sagging mattress, a thin blanket and sufficient numbers of biting critters to keep a man fully clothed all night. Only gaslight torches flaring outside the dance halls provided intermittent light. The City’s esteemed fathers hadn’t seen fit to light the way for the North End’s nightly revelers, even though the businesses here delivered more than their share of city taxes and bribes.

  Hours passed as Sage dutifully trudged through the Happy Duck, Blazers, Jimmy Mick’s, Slap Jack’s and other saloons quickly forgotten. By the search’s end, Sage ceased trying to match a saloon’s name to its interior look. Their sameness and his own fatigue defeated him. Every saloon sported the same gouged wooden floor, scarred bar, and smelly miasma of beer and tobacco smoke beneath dim lights. He’d been forced to down a s
ignificant volume of cheap beer before the din, produced by drunken patrons and ineptly played music, deadened to a bearable level. Once it did, he pretended the sound was babbling water.

  In all the saloons Sage visited, not a single face matched the curly-haired square-jawed young man. Some faces were close–young rootless men being thick on the ground, so to speak. Worse, though, was the fact none of the barmen recalled ever seeing Kincaid’s earnest face.

  Finally, he reached Erickson’s saloon, the last stop in his search and the one drinking establishment markedly different from the rest. Famous for having the longest bar in the world, Erickson’s drew men from everywhere. Loggers rubbed shoulders with European sailors who, in turn, stood elbow to elbow with farmers from eastern Oregon wheat fields.

  Overhead, an encircling balcony supported a stage. On the stage, girls in short skirts cavorted, while comedians traded ribald quips with an inebriated and loudly appreciative audience. The balcony was also where well-to-do townsmen soaked up the revelry while remaining aloof and above those they considered their social inferiors. They made a point of talking only to each other and the women Erickson’s sold.

  At each of the saloon’s entrances stood hefty men wearing white shirts with arm garters. Their stance telegraphed that they were at the ready to oust any troublemaker.

  The block-large saloon was too big for Sage to stand at the bar and observe the whole room. So he roamed, bleary-eyed from cheap beer, noise, a long day and the lack of sleep. His efforts yielded nothing. When at last he stepped out into the cool air of early morning, he was glad to be heading home. As he began walking toward Mozart’s, he mulled over his lack of success. He hadn’t found Kincaid. Not even the slightest hint of Kincaid. It was as if the young Kansan had dropped into a deep black hole. As he crossed Burnside Street, the demarcation between the City’s commercial center and the rougher haunts of working men, Sage heard the tinny clatter of milk wagons rolling up the street in his direction. Dawn would soon begin to lighten the sky.