by S. L. Stoner
“The search has gotten more complicated,” Sage began and heard the defensiveness in his voice. The sound of heavy boots clumping up the stairs saved him. “Matthew,” he mouthed.
Sure enough, the young man appeared in the doorway, “Miz Clemens, my aunt says to tell you the butcher man is downstairs and is there any particular cuts you want her to buy?”
“Yes, I told Mr. Fong. Ask him to talk to the butcher for me, please.”
Matthew shuffled awkwardly in his large boots. “Ah . . .well . . . ah . . . Mr. Fong isn’t here anymore.”
Sage broke in. “Go look in the attic, Matthew. He’s probably preparing for our exercise. It’s time.”
Consternation reddened the boy’s face and he again shuffled uneasily on his big feet. “Well, sir. He’s not in the attic, either, because I saw him leave my own self. And when Aunt Ida asked when he was coming back, he didn’t say nothing, just scooted out the door. She says he’s been acting peculiar all morning.”
Sage and his mother exchanged a look. It was one thing for Fong to spurn his partners’ questions, but Ida’s? Fong was usually quite courtly in his relations with Mozart’s cook.
Mae started piling the dirty dishes onto a tray. “You go tell the butcher that I’ll be right down,” she instructed the boy. Neither of them spoke until his boots began clumping back down the stairs.
“Something’s not right with Mr. Fong,” she informed Sage, her tone emphatic.
“I expect whatever it is will work itself out in a few days,” Sage responded with more confidence than he felt.
“I surely hope so. What with this Kincaid matter, we need things to operate smoothly around here. It won’t do to for everybody to be in an uproar because Mr. Fong has decided to turn mysterious on us.” She strode toward the door, halting on the threshold. “By the way, you haven’t forgotten your promise to Matthew, have you? Remember, you promised him one of those newfangled safety bicycles. I just heard him down in the alley telling his friend, the printer’s devil, all about it. Don’t want the boy disappointed–even if I don’t cotton to all you’re doing for him.” Her declaration made, she swept from the room.
SEVEN
EVERY PLACE HE’D MISSED searching the previous night, Sage covered during the late afternoon on Tuesday and most of Wednesday. He visited every money-grubbing job shark. Even though the coins Sage offered had them near drooling, not a one admitted to sending the square-jawed Kansan out on a job
Sage also canvassed the waterfront, thudding down the docks, boarding ships, questioning stevedores and wandering through the warehouses stilted out over the river. He visited every building site and interviewed every day laborer he encountered. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
So, it was not until Wednesday, late afternoon, that he and Matthew finally strode into F. T. Merrill’s bicycle emporium. A few tall wheel cycles hung from wall hooks, their purpose already that of historical oddity and adornment. Brightly colored two-wheeled safety bicycles crowded the showroom floor, their nickel-plated sprockets spotless. The pungent rubber smell of the single-tube tires snared Sage’s nose and made him sneeze.
Boxes of accessories filled shelves attached to a side wall. Sage ambled over to read their labels. He learned they contained all the bits and pieces a fellow needed to be a successful wheelman. Things like engraved handlebar bells, foot pumps, locks and chains, trouser guards and toe clips. Bicycling apparently was a complicated endeavor and, no doubt, one that was making F. T. Merrill wealthy.
Turning, when he heard a salesman greet Matthew by name, Sage raised an inquiring brow at the boy. Matthew flushed and stammered an explanation, “I . . . I . . . ah . . . stopped by and I . . . ah told them that maybe I’d be getting me one of these . . . ah . . . bicycles.”
Sage grinned. “That was good thinking,” he said.
The boy relaxed with a shy smile.
“So, you know the particular model you want?” Sage asked.
The salesman laughed. He looked to be only a few years older than Matthew. The spare stubble of blond whiskers, on his otherwise baby smooth face, signified his wish to distinguish himself from the ranks of boyhood. Sage glanced at the newfangled bicycles. Why is it that youth are so quick to grab the reins of the technological bandwagons?
“He’s been studying hard on it the last couple days, let me assure you of that!” the salesman said, clapping Matthew on the shoulder.
Matthew’s flush deepened as he responded to Sage’s question, “No, I really couldn’t pick one because I didn’t, you know, whether . . . ah. . . .” His voice trailed off into awkward silence.
“Oh. Right,” Sage said. Matthew hadn’t known whether Sage would follow through on his promise or how much he’d be willing to spend if he did.
The salesman interceded, “Let me show you some of the models this young gentleman and I discussed. As I am sure you know, today’s bicyclist is interested only in those bicycles having tires of equal size. We call them safety bicycles because the rider is far less likely to tip over, and,” he pointed toward the hanging high-wheeler, “if he does hit the ground, he won’t tumble nearly as far.” The salesman escorted them down an aisle between two rows of bicycles angled side by side, their rubber tires lined up exactly so. For some minutes, they discussed the inventory of brightly painted frames and leather perches, squeezing hard rubber tires as the salesman nattered on about structural soundness and durability. After a certain point, Sage’s eyes crossed because, to him, every bicycle looked identical except for its color. At last, they reached what appeared to be the salesman’s final offering.
“Now, this one here,” he said, resting reverent fingers on the handlebars of one sporting the name of Blue Beauty scripted in gold along its cross-frame, “is our top-of-the-line model. ‘Course, being top of the line, you pay for it. I’ll tell you, upon my word though, you won’t find a sturdier machine than this one. It’s just the thing for all the jostling a fellow gets riding over the cobblestones, wood pavers, potholes, and such here in the city. ‘Course, it’s just the ticket for the country rider as well,” the salesman hurried to assure them.
Yearning suffused Matthew’s freckled face as his bright blue eyes gazed upon the shiny contraption. This was the bicycle, then. “We’ll take this one. It’s just the thing,” Sage announced.
Matthew immediately began shaking his head. “Oh, no, Mr. Adair, You can’t buy this one. It’s way too expensive. My aunt will skin me alive if I came back with the most expensive bicycle in the shop. You’ve already done way too much for me as it is.”
Sage squeezed the boy’s shoulder to stop the rushing words. “First of all, like I told you, Matthew, I’m buying it for you to use in going to school and to help Mozart’s. If you want it to be yours alone, you can pay me for it, as you earn the money from running errands and such for our neighbors. And it’s up to you to maintain it in sound condition since it’s going to be getting a tough workout.”
In that instant, a powerful twinge of foreboding compelled Sage to add, “And don’t use it to get yourself into any trouble, either.”
Matthew shook his head vehemently, “Oh, no sir!”
Sage studied him. Earnest, honest, hardworking, smart. He was the kind of kid likely to go far in the world, provided he lived long and well enough. “I want you to keep around the restaurant and go where we send you. And stay out of the North End. It isn’t safe for young fellows. You hear me?”
“Yes, sir,” Matthew promised quickly. The boy was at a point where he’d likely agree to anything in his eagerness to obtain the coveted bicycle. Sage ignored the faint warning bell in the back of his head and nodded to the salesman. That decision made, the salesman directed Matthew’s attention to the various accessories. Sage listened with one ear as the salesman began a new series of spiels.
It is hard to distinguish between a fear and a premonition, Sage thought. Still, just two nights ago he’d advised Stuart Franklin to trust his instincts. Now, those instincts landed him on the hor
ns of the same dilemma. With a mental shake, Sage let go his niggling worry. Probably just the protectiveness he felt toward the likable boy who’d become part of the family. Besides, he was tired and edgy from looking for Kincaid.
Thirty minutes later, the Blue Beauty wheeled into Mozart’s kitchen, its chrome-plated carrier basket filled with a variety of wheelman necessities. Attached to the bottom of the perch was a small tin license plate. “A legal requirement,” the salesman informed them. “The City uses the proceeds to construct various bicycle paths.”
The bicycle’s arrival created a minor ruckus. Ida Knutson immediately proclaimed that the “dirty contraption” was not welcome in her kitchen. Sage made a beeline for the stairs, leaving Mae Clemens to sort things out.
When Sage returned downstairs an hour later to take up his duties–seating the clientele and making small talk–Mae managed to pinch him on the arm. “You owe me, son. It seems I gave birth to a coward,” she said, clearly referencing his hasty exit from the kitchen.
He rubbed his pinched arm as he paraphrased Shakespeare, “Retreat is the sometimes the better part of valor.” Flashing his best smug smile and sidestepping her attempt to pinch him a second time, he advanced past her to greet new arrivals.
The supper hour moved smoothly along until it the time arrived for him to again become John Miner and exit through the cellar tunnel. As usual, he moved swiftly down its length to reach the opening into the alley. Even that short trip made his chest tighten. The tunnel’s brick walls seemed to squeeze inward as he passed, giving off the same musty earth stench that always pervaded his recurring nightmare. Sage plunged ahead, holding his breath against that smell and against the dust his boots kicked up.
Tooting clarinets and the rousing vocalizations of a Salvation Army band heralded the presence of the Seaman’s Chapel before it came into sight. The Sallie’s god-fearing soldiers proved to be up to their old tricks–trying to entice potential converts into attending the Salvation Army’s religious services instead. The chaplain of the Seaman’s Society, a white clerical collar squeezing his neck until it bulged, stood in the chapel doorway, his doughy face mottled red, his small chin quivering as he shouted, “Go away. Take yourselves off to your own church. Stop bothering our congregants.” His efforts seemed only to increase the volume of brass horn, tambourine jangle and human caterwauling.
Sage slid past the Sallie’s proselytizing soldiers to mount the concrete steps at the building’s corner. Seeing him, the chaplain stopped his haranguing, hurried down the steps and grabbed Sage’s elbow–almost as if he thought the opposition was going to snatch Sage themselves. The chaplain’s voice transformed into a melodious purr, “Come in, my son, come in. So glad that you’ve decided to worship with us tonight. The Lord has guided your steps, I am sure. Welcome, welcome.” He paused to shoot a glare at the momentarily quiet band. Its members interpreted his look as a goad to strike up another raucous tune. “Pay those fools no mind,” the chaplain said, his voice still a purr even though his teeth were clenched.
The chaplain guided Sage up the steps, through a vestibule and into a large room where he let go of Sage’s elbow. With a pat on Sage’s shoulder, the chaplain returned to his post on the steps. Moments later the preacher again raised his voice to drown out his competition. Sage gazed about the sparse room. Except for the cross mounted on the wall, it looked like a union hall. Unpainted benches stood in ranks before a low dais that supported both a small organ and a lectern. A big, potbellied stove filled one corner, no fire behind its mica window, doubtless because of the day’s lingering warmth. There was enough bench space for a hundred. Only about twenty shabbily dressed men were present, however, talking quietly or staring vacantly. Not a lively crowd by any standard. On a table, up near the dais, a canning jar held a bedraggled fistful of daisies. Next to it stood a battered tin coffee pot, a collection of mismatched cups, and a dish piled high with cookies. It looked like most of the attendees had already helped themselves. It’s probably a tossup over which is the biggest draw, Sage thought: free coffee and cookies or eternal salvation. Sage grabbed a cup of coffee and took a seat on the rearmost bench.
Franklin wasn’t there. Sage sighed in frustration. Franklin was the only lead that might explain what happened to Joseph Kincaid. If Franklin didn’t show, the search was at a dead end. Not only that, he’d be stuck here for who knows how long, listening to rants about a vengeful god whom he found particularly objectionable. He refused to believe in a god who wasn’t a kinder spirit than he, himself, tried to be.
Feeling like he had little choice, given that warring Christians blocked his exit, Sage slumped on the bench and resigned himself to enduring a long hour. He felt conspicuous. Everyone else sat clustered together on the benches up at the front. A few more men straggled into the room, filled their coffee cups, grabbed a few cookies and took their seats, some nearer the back of the room. Finally, the chaplain entered, paused to take in the attendees and mounted the dais. Franklin trailed the chaplain, stepping carefully. His bruised face was somber as he slid onto Sage’s bench. He made no comment. Just kept his eyes fixed on the chaplain, who made a theatrical show of clearing his throat to bring the men to attention.
When the chaplain’s first words rang out, they sounded both sonorous and distant, as if he were preaching to strangers filling a soaring cathedral. “Brothers, this day is for rejoicing. Why? You ask, ‘why’? Why, when your life has been nothing more than endless pain and loss? How can I stand here speaking to you of rejoicing? I’ll tell you why. It is because I know, as you shall know before this night has ended, my brothers, that God’s good grace drew you to this humble place to hear news of your glorious salvation! Don’t turn your back on His message! Salvation is yours, provided you don’t spurn his love nor incur his wrath!”
“Miner, I’m glad you made it.”Franklin shifted on the bench and leaned closer. “I’m thinking the news is bad.” His low voice was barely audible beneath the chaplain’s fervent exhortations.
Sage half-turned his face toward Franklin, who looked away and said quietly, “No, best that you not look at me when we’re talking. I don’t know all these men heah, and I still don’t know whether those crimps are on my behind.”
Sage faced the front. “What bad news?” he asked out of the corner of his mouth.
“A Chinese fisherman found a body floating just outside the Columbia River bar. It is almost certain that the man came off a ship. Maybe it’s that boy you’ve been looking for–they described the fellow as having light hair and being about the right age. Can’t be sure, though.”
“When was the body found?” Sage asked.
Franklin’s shoulders slumped. This new death had clearly dealt a blow to the shanghai-fighter’s spirit. Another man Franklin failed to save. Sage wondered how many times in the past Franklin carried similar sad tales of loved ones vanishing into the ocean’s wide, wild expanse.
A heavy sigh, audible to Sage even over the preacher’s loud haranguing, preceded Franklin’s next words. “The fisherman pulled it out a few days or so ago. Hadn’t been in the water too long. By the time I reached Astoria, they’d already buried him. The police told me that the poor fellow’s face was mostly gone, what with the crabs. And his body was kept on the deck of the fisherman’s boat for a bit.” Franklin paused, as if to force his thoughts away from the image. “Police said it was too late for a photo to help identify the man so they didn’t take one. If you want to make sure, you’ll need to show the kid’s wedding photo to that Chinese fisherman who pulled the body from the water. His name is Hong Ah Kay—maybe he got a good look at the face before it swelled up too bad,” he said.
Sage started calculating the days. The timing was off. Kincaid had been missing for longer than that. “Was there a gunshot or knife wound or anything like that?” Sage asked, cringing away from the thought of that handsome young face reduced to corrupted flesh.
“They tell me it looked like he drowned. If he jumped ship in the middle of
the Columbia, down by Astoria, he’d surely drown. Only a fool or someone ignorant about the tides and current jumps into the water right there. Happens more times than you’d think, though. Shanghaied farm boys don’t know anything about the river or the ocean either, for that matter. If it is any comfort, the cold likely put him to sleep first.”
Poor Kincaid. Can’t be more “farm boy” than someone from Kansas. Sage cleared his throat. “Astoria is where I’ll find this Hong Ah Kay?” he asked.
Franklin shifted on the bench and pretended to tie his boot laces. “Yup, he has a small boat with a single sail. Sells to his people and to one of the canneries–the one on the wharf right next to where the sternwheeler, Hassalo, ties up. Can’t say if he’d be ashore when you land there but maybe some other Chinese fellow saw the body. You show them the picture and they might say whether it’s your fellow. Just ask around Astoria’s Chinatown. I expect you’ll find someone there willing to talk to you.”
Sage was silent. The chaplain’s exhortations and threats of eternal damnation continued to wash over him but Sage was deaf to the words. Astoria. Maybe Fong and his tong connections could convince the Chinese in Astoria to talk to him. Fong. Now, there was a little jab to the gut. He used to be able to count on Fong’s help. Evidently, not anymore, considering how things had gone the last few days. Would he even be able to find Fong to ask for help?
“If it turns out that it is Joseph Kincaid’s body, I am going to find out if he was shanghaied and who is responsible,” he told Franklin.
Sage’s peripheral vision caught Franklin shaking his head slowly from side to side as the man said, “Shanghaiing is a mighty nasty business, Miner. There’s more involved in it than you realize. People are making money–important people and big money. Not just the crimps. Why else do you suppose we haven’t been able to stop the practice? Shoot, you can’t trust anybody. Not the police, not the judges, not even the harbormaster who’s supposed to enforce what little law we got. I can’t even trust the people in my own organization. No, you best stay away from the whole mess. I’m sorry about Kincaid. But if it’s him and you poke your nose into it, you’re liable to find yourself following him.”
