by S. L. Stoner
“To hell with whoever sees us talking,” Sage thought and twisted to face the other man. “Franklin, I hear what you are saying and I plan on being careful. I’m telling you though, if that body is Joseph Kincaid’s, I promise that somebody is damn sure going to pay.” That statement gave each man pause before Sage continued, his mind already roving over possible actions. “What foreign consuls in Portland are trying to change the law? Might one of them talk to me? Give me some idea of how, who, and what is involved?”
“Well, if you’re determined to push ahead, then you best talk to James Laidlaw, the British consul. He has better details about the business-end than me. He’s leading the charge and doing a damn fine job of it too. Makes me wish I was a Brit.”
Sage started. He’d seen James Laidlaw more than once. The man’s office occupied a storefront about a block from Mozart’s. Moreover, the sardonic Scotsman was a regular customer.
Better pick Franklin’s brain while he still could. “Tell me, Franklin, if a man wants to work for one of these crimps, how does he go about it?”
“Well, first of all, he darn sure wouldn’t want to be seen in my company.” Franklin went silent, wriggling on the bench as if trying on the question. “I guess if I was to go about getting next to the crimps, I’d start by working for Tobias Pratt, just to familiarize myself with the trade. Pratt’s always looking to fill a runner opening. He says that’s because the men he hires are lazy but that’s not the reason.”
“Why can’t he keep men? He drive them too hard or something?”
“More like ‘or something.’ Still, overall, he’s fairly decent for a crimp. Has a heart and a small measure of principle. You work for him, you’ll find out for yourself why his workers run themselves off after a few days or so. Can’t hurt you none. Listen to ‘ole Tobias–not that there’s a choice in the matter.”
Franklin softly cleared his throat, as if words were trapped there, before hesitantly continuing, “After that, you might be ready to get taken on by Kaspar Mordaunt. But before you take any steps in that direction, you’d best talk to Laidlaw. Survey the lay of the land, so you don’t act like some greenhorn. Otherwise, Mordaunt will spot you as a ringer for the real thing. If he does, I wouldn’t give a plug nickel for your chances of staying alive.”
This last sentence extended beyond the end of the chaplain’s sermon and seemed to roll across the silent hall. Sage sneaked a look toward the other men, checking whether anyone had heard it. No one gave an indication that he had, except for the chaplain. He paused to glower at them before moving to sit before the organ and slam his stubby fingers down on the first chord of the old standby, “Amazing Grace.” Sage and Franklin clambered to their feet with the others, both opening their mouths wide to sing with a gusto neither of them felt.
When Sage returned to his room above Mozart’s, no one was there. He’d expected to see Fong, waiting to pack up the Miner disguise while he listened to Sage’s report. Instead, the room was empty. There’d be none of Fong’s penetrating questions to help Sage sort the information into a coherent picture. It was irritating to ponder, alone, the question of what to do about the body found down at Astoria. And, he missed talking to Fong about the particulars associated with the shanghaiing business. In the past, their two minds working together, somehow added up to three minds.
After stuffing his John Miner duds into the trunk and shoving it under the four-poster, Sage climbed into bed only to lie staring up at the ceiling while he tried to mull over the Kincaid situation. He wasn’t successful. Like the babble of a small stream, a growing disquiet over Fong’s seeming abandonment of their mission overpowered all other thoughts. “I’m getting worried about Fong,” he finally confessed out loud before dropping off to sleep.
EIGHT
NO BREAKFAST WAITED ON the table when a “yee-hawing” teamster in the street below woke Sage late the next morning. Fong was still absent.
Donning a day suit, waistcoat, white shirt and long tie, Sage descended to the restaurant kitchen. His mother was wielding a wickedly sharp knife and attacking a pile of scraped carrots, her lips blanched from being pressed tightly together. She glanced at him while her knife continued dicing. She seemed to address the carrots, “No, before you ask, I do not know where Mr. Fong is. He sent a message by one of his cousins that he was delayed. That’s all I know. If you’re hungry, fend for yourself or wait until dinner’s ready.” Her tone of voice telling him that she was a snapping turtle best avoided.
He looked around for something to eat. Golden biscuits overflowed a basket on the counter. So, he grabbed the basket, jam pot and coffee cup before retreating into the empty dining room without saying a word. At tables situated farthest from the kitchen, two waiters laid out place settings. Obviously, he wasn’t the only one choosing to keep out of Mae Clemens’s way. Sinking his teeth into the biscuit, he started cataloging all the incidents signaling Fong’s change in behavior. There was no getting around it, his mother was right. Fong certainly was acting strange.
Sage tried to recall the last time he’d spoken to the “normal” Mr. Fong. Last Sunday, when they’d sat on the roof talking about the mission, the Chinese man was his customary, teasing self. Later that day, Fong mysteriously disappeared during the dinner hour. When he returned to Mozart’s on Monday, he was acting differently. So, Fong changed between the time they’d talked on the roof and before Monday morning. That meant Sunday supper hour was the most likely time something happened.
His mother swept through the swinging doors from the kitchen, her arms straining beneath a high stack of clean plates. He jumped up to take them from her, setting them on the buffet. She thanked him with a weary smile.
Good. The snapping turtle was gone. “Mrs. Clemens,” he began, feeling slightly foolish as he always did whenever he used the pretense of having a more distant relationship with her. Just in case the two waiters were listening, though, he put on the show. He lowered his voice. “Do you recall whether anything unusual happened here in the restaurant last Sunday afternnoon? Anything that upset Mr. Fong? Or was there a message from one of his tong ‘cousins?’ Sunday was the night he disappeared during the dinner hour,” he reminded her.
She was on her way back to the kitchen. At his question, she paused and turned, her forehead wrinkling with thought. “I’m certain no message came for him. As for something happening . . . we were very busy and ran short on dishes and all. Mr. Fong noticed and volunteered to clear the tables to free up an extra hand for washing. He did that for a while. Suddenly, he came into the kitchen, whipped off his apron and announced he was leaving. In two seconds, he’d bolted out the back door without even a never-you-mind.”
Sage looked around the empty room, envisioning Fong serenely moving among the patrons, clearing the dishes, moving back and forth to the kitchen. “Tell me, Mrs. Clemens, were any strangers in the dining room just before Mr. Fong vanished that afternoon?” He was thinking that it had to be a man who triggered the problem. Surely no woman would upset Fong. Fact was, Mozart’s female patrons, whenever they noticed him, seemed to like Fong. Besides, could mere words make Fong abandon St. Alban’s mission with no explanation? It just didn’t make sense. Given the years of brutal racism Fong had already endured, it was inconceivable that words, no matter how vile or ignorant, could work such a dramatic change in the man. Sage couldn’t buy it.
Mae pulled a chair out, sat and sighed wearily. She reached out and began mechanically folding the clean napkin lying there, even as her eyes stared out over the tables, her brow furrowed. “Let’s see, the Kearneys were here, the Saltzmans, and a large group from Baker’s Theater. Most everyone, customers we know. People that Mr. Fong has seen here before.” Her strong fingers began idly sharpening the napkin’s edges only to stop as her eyes widened slightly. “Wait a minute. I do recall two strange men. Kind of rough.” She nodded toward a table in the far corner of the restaurant, near the front windows. “They sat over there.”
“Can you remember whe
ther Mr. Fong worked anywhere near them?”
Once again, she considered before saying, “Yes, he must have, because that big Baker theater party sat at tables next to them. The theater group finished dining before the two men did. So the two men hadn’t left when Mr. Fong began clearing the theater folks’ table.”
“What do you mean, ‘kind of rough’? Were they dressed like working men?” Such patrons were unusual because Mozart’s was too pricey for them. That fact, and his disguises, were the reason why he could play Mozart’s debonair restaurant host without worrying that he’d be recognized as “John Miner, itinerant working man” from the North End.
“No, they wore fine enough clothes. It was more that they had the look of field mules wearing parade saddles, if you know what I mean. They’d look more natural-like in work pants, suspenders, and long johns.”
Shouts from inside the kitchen sent Mae hurrying away. When she returned to the dining room, she carried two pitchers of water and her earlier irritation was back. Some kind of kitchen brouhaha–probably another dispute with the butcher. The two of them squabbled every time they saw each other. She didn’t bother explaining, instead, saying sharply, “Mr. Adair, if this restaurant is to open in time for dinner, you best shake a leg and clear off that table. Customers are going to come through that front door any minute and this place is not fit to open.”
Sage jumped to his feet, snatching up the jam pot, biscuit basket, dirty knife, coffee cup, and used napkin. His prompt obedience drew snickers from the two waiters, both of whom immediately sobered when she sent a sharp look in their direction. “What are you two gawping at? You think there’s time to fool around? Half these tables aren’t ready,” she snapped before steaming back through the kitchen doors. The two waiters returned to laying out the tables at twice their previous speed.
Sage waited until they looked in his direction to throw a smirk at them. A man didn’t risk stepping to Mrs. Clemens’ bad side when she was in her no-nonsense mood. No smart man. Her tongue could lash hide off cattle.
Near the dinner hour’s end, James Laidlaw entered Mozart’s ready to eat. The British consul usually took his noontime meal at Mozart’s. A vocal admirer of Ida’s cooking, he often threatened to hire her away. Although Laidlaw’s threat had a jovial tone, Sage was never quite sure that the other man was joking.
Sage greeted Laidlaw, scrutinizing his clean-shaven face. His thinning brown hair started far back on his forehead while the bland regularity of his features rendered the man unremarkable except for the penetrating intensity of his eyes. In retrospect, Franklin’s identifying Laidlaw as a champion in the fight against shanghaiing was less a surprise than it was a confirmation. Sage had already taken Laidlaw’s measure, deciding he was an easy man to underestimate if you overlooked that keen intelligence in those pale gray eyes.
“And a good afternoon to you, Mr. Adair,” Laidlaw’s cultured Scot’s voice replied in response to Sage’s greeting. “And am I not thinking correctly, but what the excellent Mrs. Ida might be saving me a piece of her chicken pot pie? Is that not the special for this day of the week?”
“It certainly is and she always does, Mr. Laidlaw. She’d never disappoint such a faithful devotee of her noontime specialties.” And indeed, Ida had set aside the last piece of chicken pot pie for the British consul. Laidlaw tucked into the dish with the intensity of a hungry logger.
Sage bided his time, waiting until Laidlaw was nearly finished. He approached the consul and asked whether he might sit and join him for coffee. After momentary confusion, Laidlaw inclined his head graciously, saying, “Why, certainly, Mr. Adair. I’d appreciate the pleasure of your company with my coffee. A most enjoyable meal. Please convey my compliments to Mrs. Ida.”
“I shall,” Sage said, taking the seat that put his back to the rest of the patrons. That way, they wouldn’t overhear him. Once seated, he cast about for how to begin, picking up an unused dinner knife idly pressing its rounded tip into the tablecloth. There was much he must not say. The other man stirred, his curiosity piqued. Sage drew a deep breath and began, “Actually, Mr. Laidlaw, I need to make a rather unusual request of you. And I must begin by asking that you keep our conversation strictly confidential.”
Laidlaw laid down his fork and scooted his chair closer to the table, his pale eyes now piercing. “Why, certainly, I will honor your confidences, Mr. Adair,” he said. “How is it that I can be of help to you?”
“I need to learn about the business of crimping and shanghaiing,” Sage answered.
Laidlaw’s face closed as if hit by cold water. “Now, what, I wonder, has gotten the owner of an elite restaurant like Mozart’s Table interested in the despicable business of crimping?” He leaned forward. “Don’t tell me that you are thinking of branching out? Need to invest surplus cash or something of that nature?” His tone was light but his smile was rigid and his eyes chilly.
Sage spoke quickly, leaning closer so that people dining at adjacent tables would not overhear, “Quite the contrary. I think it possible that a young man I’m trying to find was shanghaied. If so, I am at a loss as to how to find him. I know so little about the practice.” Not the truth, of course. His experiences in San Francisco and Portland’s North End, together with Franklin’s recent revelations, meant he knew quite a bit. Still, he couldn’t tip his hand just yet. Not until he could gauge both Laidlaw’s willingness to share information and his ability to keep secrets.
Laidlaw’s skepticism twisted his lips. “Just how is it that you know someone who’d get themselves shanghaied? I would think,” here he cast a sardonic look around the elegant dining room, “that your associates’ social status would be more than adequate to shield them from such dangers.”
Sage’s anger flared at the man’s judgmental tone of voice. What a pompous ass. He stifled a retort, though. In situations like this, it is better to be underestimated. Might as well satisfy Laidlaw’s expectations. Sage faked what he hoped appeared to be awkward embarrassment. “Actually, you are correct, he said. “The problem does lie far outside my ken. It seems that one of Ida’s nephews has gone missing and, well, she’s not an attentive cook when she’s worried. We can’t afford to have her distracted, you see. Bad for business.”
Laidlaw’s eyes narrowed momentarily and he stared at Sage for so long that Sage felt the urge to fidget. He willed himself to remain still. The British consul abruptly withdrew his searching gaze, seeming to accept Sage’s explanation. Laidlaw leaned back in his chair and drank from his coffee cup. “Fair enough, Mr. Adair. It just so happens I am the ideal man to enlighten you on the dastardly business whereby sailors are bought and sold. I condemn it under all circumstances. It is my intention to eradicate it from this seaport, whatever the cost. Of course,” he paused to peer into his almost empty cup, “right now it will cost you an additional coffee because it’s not a short lesson.”
Sage gestured and they waited silently while a waiter refilled their cups and moved on to the next table. Once the waiter was out of earshot, Laidlaw began, “If Ida’s nephew has vanished then he could have been shanghaied. There is always a market for cabin boys. Still, as I just indicated, shanghaiing is usually a danger only to certain types of men. Rarely to the locals, mind you. No, the danger is to those sailors on shore leave or to homeless loggers and farm hands–able bodied men lacking roots in our community or without nearby families who are likely to raise a ruckus if they disappear. Like I stated, not the sort of men you’d know, old chap.”
That last jab seemed calculated because Laidlaw’s eyes turned measuring and watchful. Sage decided it was time to work a slight adjustment in Laidlaw’s mistaken view of Mozart’s owner. “Actually, I bought Mozart’s with gold I prospected in the Yukon. And I wasn’t a provisions trader, either. I froze my rear end melting permafrost, nearly lost my toes more than once and wintered over at 40 below in a dirt-floored hut. And this blaze of white at my hairline is thanks to a wild sled ride down the backside of Chillakoot Pass that came near to k
illing me.”
Speculation once more narrowed the consul’s eyes. Still, Laidlaw only laughed. “Well, I have heard tell that looks can be deceiving. I beg your pardon. Seems like there may be more to you than I originally surmised.”
Again, it wasn’t the man’s words. Instead, it was Laidlaw’s superior tone of voice that rankled Sage. He, however, only smiled though he wanted to say, “More than you’ll ever begin to guess, you smug so-and-so.” You’d think that a diplomat whose national dish was a sheep stomach stuffed with rutabagas might think twice about taking that high and mighty tone with others. Sage gave himself a mental shake and forgave the man. People filled with righteous indignation often developed an annoying sense of superiority. Heck, even he had, on occasion. Sometimes that sense of superiority was a man’s only reward for fighting on the moral side of things.
Oblivious to Sage’s thoughts, Laidlaw shrugged and began, “For most men, being shanghaied starts with a glad hand and a friendly drink and ends with kidnapping or even worse. For the financiers, many of them Mozart’s patrons, shanghaiing is a matter of cold cash economics. Otherwise, it doesn’t touch their lives at all.” He nodded in the direction of the other diners. “That is why the ones leading the fight against the practice are the foreign consuls and a few Christian souls who carry their religion home on Sunday rather than leaving it behind in the church pew.”
“Don’t the police try to stop it?” Sage asked despite already knowing the answer. Nefarious activities like crimping and shanghaiing drew demands for bribes like rotten meat drew flies. Even without the bribes, the police tended to ignore back alley villainy when it didn’t affect regular folks. Not that Sage blamed the officers entirely. A Portland street patrolman earned far less than most bartenders, thanks to the rich reducing their tax rates even as the population exploded.
