Land Sharks

by S. L. Stoner

  He rose from the freight box and stretched his arms overhead, his body relaxed, his mind empty but filled with expectancy, as if welcome information might arrive at any moment. His fear of this place was gone. He doubted it would return.

  On his way back to the sales drummers’ hotel, Sage stepped into a pharmacy. He waited until the other customers left before he approached the pharmacist. His request set the man’s hands to trembling. A wash of sweat trickled down the creases in his face and his faded blue eyes wouldn’t look directly at Sage. Instead, he looked toward the street, his eyes merely twitching in Sage’s direction. Initially, he feigned outrage. Sage kept adding to the pile of coins on the counter until the man’s protestations dwindled. Finally, greed overcame scruple. Sage left the pharmacy carrying what he’d come for, pleased with his afternoon’s successes. So pleased that he never saw the red-haired boy on the blue bicycle, pedaling furiously around the corner the minute Sage stepped out the door.

  The drummer hotel’s tired mattress folded him in and Sage napped until the late afternoon. Awaking, he unfolded the map of the underground and spent the next hour tracing its lines until he could draw it from memory. He hoped the map would give him the edge he needed. At six o’clock he descended into the dining room, ready to partake of the hotel’s complimentary supper, his stomach gurgling that he’d not eaten the entire day.

  Since this was a drummer’s hotel, food was served boardinghouse style. The single long table could seat thirty, but just eight men clustered in chairs at its farthest end. Heaping platters of food were passing among the guests. Sage slid into a seat just in time to receive a half-empty bowl of mashed potatoes.

  Congenial conversation around the table accompanied the meal. Sage and the man next to him found that they shared a number of experiences and attitudes. Both had worked in gold fields, both had traveled extensively and both had the same thoughts about foreigners. So, they chatted affably throughout supper.

  “Say,” Sage said to the man, “I promised a potential client I’d meet him at a nearby saloon and buy him a few beers in exchange for his having looked at samples of my company’s notions. How about you coming along with me? I’m not real confident he’s going to show. I’ll buy you a drink. We’ll talk a bit with him if he does show, and then we can find ourselves something interesting to do after that. What do you say?”

  The man didn’t hesitate. “That sounds good to me. I’ll just go pick up my hat, and then I’m ready to go.”

  Sage pushed back from the table and stood, saying, “Don’t know where my manners are. My name’s John Miner.”

  The other man also stood and extended his large hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Miner. Mine’s Homer LaRue.”

  TWENTY TWO

  SAGE AND LARUE STROLLED TOWARD the Heidelberg saloon and Sage’s nonexistent customer. The big man, oblivious to Sage’s preoccupation, talked on with little prompting. Sage suddenly realized LaRue had hit upon the topic of interest.

  “Look, there’s another one. A man hates to see those damn celestials. He looks like a scrawny bird, trotting down the street on his skinny legs with those big baskets slung across his shoulders. It’s like living in some damn foreign place. Haw! There’s another one. That’s the other thing. Everywhere you look, there’s another one of them, just like cockroaches. Don’t you agree, Miner?”

  “Well, this town does have an abundance of Chinese,” Sage responded. “Not used to seeing that back East, except in New York. I hear tell that, because of the Gold Rush and railroads, there’s more Chinese here in Portland than in any other city, except San Francisco.”

  LaRue hawked, and spat before continuing, “Sure, and they have a whole different viewpoint from any white man. That’s the problem. And there’s no getting away from them. They don’t just stay in the cities. Oh, no. They have to push into everywhere. It makes me sick.”

  “Oh, you’ve seen them elsewhere? Outside the cities, I mean?”

  “Hell, yes. Fact is, I come across a whole mess of them once. They were crawling around the bottom of a river canyon in the middle of nowhere like a bunch of ants. I like to tell you, I about dropped my teeth when I looked over the edge and saw them, busily stealing our gold.”

  “They took over your mining claim?”

  “Not my mining claim, Miner, our mining claim. White men’s gold. This is white man’s country and there they were, stealing our gold. I can’t believe the government let them do it!”

  “So, did you try to stop them?”

  “Try to stop them, hell.” LaRue stood stock still, clapping a hand on Sage’s arm, forcing him to halt. He leaned close to Sage’s face–so close that Sage felt the warmth in the breath accompanying LaRue’s next words. “I stopped them in this life and sent them into that celestial kingdom they talk about, if you get my meaning, heh, heh. Fish in a barrel. Fish in a barrel.”

  Sage allowed his voice to falter. “You killed them?”

  LaRue straightened and smiled widely. “Let’s just say none of them climbed out of the canyon and none of them floated away in any boat.”

  “How many?” Despite knowing the answer, Sage’s throat constricted, squeezing the question into a whisper.

  Evidently believing Sage felt a need for secrecy, LaRue also lowered his voice. “I hear tell they numbered close to fifty. ‘Course, I wasn’t alone, but I took care of more than my share.”

  Sage shook his head, which LaRue chose to interpret as a shake of wonder. “It is amazing, ain’t it? But that’s what a few white men with good rifles can do. I could tell you a few other things I’ve done that’d make your jaw drop, heh, heh.”

  “I bet you could, Mr. LaRue,” Sage said, hoping he wouldn’t hear about those other things. As far as Sage was concerned, the man’s perfidy was pretty much established.

  Just then, they reached the door to the Heidelberg saloon. A small dog ran up to them, stood on its hind legs and began to twirl, its tiny paws patting the air. LaRue’s foot shot out, caught the creature on its belly and flung it at least five feet. The beggar to whom the dog belonged snatched up the whimpering animal and turned to LaRue, his voice a whine. “Why’d you kick little Bucko, mister? He weren’t hurting nobody. Just doing his best to make us a little money.”

  “Keep that mongrel cur away from me,” LaRue snarled. He pushed open the saloon doors and disappeared inside without a backward glance.

  Sage paused to look at the dog as it frantically licked its master’s face, its brown eyes bulging in fright. “He going to be all right, do you think?”

  “I guess so.” The old man gently prodded the little dog’s belly. The dog didn’t cry out. Instead its pink tongue kept licking its owner’s stubbled chin. The old man looked at Sage, tears in his bloodshot eyes. “Why’d your friend kick little Bucko like that?” he asked.

  “He’s no friend of mine,” Sage said between gritted teeth. He emptied his pockets of silver coins and dropped every one he found into the old man’s hands before following LaRue through the swinging doors.

  When LaRue began drinking it was as if his leg turned hollow. Of course, only Sage bought the drinks. LaRue claimed to have left his wallet behind. The more LaRue drank, the more voluble he became.

  “Let me tell you, Miner, about the time five of us got drunk down in ole Mexico and hijacked a wagonload of pretty senoritas on their way to a convent. Those Mexican jails are hell holes. Skinny guy like you would have a hard time surviving one.”

  “Food bad?” Sage kept his tone eager and ignorant.

  “Food bad, bugs bad, heat bad, dirt bad, but worst of all is your fellow jailbirds. I ended up breaking two of them’s legs and another three’s arms before they learned to leave me be.”

  “So, you’re pretty tough?”

  LaRue pursed his lips as if he’d bitten a lemon. “They don’t get no tougher. I learned to be tough to survive, ever since my pa turned me loose at ten years of age. Said he didn’t want the bother no more. Sometimes, a boy has to become a man rea
l fast.”

  The big man leaned forward to say, “Miner, there ain’t nothing I can’t handle. I can wrestle a mountain lion, punch some cows and please a passel of women, all before breakfast.” He leaned back in his chair and drained his glass before plunking it down on the table with a thump and a belch.

  “Think you could handle being on a whaling ship?”

  “Ha! That’d be a stroll in the park for someone like me. I hear tell a man just lays about till a whale’s spotted.”

  LaRue wobbled to his feet and headed off in the direction of the toilet, his exaggerated swagger sending him against chairs, tables, and patrons who didn’t bother looking up.

  Sage watched the man disappear, then signaled the bartender for two refills. Once the glasses arrived on the table and the bartender was distracted by a customer, Sage tipped a small brown bottle’s contents into one of them. He gently swirled the glass to mix the liquids.

  LaRue returned, his brows knit in concentration as he fought to keep his balance. Flopping down onto the chair, he commented, “I expect you’re having a hard time taking in all that I’ve told you. Salesman drummers like you don’t meet a man like me too often.” His words weren’t slurred and the man remained too alert.

  Sage watched LaRue drain the glass sitting before him. “That’s for sure,” he agreed, while thinking, “Thank God, this farce is nearly over.” Out loud he asked, “So, LaRue, you figure there isn’t anything you can’t handle? You ain’t afraid of dying?”

  “Thass right, my man,” LaRue replied, a slur wrapping itself around his tongue for the first time. As if searching for another drink, his head swung around like a stunned bovine’s. His fingers grabbed the table’s edge to steady himself.

  Sage got to his feet. “Say, LaRue, I know a better place, one that attracts the ladies. How about we move on to there? I don’t think that customer of mine intends to show.”

  LaRue belched before saying, “Yeah, sure, thass be fine.” His mouth was now slack and his tongue so thick that he mumbled. Sage assisted the bigger man to his feet, draping LaRue’s heavy arm across his own shoulders and turning him toward the door. The two stumbled their way out of the saloon and into the street.

  The last ten feet to The New Elijah’s kitchen door almost proved Sage’s undoing. LaRue’s legs were collapsing with inconvenient frequency. The two men fell, more than walked through, the hotel’s kitchen door and down the cellar stairs. Sage didn’t look at any of the New Elijah’s kitchen workers.

  Erickson’s saloon pulsed with noise, driving all thought from Sage’s head when he entered it an hour later. On the stage, bar girls were high-kicking in a raggedy version of the French can-can dance. Catcalls came from the balcony above, its railing lined with toffs in fancy clothes. The girls, aiming to please, lifted legs and skirts higher.

  Amid the noise, Mordaunt’s two men sat at the same table where Sage had last seen them. Once again he approached, slinging a chair around to their table and sitting down. They looked away from the scene on the stage, amusement leaving their faces when they saw him.

  “Back again, Crowley?” asked the sharp-nosed runner.

  “Thought I’d see how things were going with manning that whaler.”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Seems to me that you made it my business last time we met,” Sage said before asking again, “So do you have a full crew?”

  “Nah, we’re short a couple.” This reply came from the gravelly voiced runner.

  “Maybe I can help you.”

  Gravel-voice looked interested, “Oh, you thinking of signing on?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Sage watched speculation twitch across the face of the sharp-nosed one.

  “No, not me,” Sage said, “But last time I spoke with you gentlemen, you indicated that if I were to find you someone for the whaler, there might be a berth for me in your organization.”

  Sharp Nose took over once again, this time his face expressed disdain. “You telling us that you have someone for the Karluk?”

  “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, and since I’m interested in doing business with you, I’d like to know your names. Mine’s Twig Crowley.” Sage held out his hand.

  Sharp Nose reluctantly stretched out his own. “Mine’s Drake. And my partner here is Fogel.”

  “Well, Mr. Drake and Mr. Fogel, I do have a man for you. You just have to pick him up and transport him to the ship. He’ll need a little help. He got tangled up with Dr. Baker’s Delight.

  “Hmm,” This time Drake didn’t suppress the speculation in his face. “How long ago did he and Dr. Baker meet?”

  “Oh, I’d say about an hour ago.”

  Fogel laughed. “That means he’ll be out for at least another four hours. We don’t have to rush him to the ship right away.”

  “A little less is what I figure. He’s a mighty big one.”

  “Wait a minute. He ain’t an Indian, is he? Or some cripple or old drunk?”

  “I know better than that. This one is big and white. He claims to be strong as an elephant and twice as mean.”

  “Ha! We’ve heard that. They ship out and come back singing a different tune after a season fighting the arctic snow pack. Come to think of it, most of them don’t come back to sing at all.”

  Drake’s and Fogel’s mirthless cackles made Sage want to edge his chair away from the table. “So, what do you say? Think you might be interested?” he asked instead. This was it. They either swallowed the bait and got hooked now, or he’d have to come up with a whole different approach. He caught himself praying but squashed that impulse. His mind’s ear could hear his mother’s voice chiding him that it wasn’t a proper thing to spend prayer on.

  Drake twitched his upper lip as if he were trying to itch his nose. “Depends what you’re wanting for him.”

  “Not a cent. I just want a chance to prove myself with your organization.”

  The two men exchanged a calculating look before Drake nodded.

  “All right Crowley. We can’t promise nothing. You take us to our new whaling man and we’ll introduce you to our boss. If he agrees, we’ll take you on.”

  “Sounds fair . . .”

  “Good evening, boys,” a voice slurred from somewhere above the table. They’d been so intent on the discussion that they’d failed to notice the young man who now stood over them. He wore a fine broadcloth suit, displayed a large ruby ring on his pinky finger and had his face twisted in a drunken sneer that made him ugly. Clearly this was a toff descended from the balcony to slum on the ground floor.

  Drake’s eyes narrowed to glittering slits, but the arrogant young man didn’t seem to notice as his next words showed. “I got a message for your boss, Mordaunt. You tell him that I really, really, really don’t appreciate him sending messages to my family’s home demanding money.”

  “Oh, you afraid your papa might get a little upset to learn that his baby son is a deadbeat?” Drake asked, reaching for his glass of whiskey on the table.

  The drunk’s hand reached out and swept the glass off the table, sending whiskey splattering across Drake’s chest.

  Sage slid his chair back, certain that the young man would soon die. He needed to avoid getting tangled up in the impending ruckus.

  Drake surprised him. The man’s only reaction was to pull a white handkerchief from his coat pocket and dab at his vest.

  The young man blinked as if startled sober by what he’d just done. Then he brazened it out. “You show some respect for your betters! And you tell Mordaunt that he’ll get his money when and if I feel like it and not before. I’ll not have a man of his ilk pushing himself into my family’s home, in person, in letters or in the likes of slow-witted lackeys like the two of you!”

  Fogel spoke for the first time, his voice a low growl. “Seems to me, if you are too good to be involved with Mordaunt, you shouldn’t have borrowed money from him.”

  “He’s damn lucky someone like me is willing to do busines
s with him and pay those damnable interest rates he charges.”

  “What exactly did you mean, someone of Mordaunt’s ‘ilk’?” Drake asked, the words spoken with cold precision.

  “Everybody knows how Mordaunt gets his dirty money. He’s a parasite and a crook.”

  Drake’s lipless gash of a smile would have frozen any sensible man. “Looks like your papa hasn’t told you where he gets his money, sonny boy. Where do you think the money came from to buy that fancy suit of yours?”

  The young man flushed and his fists clenched. “If you were a gentleman I’d call you out into the street and teach you a lesson. But seeing as how you aren’t a gentleman, it’d be a waste of education because you couldn’t begin to learn.” That said, he turned on his heel and stumbled off through the crowd.

  The three men at the table watched him go. Fogel cleared his throat.“Don’t think Mordaunt’s going to take kindly to young Mr. Gordon’s message.”

  “I sure hope not,” said Drake. “I intend to get some kind of satisfaction from this whiskey bath he gave me.”

  “Did you say ‘Gordon’?” Sage asked.

  “That’s right. That piece of well-dressed manure was Robert Gordon, heir to Earl Gordon’ s fortune. His only son, matter of fact. Even worse than his father, when it comes to thinking his crap don’t stink. And he’s a blowhard to boot. Gets on Mordaunt’s nerves he does,” finished Drake with a speculative smile.

  Sage remembered Gordon’s bragging in the Cabot Club, saying he knew everything when it came to North End activities. Sage doubted very much that papa Gordon knew his own son was courting serious trouble down here among the North End’s socially inferior “rabble.”

  TWENTY THREE

  SAGE MET DRAKE AND FOGEL in an alley that had a doorway opening off it into the underground. Fong’s map, with its x’s, had identified the entrance and it was a simple matter for Sage to break the lock and replace it with one of his own.