Land Sharks

by S. L. Stoner

A few minutes later, when his mother timidly pushed the door open, Sage still lay on the floor, immobilized by the pain of the blow and shock. He had come close to dying at his friend’s hand.

  She knelt beside him. “Are you all right, Sage?” She touched his arm lightly but he batted it away.

  “Fong is nothing but a phony. He says one thing and does another.”

  She laughed. “And who doesn’t do that, Sage?” She moved to sit on the trunk.

  He didn’t see the humor. He told her about LaRue and about his fight with Fong, saying, “He preaches that I have to be balanced and I am never to act with hate in my heart. He tells me to live the right way and then he doesn’t do it himself!”

  She waited a beat before saying, her voice gentle, “Surely, you can see that a man might slip a bit when he’s faced with Fong’s situation? Sage, you need to see this from Fong’s point of view, as his friend, not as his student. Fong thought he had a duty, he worked himself up so he could perform that duty, then you jumped in and changed everything.”

  “He should be grateful to me!”

  “Maybe one day he will be. We’ll have to wait and see.” She slapped her palms on her knees. “Meanwhile, we have another problem. Matthew’s gone missing.”

  “How could he go missing? He’s supposed to be in Milwaukie taking care of Grace Kincaid and her baby.”

  “Nope, not anymore. That telegram I sent to her husband’s kin worked. They rode the train out here from the Midwest. They turned up yesterday and Matthew pedaled home in the afternoon. He reported that Grace’s in-laws were full of hugs and tears. They insisted on taking care of her from now on. She’ll be all right. She and baby Faith won’t be alone anymore.”

  “Good. You say Matthew came home yesterday, and he’s gone now?”

  “This morning he left to get snap beans for today’s dinner and a tire puncture fixed on that bicycle of his. He didn’t come back before dinner, and we haven’t seen him since. So, he’s been missing at least four hours. That’s not like Matthew. He’s dependable and wouldn’t go missing without a reason. Especially, when he knew we were waiting on those beans.”

  Sage hauled himself up off the floor, groaning as the movement nudged the new pain in his chest.

  “I’ll go try to track him down,” he said.

  Rydman’s bicycle repair shop occupied a narrow storefront near the vegetable market. The shop was empty when Sage stepped inside. For a moment the heavy smell of grease combined with a jumble of objects so bewildering that Sage felt as if he’d fallen into a dustbin of machine parts. Then his eye began to sort the items out into areas of tidy arrangement. Twopronged forks nestled on hooks jutting from the walls. In one corner, looking like a vase of fantastic flowers, seat posts and leather perches sprouted from a large wooden barrel. Tube tires were stacked shoulder high in one corner. Hand pumps, like the ones used to inflate rubberized carriage wheels, sat upon a shelf in the room’s center. On another shelf, he saw nickelplated shapes, and stepping forward, he realized they were carbide gas lanterns, smaller but similar to those mounted on wagons. Chrome wheels–some giant, others small–also hung from wall hooks. Near the front windows, where the light shone the brightest, tools, sprockets, gears, and chains lay scattered across a cluttered workbench.

  Amongst that clutter Sage saw a sign propped against a bicycle bell. He leaned closer to read “Ring for Service.” He jangled the bell. Moments later a man strode through a curtain at the back of the shop, pulling a napkin from his collar. He was beaknosed, bright-eyed and smiling. His smile faded when he saw Sage. His first words explained the reason for his disappointment. “Sorry, I guess I expected to see someone else.” Then he came further forward, putting out a hand to shake. “May I help you, sir? Name’s Helmut Rydman”

  “Hello, Mr. Rydman. My name’s John Adair. I sure hope you can help,” Sage responded as he stepped forward. “A young friend of mine, Matthew, planned to stop by here . . .”

  The man interrupted, “That’s who I thought it was when the bell rang. Matthew came in here, left me with a sack of green beans to watch and his bicycle tire to patch. But he never came back.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Just before ten. He said he’d return in a half hour and here it is, near to four o’clock and he’s still not here. I’m worried. He’s been coming here a while now and he seems very dependable.”

  “He is. That is exactly what has his aunt worried. Did you see which direction he headed?” Sage asked.

  “Yes, that way.” The man pointed north.

  “I guess I’d better go looking for him,” Sage said, pulling out his wallet. “How much does he owe you for fixing the flat?”

  “Not a thing. I was glad to do it. Matthew’s a friend of mine. Runs errands for me and helps me out in the shop sometimes, but he never will take a penny. Like I said, I just don’t understand. He’s so dependable, and then there’s these beans.” Rydman leaned down to lift a large cloth bag from the floor. He handed it to Sage. “Would you mind delivering them to his aunt? I can’t leave the shop and I thought she needed them by noon.”

  “She did,” Sage said and the two men exchanged worried looks. Taking the beans in hand, Sage thanked Rydman, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. There he paused, looking northward. Just a few blocks away he could see the southern boundary of the North End neighborhood.

  Sage dropped the beans off in the kitchen and assured Ida that he would find Matthew. Upstairs, he changed back into his Twig Crowley runner’s clothes. As he buttoned up his dungarees, Drake’s voice sounded in his head. What had Drake said?

  The harder Sage tried to grasp the memory, the more it seemed to slither away. Finally, he shrugged. The sooner he stopped trying to grab it, the sooner the memory would return.

  It wasn’t until he reached the end of the dank tunnel leading to the alley that the elusive memory flooded back. An awful realization hit him so hard that he froze mid-stride, putting a hand on the tunnel wall to steady himself. He thought it through. He’d been in Mordaunt’s office. Mordaunt was talking. Every word now sounded clearly in his head.

  “Captain Hambley is looking for a cabin boy,” Mordaunt had said.

  Drake had responded, “Cabin boy won’t be too hard to find. My eye’s been on a certain young fella, as a matter of fact.”

  “See that he’s healthy.” Mordaunt had replied.

  Dread washing over him, Sage faced facts. Over the past week, a healthy Matthew had been haunting the North End’s streets, snooping into Sage’s activities, going places no young boy should go.

  TWENTY FIVE

  SAGE GOT MOVING, PRODDED into action by a conclusion as inescapable as Oregon’s December rains. Matthew was dependable and he was missing. Someone must be keeping him from returning home. Drake, always on the lookout for easy prey, probably noticed the boy. Drake needed to find a cabin boy. An innocent kid from a small coastal village, who knew nothing about shanghaiing, fit the bill perfectly.

  What was the name of that ship, anyway? The Calypso, that was it. And, Mordaunt said it was sailing soon. Two days, he said. Was that whole days? Part days? What? Sage arms tensed to slam the trap door open without first confirming the coast was clear. But, he stopped himself. Not the time to panic. The underground was enormous. He didn’t know where Mordaunt kept his captives. So, he needed to remain calm, to get closer to Mordaunt before the Calypso sailed and find out where Matthew was imprisoned. Sage raised the door cautiously, climbing out only after making sure the alley was empty.

  Once on the street, Sage dithered, uncertain what to do. If his fear was justified, searching the North End streets wouldn’t turn up Matthew. He could start searching the underground–but where? There were blocks and blocks of interconnecting basements, walled-in cellar areas below every basement area. Or, maybe they were holding Matthew above ground–like in a room at Mordaunt’s boardinghouse. A frantic search would only draw attention to himself and take him out of the game before he could fin
d Matthew.

  It would be hard doing nothing, but Sage concluded he would have to wait until his eight o’clock meeting with Drake and Fogel. What then? He could try beating the truth out of them, but that would put an end to the mission. It meant he’d lose the opportunity to bring Mordaunt to justice for Kincaid’s death and for Stuart Franklin’s brutal beating. Somehow, there had to be a way to achieve both: rescue Matthew and bring Mordaunt to justice.

  How much time did he have? When did the Calypso sail? James Laidlaw could answer the last question, so Sage headed to the British consul’s office. Laidlaw knew the sailing schedules better than anyone.

  The minutes dragged by as he stood in the doorway of a closed shop across from Laidlaw’s office. He was waiting for the consul’s clerk to go home. Slowly the sun’s line traveled up the brick until, at last, shadow covered the building’s front and the sky overhead was the darkening blue of twilight. More than once, Sage caught himself twitching with anxiety. He used another of Fong’s sayings to calm himself into stillness: “Waiting crane must stand still so fish does not notice.” It wasn’t all that helpful since the sound of Fong’s voice in his inner ear also triggered a feeling of overwhelming loss. His mother was right. Apart from everything else, Fong was first, and foremost, his friend.

  At last the clerk exited the consul office, pulled the door shut behind him and set off down the street at a jaunty pace. As soon as the man turned the corner, Sage scuttled from the doorway, slipped into the office and drew the door shade down as he locked the door. Laidlaw, exiting his inner office, hat already on his head, started before breaking into a smile. “Adair! I didn’t recognize you at first. Pardon me for saying so, my man, but your attire today is not up to its usual standard. Back into your disguise?”

  “Glad to hear it. That’s the idea. Meet Twig Crowley, new runner for Kaspar Mordaunt.”

  Laidlaw grinned and clapped Sage on the shoulder. “Kaspar Mordaunt’s operation–I can’t believe you did it. This is wonderful.” Face sobering, he added, “and extremely dangerous for you.”

  “Right now, danger is the last thing I’m worried about. We’ve got a much bigger problem,” Sage replied and told Laidlaw of Matthew’s disappearance and why he thought Mordaunt had the young boy imprisoned.

  Laidlaw’s lips twisted ruefully. “If I were a superstitious man, I’d be thinking that the whopper you first told me about looking for Ida’s nephew has come back to bite you in the nether regions.” Laidlaw said, even as he pawed among the papers on his desk. He found the sailing schedule. Running a finger down the list, he said, “The Calypso is scheduled to sail very early Wednesday morning so she can catch the high tide over the Columbia bar. That doesn’t give us much time to find the boy, just tonight and tomorrow.”

  “I’m meeting Drake and Fogel in a few hours at Erickson’s saloon. I’ll try to find out from them where they keep the men they’ve kidnapped. Is there some way of making sure that the honest judge is sitting on the bench tonight when we get Mordaunt? I forgot his name.”

  “Judge Clarence Berquist is the one we want. I’ve been checking on that and I think we are in luck. Like I told you, the rest of the local judges have already left town to attend that meeting in Seaside. Berquist stayed home. Says all they do is drink, whore, and tell each other lies. So, Berquist is the only judge in town for the next few days.”

  “Perfect. He sounds like he might just be our best hope,” Sage said. “So, if we’re going to get Mordaunt indicted, we need to wrap things up. But even if Judge Berquist issues an indictment, how will we be able to make it stick? Won’t the rich men behind the crimps just see that the case is transferred to someone else when the other judges return from their conference?”

  “I have been thinking about that very problem ever since you decided to launch this scheme, Adair. The way I see it, there’s enough interested individuals here in Portland and across the state that a loud public outcry would prevent the death of Kincaid from being swept under the rug. But we still must catch Mordaunt’s men red-handed. I wish I knew how to get the press on our side from the beginning.”

  “That’s the one area where I can definitely help,” Sage assured him, thinking of his friend Ben Johnston, publisher of the fledgling Daily Journal. “The Portland Gazette won’t stick its neck out because you tell me too many of the city’s wealthy are benefitting from shanghaiing. But I know the Journal will jump on the chance to make this a lead story. I’m certain of it.”

  Sage didn’t mention that, as a major investor in the Journal, he possessed some pull with the publisher. While he’d come to trust Laidlaw, the information he gave to the British consul remained strictly limited to what Laidlaw needed to know. That was another of St. Alban’s rules.

  “So, we just have to figure out how to catch them redhanded and then twist an arm or two to get one of them to admit shanghaiing Kincaid,” Sage said, thinking that task would be the hardest and most dangerous part of the whole scheme.

  As if reading his mind, Laidlaw said, “You make it sound so easy, Adair, but I’m at a loss as to how we go about doing it.”

  “I’ve been thinking that we need the help of an honest copper and a few of his like-minded colleagues,” Sage said.

  Laidlaw gave a bark of derision, “Good luck. I cannot imagine how you will find one without tipping your hand to Mordaunt. Most of them are on the take.”

  “Actually, I already know an honest policeman. He is also a friend. He’s helped me out before. I’ll get a message to him and get him to meet us.”

  Both were silent until Sage gave voice to his biggest fear. “The question is, can we find out where Matthew is and get everything in place so that we can bring this whole matter to a head by tomorrow night–before the Calypso sails?”

  “Doesn’t look like we have much choice. We will have to make plans and move quickly,” Laidlaw said, his mouth a grim line.

  Sage hesitated to ask his next question because he feared the answer. He asked anyway, “Is Stuart Franklin still alive?”

  Laidlaw’s mouth turned down, his face grave. Sage stiffened against the answer. But when it came, it wasn’t the worst.

  “Just barely. He remains unconscious, so they don’t know if his mind functions. One thing for certain, his sailing days are over. He’ll be lucky if he can walk.”

  On that disheartening note, they parted, agreeing to meet at Laidlaw’s house early the next morning. Sage slipped out Laidlaw’s rear door and hurried back to Mozart’s, where he threw on enough appropriate clothes so he could summon his mother from Mozart’s dining room and tell her the plan. She agreed to find Hanke and bring him to Laidlaw’s house for the meeting.

  “Any word from Fong?” he asked.

  “Nothing at all,” she responded, her eyes softening with compassion.

  As he left, she said nothing about being careful, though the hug she gave him was firm enough for his ribs to remember it for some minutes afterward. The news that Fong remained absent expanded the hollowness Sage’d been feeling until he forced himself not to think about it. “There is too much to do and too much at stake,” he muttered to himself as he headed back down the tunnel. In just minutes he was to meet up with Drake and Fogel. Maybe he could learn where they were holding Matthew.

  As usual, the tobacco smoke lay thick in the air when Sage entered Erickson’s saloon. This time, the band’s vigorous playing, the women’s shrill laughter, and the men’s hearty guffaws sounded muted. Sage’s intense fixation on Drake and Fogel, as they sat at their customary table, had maybe stopped up his ears. As he made his way toward them, the proverbial butterflies turned so riotous in his stomach that he thought of detouring to the toilet first. But he resisted and stayed on course. Reaching the table, his hearing returned and he felt himself smiling with unexpected ease at the two men. Their faces were unsmiling.

  “Gentlemen,” he acknowledged as he pulled out a chair and sat.

  “Evening, Crowley,” Drake said, while Fogel narrowed his sma
ll eyes, each of which now sported a shiner turning purplegreen.

  Sage spoke quickly. “Thanks for talking Mordaunt into hiring me. Especially you, Fogel, for letting me take the credit for your shiners. Mordaunt knows it isn’t easy to buffalo you two. Letting him think I did it, instead of dumb luck, is what did the trick. Tell you what, let me buy you both drinks.” Sage gestured to a hovering waiter. “Bring us a bottle of your best whiskey,” he commanded and Fogel’s scowl softened.

  “That’s decent of you to say,” Fogel said in his low growl. “‘Course, we’re getting something out of you getting hired, remember. Don’t be thinking we did it for charity.”

  “Don’t worry, I haven’t forgot my promise about the training money,” Sage replied, thinking that, with luck, they’d both be in jail before any such payoff came due.

  Drake spoke. “We can take it easy tonight, boys. We filled all our orders so we don’t have nothing to do but load the cargo aboard just before the ship sails, and that won’t be until late tomorrow night.”

  “You talking about the Calypso?” Sage asked.

  “Yup, she’s the ship that needed men. She sails real early Wednesday morning, day after tomorrow.”

  “How many does she need?”

  “We rounded up five and the cabin boy,” Drake said as he reached, without asking, for the whiskey bottle the waiter sat on the table.

  “So you found a cabin boy?”

  “Just like plucking a baby rooster from the chicken pen,” Drake bragged.

  Fogel gave a rasping laugh at the image and Sage looked at him inquiringly.

  “Drake here made that rooster joke ‘cause the new cabin boy’s got red hair.” Fogel offered in explanation.

  Sage’s gut tightened as his fears were confirmed. Matthew’s red hair was his most noticeable feature. It did call to mind a rooster’s comb. Sage cast frantically about in his mind for a way to find out where they were holding the boy. Suddenly he became aware of two strangers standing, too close for comfort, on either side of him.