The Mangle

by S. L. Stoner

  Rachel nodded. “Yes, he did. But this morning he claimed that he hadn’t had the chance to confer with the other laundry owners.”

  “He’s just stalling. He doesn’t want a strike so he’s leading us on, hoping we’ll give up,” declared another woman, sending murmurs of agreement rippling through the group.

  At that comment, Rachel raised a cautionary hand, “I agree,” she said. “It’s clear that everyone in their little business association follows Cobb’s lead. He didn’t need to talk to them. So, yes, he’s stalling. But, that may be to our advantage.”

  “What do you mean, Rachel?” asked a woman standing near the front.

  “I can’t go into the specifics but our union and the local labor council are putting some things together that might help us and they need more time. In fact, we’re not ready to deadlock on the negotiations for awhile yet. We’re not prepared.”

  “What? What are they putting together? What preparation?” called another voice.

  Mae held her breath, hoping that Rachel stayed silent on the particulars. It wasn’t safe to trust everyone with their plans. She searched the faces around her until she spotted that new girl. Caroline. She sat at the edge of the group, her attention riveted on Rachel. Although her face was blank, her body craned forward like a hungry dog’s waiting for a crumb to drop.

  Chapter Three

  The stink of sewage, rotten fish and garbage wafted from the river at the end of another hot and windless day. Sweat still soaked his hat band even though the sun had dipped below the western ridge. It was heat like Chicago’s in August but without the humidity. On the eastern horizon a mountain’s snowy slopes shimmered against a near white sky. Soon they would glow orange in the sunset.

  Bet the wind’s blowing cool and clean up there at the snowline, he thought. Hell of a lot better place to be than on this dirty wharf. His kick of frustration sent a cabbage, one that had missed the boat, flying into the river. He couldn’t believe he’d failed to grab her yet again. It was almost as though, somehow, she sensed her stalker, just like deer could sense the hunter. But, that couldn’t be the case. He was careful to stay out of sight or blend in.

  Footsteps on the wharf planks halted his silent grumbling. The captain had arrived. After shaking hands, the man said, “I believe that I fully comprehend your proposal, sir. The terms are satisfactory. When did you wish to deliver the cargo to my ship? I don’t want her aboard until I am completely loaded and the stevedores are long gone.”

  Pretentious words, spoken as if this fellow captained a fine sailing ship, instead of a rotting scow that even seagulls shunned. No matter. As long as the fellow did as asked, who cared?

  “I won’t be delivering her until the night before you sail. When is that going to be?” he asked.

  The man squinted at the sky as if the wispy clouds displayed the ship’s departure date. Despite the early evening dusk, the habitual drunk’s puffiness that ringed the captain’s eyes was unmistakable.

  He thought about knocking the pompous ass down a peg or two but couldn’t. He needed this sorry excuse of a sea captain. He just hoped the ship stayed afloat long enough to deliver the girl to San Francisco. Thoughts of a white face covered by sea water flicked through his mind but he pushed them away. Once aboard ship, her fate will be in God’s hands, not mine, he told himself.

  “Depending on the weather, we should be raising anchor early morning, fourteen days from tomorrow. Is that date agreeable?”

  It was. It had to be. His boss was getting irritated. What originally looked like a one-day job had already taken three with still no success. The fellow footing the bill was getting his knickers in a twist over the delay. Too bad, he thought with a rebellious flash. The job was crap, anyway. If they could find someone else to do the snatch, let them. He’d procured women in St. Louis, Chicago, and in countless Midwestern plough towns. He knew how to make a snatch without creating a ruckus. And, that’s what they said was most important. “No ruckus.”

  “Yup, that’ll do. I’ll let you know if there’s going to be a delay,” he told the captain. After handing over the advance to seal the deal he left, moving at a fast clip and without a backward glance. He needed to cross the river before her workday ended. Otherwise, he’d miss her. He’d grab her tonight.

  It hadn’t cooled overnight which was a rarity in western Oregon. Even this early in the day, the sun blazed in a pale sky. Marginally cooler pre-dawn air, lingering in the shade behind the willow fronds, offered little relief from the rising heat. Sage sat with his back against the ancient bark already feeling the sweat rising. Cobb was still inside the laundry. Sage didn’t know what Cobb was up to, but it was surely something. Until he found out, he’d stick to the laundry manager like “burrs on a bunny,” as his mother would say.

  Sure enough, Cobb left the building as the laundry’s equipment began to hiss and clank. The man headed south, strolling along Water Street toward the Morrison Bridge. Sighing, Sage stood up, parted the fronds and followed. Soon the two of them were crossing the river, keeping abreast of the street trolley rattling over the bridge planks alongside them.

  Cobb entered a small restaurant at the bridge’s end. Sage waited outside on a shaded doorstep. Fifteen minutes later, Cobb exited the restaurant accompanied by the managers of three other steam laundries. Obviously, they formed a delegation of some sort.

  The men didn’t converse as they strode northward. Within a few blocks, they entered the front office of a riverside warehouse. Sage ambled past to read the building sign. It said, “City Chemical Supply.” He puzzled over that until he recalled the chemical stink rising from the laundry’s washtubs and ironing equipment.

  Sage sat on a nearby empty hand cart and considered the building. It made sense that one of them would visit a chemical supply house now and again. But, why would all four of them do so at the same time?

  Mae doubted she’d survive the final hour. Steam clouded the washroom making the air the most stifling it had ever been. Glancing around, she saw that the other women were in the same shape. Everyone’s face was shiny with sweat, pale with fatigue and all were moving slowly. Three women had run to throw up in the single toilet. The only drinking water came from the dirty faucet over the filthy sink where they rinsed the burning chemicals off their skin. The water coming from that faucet tasted nasty, like it mingled with the chemicals. Chemicals that turned your skin raw couldn’t be good for your innards, she thought. Like the other women, Mae avoided drinking from that faucet but she’d long ago emptied the water jug she’d brought from home.

  Just as she started ironing yet another lace-trimmed blouse, a terrified scream pierced the steam, followed by frantic yips of alarm. Startled, Mae’s head flew up to search for the commotion’s source. A mangle’s leather conveyor belt had stopped moving. Everyone was running toward it, Rachel in the lead. A door banged as the foreman rushed from the office.

  Iron safely stowed, Mae joined the other women at the mangle but, upon reaching it, she wished she’d stayed behind. Two girls worked the machine, feeding bed linen through two heavy, canvas-wrapped, steel rollers. One girl’s face was dead white as she whimpered in pain and fear. The two rollers had her hand trapped up to her wrist. The foreman was frantically wrenching a bolt, trying to free the top roller.

  The washroom stilled except for the soft hissing of idling machines and the swish of the unattended washtubs in the far corner. The women and the few washtub men stood in a silent semi-circle around the mangle. Rachel’s murmurs of assurance and the clink of wrench on the steel bolt seemed loud. The girl was being kept upright and steady by Rachel and the girl’s sister. When the roller was finally freed, the girl looked at her hand and fainted.

  That was probably best, the calm part of Mae’s brain said—even as she found herself recoiling in horror from the sight of that bloody, burnt hand.

  Within minutes, a closed laundry van was taking the unconscious girl to the hospital, her sister and the foreman sitting on her eith
er side, the horse running at top speed. Muttering began even before the vehicle turned the corner. “She’s going to lose that hand,” one of the women said glumly.

  “Aye,” agreed a soft Irish brogue. “It’s never they’re keeping it, once it’s been mangled.”

  Mae poked her head inside the washroom to see the wall clock. Thirty-five minutes to go. She looked back at the workers who remained outside after witnessing the girl’s departure. She rejoined them.

  “Cobb’s so greedy that he won’t spend a few dollars on a safety guard. Lots of other laundries have them. We’ve asked and asked him,” someone said.

  The other young woman who’d been working the mangle sat snuffling on the building’s stoop. “Debbie was so tired,” she said in a voice thick with tears. “She’s been up half the night with her little one all week long. But, she had to come to work or they wouldn’t have food to eat.” She covered her head with her apron and sobbed.

  A close by rustle made Mae turn to see Rachel remove her apron and fold it carefully. She looked at the others and said calmly. “I will not work another minute today. And, tomorrow, I intend to arrive two hours late. I ask that you join me in this protest against these unsafe conditions and the treatment we receive in this laundry.”

  People nodded and spines straightened like alder treetops in a wind’s lull. As they returned to the washroom, the women were loosening their apron strings.

  Mae noticed that Caroline stayed behind on the outside stoop, her arms around the sobbing girl. She felt her eyebrows rise at the sight. Maybe that newcomer was alright. Could a calculating and, up-to-no-good management spy, fake tears? Mae hoped not. But then, that familiar bitterness came back. She’d bedded with a traitor and never once suspected him.

  Raised voices sounded outside. Joining everyone else, Mae stepped out of the building to find Rachel standing feet spread and hands on hips, almost nose to nose with one of the laundry’s delivery drivers.

  “You mean to tell me that you refuse to support the people who have to work in this hellhole?” The words were loud enough that all could hear.

  “My men have families to feed. If they refuse to work tomorrow, they might lose their jobs.”

  “Two hours, that’s all we’re asking. Your jobs are the safest of all. You know the delivery routes and have customer loyalty. Cobb won’t fire you.” Rachel’s tone had softened but only slightly. “Look, tonight a young mother is going to lose her hand. Tomorrow, that same thing could happen to one of us.” She swept her hand in an arc that encompassed all her co-workers who were now encircling them.

  “I can’t ask my drivers to lose their wages or their jobs. They can’t afford it.” The delivery driver licked his lips nervously but held his position.

  “Your drivers,” the words coming from Rachel dripped scorn, “make $15 a week plus bonuses. We. . . ,” here again she swept her arm to include her co-workers, “make an average of $6 per week. So, don’t you dare talk about risk or say you can’t ‘afford’ to do the moral thing!”

  A smattering of applause and hear, hears! came from the group. The delivery driver backed toward his wagon, clearly intimidated by the scowling people who surrounded him.

  His chin jutting he said, “I’ve given you my answer.” Turning on his heel, he scrambled onto his seat beneath the cab roof, snapped the horse’s reins and, seconds later, the closed delivery wagon was rumbling down the rutted dirt street.

  Mae considered the faces around her, hoping the uncooperative delivery driver hadn’t dampened their enthusiasm. There was disgust but no resignation on their faces. Gathering around Rachel, they patted her on the back.

  “Ha!” spat one of the women. “If we don’t clean the damn clothes, that old so-and-so won’t have nothing to deliver. That’ll burn holes in his pockets!”

  Mae’s eyes stung for the second time that day. This time, it wasn’t the chemicals. Clearing her throat she asked, “Who was that fellow, anyway?”

  “L.D. ‘the traitor’ Warder. He’s president of the so-called delivery drivers’ union.” came the disgusted answer.”

  Chapter Four

  “You received my note?” he asked, hoping the reminder would lessen his boss’s outrage over yet another night of failure.

  His boss silently puffed cigar smoke in his direction before swallowing more whiskey. Even though they were alone in the hotel room, there’d been no offer of a companionable drink. His boss finally spoke, “Yes, I got it and passed the information on immediately. Don’t know yet if it is accurate. If it isn’t, he’s going to be even madder. He’s already in a tizzy because you’ve yet to deliver. It’ll be worse if we’ve given him false information. He’ll fire us and hire someone else.”

  He relaxed. It sounded like the note would buy him a little more time to grab the girl. He knew his information was accurate because he’d made friends with one of the laundry women. Romance was on her mind which, of course, he encouraged. He’d easily sweet-talked her into joining him for beers at a local saloon. While they sat in a quiet corner, she’d told him that she could stay for a drink because the ladies were going to report for work two hours late the next day. Some girl had hurt her hand and the women planned to withhold their labor in protest.

  Despite her tentative hints, he’d not taken her back to his room. He didn’t want anyone to know where he stayed. Besides, he had a note to write and have delivered. His boss needed to know the women planned a two-hour strike for the next morning. So, acting the regretful gentleman, he’d escorted the disappointed girl to her boarding house’s front door before he hurried off to find a messenger.

  Tracing a wet ring on the varnished table top he said, “Actually, I checked. I was outside the laundry at 8:00 a.m. this morning. None of them had shown up for work. There were only delivery drivers milling around, waiting to load up.”

  His boss nodded. “Well, well, then. But you still haven’t delivered the girl. Our client is becoming quite upset. I promised him you were the best and he paid your train fare all the way from Chicago. He’s expecting results. Besides, what with your fancy education and all, you’re supposed to be the smart one. She’s just a dumb washerwoman. What’s your excuse for failing last night, anyway?”

  “They were upset over the girl getting hurt. The whole crew walked off the job early and they left as a group. People surrounded her. I knew they’d walk her home so it was a waste of time to follow her. I took my gal out for a beer instead.”

  “Your gal?”

  “Well, that’s what she thinks she is. We know better,” he added unnecessarily. As if he’d care about some steam laundry drab. Besides, she was too cow-eyed trusting. She should have stayed on the farm. He liked his women sassy, tough and a touch sophisticated.

  “So, when are you going to grab the Levy woman?”

  “I’m going to go there at noontime, just in case she goes out on her own. Otherwise, I’ll be waiting tonight when she gets off. This time, unless she has company, I’m going to poke a knife in her ribs. She’ll come along. One way or another, she’ll be in my hands and locked away by tonight’s end.”

  “Why didn’t you try that knife gambit sooner?”

  He couldn’t believe his boss lacked the imagination to answer that question for himself. But the man was paying, so he kept his tone respectful. “Because, she could scream or fight and there’s a lot of folks down there close to the river. The steam laundry isn’t the only workplace shutting down at dusk. People might come to her rescue and create that ‘ruckus’ you said our client didn’t want. You said he wants people to think she just walked away—deserted them and their little fight. That way, the police won’t put much effort into finding her.”

  His boss stabbed his cigar into the ashtray. “Well, at this point, I guess we have to risk whatever it takes. Try to get her without anyone seeing but if you can’t, then get it done any way you can. And, no more excuses,” he commanded.

  “No more excuses, no more excuses,” the man from Chicago r
epeated in a mocking chant—but only after he was back out on the street.

  Sage stepped inside the red brick Davis Building. Home to a number of unions, its meeting halls were empty first thing in the morning though he was sure the various union offices were up and running. Climbing to the second floor, he entered the Carpenters’ office. Only Leo Lockwood was there.

  “Leo, thanks for meeting me this morning. You’re not going to get in trouble for leaving the job are you?” he asked, noting that the union president was fully recovered from the both the strike and his own false imprisonment for murder the previous autumn. The stocky man’s smile was wide and easy with real affection lighting his eyes. Sage and his friends had straightened everything out, settling the strike and winning Leo’s freedom by finding the real killer.

  The two men clasped hands before sitting down on the wooden chairs. The Carpenters’ Union president grinned and waved a dismissive hand as he answered Sage’s question, “Naw. Ever since Earl Mackey learned I didn’t kill his dad and we settled the strike, he’s been darn friendly. I swear that whole to-do changed the man. He’s turning into a pretty good boss.”

  Sage smiled and said, “Sometimes that can happen. I’m glad to hear it, Leo.” Then he sobered. “Leo, I need to ask you where the Federated Trades Council stands on the laundry workers’ nine-hour day demand.” Since he wasn’t a card-carrying union man, Sage couldn’t attend the Council’s meetings to find out for himself. As a Council member, Leo was in a good position to keep Sage apprised of how the group was reacting to the laundry workers’ labor dispute. Leo wouldn’t hesitate to share that information because he was the only Portland labor leader who knew that Sage secretly worked for the labor hero, Vincent St. Alban.

  Leo rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he said, “The Council feels bad that the state federation of unions only got the legislature to pass a ten-hour workday bill for all women but not the nine hours the steam laundry girls needed. We all know that’s an awful job.”