by S. L. Stoner
“Yes, I saw his ad in the Labor Press. He’s asking folks not to shop in any store past 6 p.m. on Saturdays. He closes his store then so his sales girls only work a half day. He’s asking that the other merchants follow suit,” Sage said.
“Humph,” Mae commented, silently adding “and hogs will fly” as she sipped her wine and said nothing. Eich continued his explanation, “Yes, well, Rebecca works the Saturday morning shift at the department store. When she gets off work, she picks up something special for Rachel’s lunch and drops it off. Then she goes home to the boarding house where they both live.
“Rachel’s lucky to have a sister. So many of the girls have to make it on their own when they come to Portland,” observed Mae.
“Well, it sounds like she was lucky until Saturday, anyway,” Sage noted.
Eich heaved a sigh and said, “Yes, until Saturday. You see, Rebecca never made it home to the boarding house. No one saw her once she left the laundry after dropping off Rachel’s lunch.”
“Is that what Rachel was doing today? Searching for her sister?” Sage asked.
“Yes, she started Saturday night when she got home from the laundry. She searched that night and all day Sunday. She went to the police but found no help there. In fact, they managed to both offend her and scare her,” Eich said.
Mae stirred to say, “They waved off her concerns. Told her that Rebecca probably ran off with some fellow she met in a saloon. Told her that Rebecca was a grown woman and unless she was taken by white slavers, her sister didn’t get to tell her what to do. Poor Rachel didn’t get any further than the officer on the desk!” Mae still felt the burn of outrage over the pain the police officer’s callous words must have caused the frantic Rachel. When she saw Sergeant Hanke she was going to tell him a thing or two.
“Is it likely she took off with some man?” Sage asked.
Mae shook her head emphatically. “I am sure she did not. First of all, Rebecca doesn’t drink. And, according to Rachel, her sister would never step foot inside a saloon. She says they are close and Rebecca never hides anything from her. I believe her. Rachel is a smart gal. Nothing much gets by her,” Mae said.
Eich’s tone was firm as he said, “Well, one thing for sure. Rebecca’s not in any abandoned shed nor building nor field nor eastside alley. Rachel looked everywhere all day Sunday. Then I looked with her all day today and Mae and I helped her look a second time tonight. Someone has taken that young woman and hidden her from sight. I don’t think she’s anywhere on the east side. They somehow moved her over here from across the river.”
Mae watched Sage ponder this troubling turn of events. It was a disaster. Not just for the girl, Rebecca. But also for their mission because her sister, Rachel, was the Sparta workers’ chosen leader. If Rebecca’s absence distracted Rachel, she’d be a poor leader right when she was needed the most. Maybe that’s what the kidnappers wanted. Still, there could be some other reason the girl was missing.
Sage told them what little he’d been able to overhear while standing on the Portland Hotel’s veranda. “I arrived too late to hear much, since Cobb’s meeting was winding down. Still, I overheard Cobb saying, “And we need to thank Farley here. It took awhile but he finally managed to chop the head off the snake.”
He rubbed his face as if to stir himself. He was weary too. “At the time, Cobb’s comment made no sense. Actually, it still doesn’t. How would kidnapping the union rep’s sister be like chopping off a snake’s head? Did they hope to distract Rachel by kidnapping her sister? Nah, that couldn’t be it. Far easier and more effective to just grab Rachel herself.”
He looked at Mae and Eich. “Well, I guess this means we better add the finding of Rebecca Levy to our tasks,” he said.
Mae nodded. “Yup, I told Rachel my friend John Miner would find her sister come hail or high water.” She got up and set her empty wine glass in the sink. “Sage, don’t make me a liar. The laundry workers need Rachel and she needs her sister,” she told him before squeezing Herman’s shoulders, dropping a kiss on Sage’s forehead and exiting out the kitchen doors.
Chapter Nine
“My mistress requires these table linens by tomorrow afternoon. Will that be possible?” the maid asked with her hand firmly atop a laundry bundle. Sinclair could tell, by the way she keep a firm grip on the bundle’s twine, that she wasn’t about to let it go until she obtained that promise. After the counter clerk assured her that the laundry would be ready for pick up the next afternoon, the maid relinquished her hold and scooted out the door.
It was after nine in the morning and the laundry business was well underway. By now, the delivery trucks were rattling up and down the city streets, each man on his assigned route, dropping off and picking up laundry. Sinclair glanced into the office but it was empty. Good Cobb was gone. Not that he would have complained about Sinclair’s late arrival. Cobb couldn’t complain. After all, Sinclair knew nothing of running a steam laundry. He wasn’t there for that. He was supposed to watch the women for suspicious activity and provide a list of the troublemakers.
Besides, he’d had to stop and check on the girl. He’d found her lying on the cot, her heavy breathing evidence that the laudanum was doing its job. As he’d stood in the darkened room, gazing at her face he told himself, just nine more days and she’d be on her way south. Soon she’d be someone else’s problem. Even if she managed to make passage back from Panama, so much time would have passed that she’d only be a vague memory to her kin. Most important, the laundry workers’ squabble would be long over.
This morning he was ready to act the role of laundry foreman. He wasn’t looking forward to it. Already, the temperature outside, coupled with the washroom steam, would be enough to make a snake sweat. He removed his suit coat and hung it on Cobb’s coat tree.
Upon entering the main plant he stopped at the sorting alcove where the women were pulling apart bundles of dirty laundry, sorting the items and inking laundry codes on collars and elsewhere. This area wasn’t as hot as the main washroom but he wanted to pinch his nose shut against the stink of unwashed clothes and linens. God knew what diseases and other disgusting filth lurked in those folds.
He held his breath and passed quickly into the main washroom. There, a wet heat rolled against him, enveloped him and, for an instant, paralyzed him with its grip. Damp instantly stuck his freshly laundered shirt to his back making him silently vow that there was no way he’d hang around in this steam bath all day. He’d just pass through, look the women over and then leave after coming up with some excuse.
First he eyed the washtub area, watching the men busily stir the tubs, add chemicals, toss the wet stuff into whirling water extractors and pile it onto hand carts. Sweat plastered their thin, sleeveless undershirts against the men’s wiry torsos. He shook his head. Not work he’d ever want to do. Pandering was definitely easier on the body, if not the conscience.
Casting a glance around the entire area he saw that everyone was working as they should. The shake table women were vigorously snapping the clothes free of wrinkles. He knew from watching yesterday that their vigor would dwindle come late afternoon and evening.
Idly he cast his eye over the women working the mangles. Chrissy caught him looking and sent him a shy smile but he didn’t respond. He couldn’t, because the sight of the woman working the mangle next to Chrissy paralyzed him.
Rachel. It was that woman Rachel. Despite the heat, dread shivered up his back. Had she escaped? His mind flailed. Even if she had escaped, there was no way she could have made it to the Sparta Laundry before him. It just wasn’t possible. My god, maybe she’ll recognize me. Panic jolted through him but he fought to control it while his mind frantically sought a solution. He could snatch her when she left the building. Surely she would leave once she saw him. She’d for sure run for the police. Hell, maybe she wouldn’t recognize him. He’d grabbed her from behind. She’d been barely conscious when he’d walked her to the whorehouse, staggering under her weight, acting the part o
f one drunk escorting another. Calm yourself, Paulie, he cautioned himself. There’s got to be an explanation.
His heart thumping, Sinclair forced himself to make a leisurely circuit of the washroom, stopping at every work station, smiling at the workers even though few smiled in return. Today, he didn’t care. His focus was solely on that one woman calmly feeding cloth into the mangle. When he reached her station he looked directly at her, tensing, expecting her to cry out in recognition when she raised her eyes to his face. But there was nothing—just a calm, cool gaze quickly averted so she could pay attention to her machine.
He stood unmoving, his mind flailing for an answer. It wasn’t making sense. He’d talk to Chrissy, he thought. That’s what he’d do. She was a ninny but she was the only one who might tell him something. Sidling up next to her, he murmured, “Noon, Water Street Lunch Counter.” She heard him over the steam hiss of her mangle and gave a small nod, the corner of her mouth quirking upward.
He moved away, his shoulder blades tight. Was that Rachel woman watching him, calculating how she was going to expose him in the most damaging way? After one more glance around, he hurried outside into the hot, dry air. Standing in the roasting sun’s glare, he debated what to do next. Cobb obviously didn’t know Rachel was back at work because Farley would have been screaming about it first thing this morning. Farley—boy, was Farley going to be angry. Probably demand the money back. He didn’t have it all, having spent some of it on a few celebratory pipes the night before. What a mess, what a damn mess. He’d better come up with a good explanation and fast.
Wheels rattling across wooden street pavers, three stories below, snapped Sage fully awake after a restless night’s sleep. A soft thump sounded overhead. He turned from the window. He had much to do. He needed to talk to Fong and it was Fong up there in the attic. Quickly he slipped on loose pants and a baggy shirt and headed for the attic stairs. Reaching the top, he paused in the threshold, watching Fong’s body flow through a set program of moves, his bamboo stick whirling overhead, jabbing low, sideways, backwards or down. It was a stick form that Fong said he would teach him, once Sage was “ready.” Whatever that meant. Stepping into the room, Sage lowered himself onto the polished fir floor, sitting with his legs folded, once again the humble student acknowledging the master.
One final jab and Fong was crossing his arms, his stick motionless at last. After a moment of absolute rest, Fong turned to him. “Ah, lazy student finally raise eyelids to greet day,” he observed, a broad smile blunting the criticism.
“Hey, I was up late,” Sage protested.
“You ready to practice?” Fong asked before turning away to assume the beginning stance. Sage uncoiled his legs, which were already cramping, and copied Fong. For the next half hour the two of them moved through the 108 movements. They did the same movements every time but, yet, they were not the same. It was odd Sage thought, how each time the experience was somehow different from beginning to end.
Once he’d asked Fong why every time, the same series of movements, felt different. His teacher gave his customary indirect answer.
“Each time is a new journey,” was Fong’s answer.
“But a new journey to where?” Sage had pressed. Instead of answering, Fong had silently touched his belly, then his heart, then his head before turning away to begin moving through the form once again.
Today, Sage asked no questions. His body followed Fong’s movements even as his mind flitted around the problems confronting them. How were they going to find the girl? What did Cobb have planned?
Of course, Fong noticed his distraction. Once they reached the end position, Fong was all business. “Your body move like sideshow automaton. Your chi flowing in fits and starts. What is on your mind?” he asked, his tone kindly rather than chiding.
“I was up late because Mae came home way late from the laundry. That’s because she and Herman spent most of last night hunting for a missing girl. She’s the sister of the woman who is the union representative at the Sparta Laundry.”
“They find girl?” Fong asked, his forehead puckered with unease.
Sage shook his head. They both knew that the city’s streets were dangerous places for all the young women pouring in from the countryside. The newspapers carried stories about white slavers—the men and women who tricked or kidnapped young women to sell into prostitution.
“Mae promised Rachel that we would find her sister. The girl’s name is Rebecca. Do you think the cousins would help?”
“Yes, of course,” Fong said quickly, before adding, “I know of bad Chinese who sell women. They use opium and drink to make them obedient. Cousins can check underground and the few Chinese sporting houses. Also, we better ask Mr. Solomon to do same with his people. Not sure it will be much help. Other than few cooks, Chinese and black men not usually in sporting houses selling white women.”
Sage’s lips twisted at Fong’s use of term “sporting house” the polite term for a whorehouse. Damn, maybe he’d have to ask Lucinda to help in the search. As the madam of the city’s most exclusive “sporting house”, she might know where someone could hide a young woman.
“You maybe ask Miss Lucinda to help?” Fong suggested, eerily echoing Sage’s thoughts.
Sage heaved a sigh. “Yah, I suppose I’ll eventually have to.”
Fong’s eyes warmed sympathetically, “You have fight with Miss Lucinda over there in Prineville?”
That question caused Sage’s heart to thud painfully. His friend was referring to Sage’s brief encounter with an almost-range war on the east side of the Cascades. It had been the first time in a year that he’d set eyes on Lucinda. She’d been there nursing smallpox victims in Prineville’s whorehouse-turned-hospital. Because of a stupid misunderstanding on his part, they never really talked. But, once he learned of the misunderstanding, he’d been hopeful as he rode the train back to Portland. He foresaw a grand reunion, the warmth of her smiles and their pleasure at knowing all misunderstandings were at last behind them.
Well, that hope was soon squashed flat as horse plop on a city street. He’d gone to see her, thinking they could finally straighten things out between them. Just as he’d rounded the corner, though, he’d spotted her standing on the front stoop of her park side mansion. She’d been smiling, but not at him. She didn’t even see him. Instead, she stood in the arms of the same man with whom she’d moved to Chicago the year before. Sage didn’t need to see more to know that there was no hope. Turning on his heel, he’d tossed the flowers he carried into a nearby trash barrel and slunk back to Mozart’s, like a dog with his tail tucked.
“Nah, nothing like that, Mr. Fong. I guess the time’s never right for me and Lucinda. I may have to ask her to help but before I bother her, I’d like to try to find Rebecca myself. We have to find her. Otherwise her sister, who is vital to the success of the labor dispute, will be too distracted to function.”
“You think this Rebecca taken to cause union sister worry?”
Sage shook his head. “Maybe. But, that doesn’t make sense. If they wanted to weaken the laundry workers’ resolve, they would have snatched Rachel herself. I think it was just a coincidence. This town is dangerous for girls living ‘adrift’,” he said.
It was a new use of the word for Fong because he asked, “’Adrift’, why do you use that word?”
“Oh, that new science, called ‘social work,’ uses that term to mean women living on their own, apart from their families. Not sure why they started using it. Probably because more and more single women are moving to the cities, trying to make new lives on their own,” Sage answered.
Fong nodded as he mulled over the idea. Then his forehead wrinkled with a new thought. “Newspapers say stolen girls end up in strange towns, not in town where they are taken.”
Damn, he hadn’t really considered that problem. Fong was right, they had to find the girl and find her fast. Who knew how long white slavers would keep her in Portland. Dread wiggled into his mind. Maybe Rebecca was alre
ady on her way somewhere else. He’d better find out.
Mae felt relief at seeing Rachel working her mangle first thing that morning. The night before, it had taken her and Eich quite of bit of talking to convince the young woman that she would never find her sister all on her own. Lord knows why someone would snatch a sales clerk. Well actually, she reminded herself, both the Lord and the Devil, probably did know the answer.
For sure, the three of them searched everywhere on the eastside where a body could be hidden with no luck. That meant someone was hiding her sister elsewhere. It also meant, she reassured Rachel, that her sister was probably still alive.
“The women at the laundry need you,” Mae told the distraught young woman. “You’ll never find her on your own. If she’s alive, and I truly believe she is, then someone is keeping her out of sight. All your running here and there will do, is put own yourself in danger. Believe me, I know people who can find her. They have spies everywhere in this city. I promise you that they will find and return your sister.”
Rachel grabbed hold of her fears and straightened her spine. Looking Mae in the eye she said, “You are sure? You promise me that your friends will find her?”
Mae grasped her hands and pulled the young woman close in a hug. “I, for certain sure, promise. It may take some time but they will find her.”
Rachel turned toward Eich, “Mr. Eich, do you know these people Mae is talking about? Can they find my sister?”
He backed Mae up with adamant vigor. “Absolutely, if anyone can find Rebecca, they can. Like she says, it may take a few days but your sister will be found and returned to you.”
With that Rachel’s chin raised. “All right then. I am placing my sister’s safety in your hands. I’ll get on with the union work. I will go back to the laundry. We have a nine hour day to win from those scalawags. I refuse to let them win.”
