by S. L. Stoner
“I imagine you and Rebecca found it hard to live in the big city after growing up in the country,” Mae commented to the young woman walking beside her. It was a lovely evening with a temperature lower than it had been for days. Even the washroom had been cooler that day. For the first time, Mae’s limbs weren’t limp noodles by day’s end. Maybe she was getting used to the hard work she mused, before rejecting that idea.
The young woman grabbed Mae’s wrist, bringing her to a halt. She looked earnestly into the older woman’s face, saying, “You know, you don’t have to stay with me tonight. I mean, I appreciate it. In fact, I welcome it. But, I’d be alright on my own.”
“Rachel, I never had a sister but I know, sure as God made green apples, I’d want someone with me while I waited for news of her. Besides, my friend, John Miner, is going to drop by tonight to talk to you. He’s one of the people looking for Rebecca. I want to be there to introduce you.” She smiled wryly, “I kinda like to throw my two cents into the pot. He says I do that every time, whether it’s wanted or not.”
“It sounds like you two are good friends,” Rachel said before she turned and started walking up the street once again.
“I like to think so,” Mae responded, hiding her small smile from the other woman.
Chapter Eleven
Unlocking the padlock, Sinclair freed the hasp and eased opened the door. He lifted the kerosene lantern to light the still figure stretched out on the cot. Downstairs, drunken shouts erupted, driving him further into the room and away from the noise. He closed the door behind him and listened. The girl’s breath was steady but faint.
Lifting a flimsy ladder-back chair with one hand, he positioned it beside the cot. Setting the lantern down on the small table, next to the water pitcher, he quietly lowered himself onto the chair. No need to take the risk of waking her even though the drugs meant that was unlikely to happen.
She lay on her back, her face relaxed. Damp tendrils of curly black hair trailed across her wide brow. Jutting cheekbones beside a somewhat long nose gave her face an angular look. A wide, full-lipped mouth looked like it would transform her whole face when she smiled. He gave his head a shake, stirring himself from his reverie. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d studied the face of a sleeping woman.
He picked up the tin pitcher and saw that it held a goodly amount of doctored water. He brought it to his lips. A little pick-me-up would be good. But he arrested his motion and put it down. He had to meet Farley soon. It wouldn’t do to display dilated pupils and a dreamy air. Especially since Farley was unhappy that he’d failed again.
There’d been no chance tonight. Rachel hadn’t left the laundry by herself. That older woman who ironed lace stuck to the girl’s side the whole way back to the boarding house. He’d stood across the street watching them enter the building. The older woman never came back out. Apparently she was staying at the same place.
It wasn’t a place that he could sneak into. Two stories tall, covered with weathered gray clapboard, its sole entrance opened directly onto the boardwalk. There were so many ravines in Portland that they’d taken to erecting buildings on stilts. This was one of them. There was a rickety set of wooden stairs up the back of the building but those stairs passed by a number of open windows. Someone would see him. Besides, he had no way of knowing which room was hers.
Sinclair shifted on his chair beside the bed, deliberately relaxing his clenched jaw. Damn, he was beginning to hate this sweltering town. One problem after another. That’s not how he worked. He had a system. It relied on flirting, cheerful patter, lies and false promises. All this drugging and imprisoning—that was the job of the whorehouse owners once he’d turned the women over. His job was to catch the girls and deliver them, light and easy. It was their job to keep them.
Loud shouts erupted below causing him to glance toward her. She hadn’t moved but her eyes were open. Her gaze sharpened as the dilated pupils in her dark brown eyes contracted. He quickly reached for the pitcher, shoved his arm beneath her head, raising it so she could drink. She swallowed, her eyes never leaving his face.
He turned away to break that connection—making a show of carefully setting the pitcher back down. When he looked at her again, he breathed a sigh of satisfaction. Her eyes were already fluttering. She was dropping off to sleep, moving back down that long dark velvet tunnel. After his day’s frustrations, he envied her.
The large dark eyes opened and skewered him with an intensity that froze all thought. Her lips parted and one, soft word reached his ears. “Why?” she breathed before closing her eyes.
“Well howdy do. Where’ve you been keeping yourself, John Miner?” said a boozy voice as soon as he sat down at an empty corner table.
Sage looked up from beneath his battered hat, “Hey there, Ivy. You know how it is. A man’s got to work wherever he can. I’ve been out in the woods dodging logs.” After a few more such pleasantries she left to fetch his beer. Taking a sip, he couldn’t stop from making a face. It was far below the standard set by the rural breweries. He didn’t care. He was too tired to drink it anyway. Damn it had been a long day. Much longer than expected.
The visit with Solomon had gone well enough. He was confident that the railway porters were now on the alert for Rebecca Levy. If anyone had seen her on the streets, down near the docks or taken away on a train, Solomon would learn of it.
The day had stretched into an endless trudge. Noontime found Sage at Mozart’s Table where he donned his host attire and manned his podium, a genial smile plastered across his face. It was a busy noon dinner hour, the tables full and turning over fast. Their restaurant was a favorite of upper crust idlers as well as downtown’s wealthy merchants. The décor was gilt framed copies of old masters, dark walnut wainscoting, pale green plaster walls and crystal chandeliers. Evenings added a string quartet playing classical music on the small balcony above the diners. Everything about the restaurant pandered to the city elites’ perception of themselves as superior to Portland’s commoners. He wasn’t always comfortable with the ruse but the access it gave him to the doings of the city’s wealthy yielded valuable information inaccessible by any other means.
The dinner hour over, he made his way to the kitchen. Sergeant Hanke’s broad back was his first sight when he entered through the swinging doors. The policeman sat at the small table before a heaping plate of Ida’s leftovers. As usual, between bites, the big policeman was praising Mozart’s cook.
“Miz Ida, I have to tell you that never have I had such tender pot roast. It practically floats right into my mouth,” he was saying.
“Oh pshaw,” she said, waving a dish rag at him. “You said the exact same thing last week.” Despite the dismissal, her round cheeks colored.
Ida Knutson was an excellent cook and fine human being Sage thought, not for the first time. She, her husband Ike and her nephew Mathew lived in Mozart’s second floor apartment, right below the floor occupied by Sage, Mae and Fong. Ike Knutson worked long hours in a shingle factory. There he fed wood shake bolts into twin saw blades—a terrifyingly dangerous job requiring unrelenting concentration.
Hanke’s large jaws chewed calmly, like a full cow in a big grass pasture. The sergeant was both tall and sturdy, his placid Germanic face topped by thick sandy hair. His shambling gait, mild blue eyes and somewhat bovine countenance were misleading. In critical situations he proved to be quick thinking, brave and capable. And, despite taking regular advantage of Mozart’s leftovers, his first loyalty was always to the law. Sage could get him to bend on the finer points of implementation but he knew better than to push the big policeman’s integrity any further.
“But Miz Ida,” Hanke protested once he’d swallowed, “That’s the whole point. Every meal you cook, the food gets better. Eventually, I’ll turn up one day and find a band of angels sitting at this table, forks at the ready.”
That compliment left the cook speechless. She shook her head and turned toward the sinks. “Good heavens, he’s turned Ir
ish on me what with all his blarney,” she muttered loud enough for Hanke to hear.
Sage took the chair opposite the policeman. Hanke smiled but didn’t slow his shoveling.
“Sergeant, you’re just the man I was hoping to see.”
Those words made the big jaws stop working and the blue eyes sharpen. Hanke swallowed and said, “Oh-oh. What law are you wanting me to break this time?”
“Nary a single one,” Sage assured him. “I need you to educate me about the business of white slavery.”
Hanke grimaced, put down his fork and wiped his mouth. “Actually, I’ve been learning about that trade my own self. Some local ladies formed a branch of the Society for Social Hygiene. One of them has made it her job to make sure I am up to snuff concerning that business.” The roll of his eyes said that he’d heard more than he wanted.
“Well, what about it?” Sage prodded.
“It exists,” the sergeant said before opening his maw and filling it with whipped potatoes.
“Come on, you should be happy I’m only asking you to talk. Usually, my requests require more effort on your part. In fact you, as an officer of the law, should be falling all over yourself to enlighten me.”
Hanke sighed heavily. “Well, then, since you put it that way.” He dabbed at his lips with the napkin, swallowed some water and said, “As you know, ‘white slavery’ is the name given the practice of forcing women into prostitution. They’re not all white, either. The ‘slavery’ part comes from the fact that they keep the women behind locked doors and beat them if they don’t cooperate. Or, they’re given so much opium that they become enslaved to it and don’t want to leave. Once the panderer has sold them to a slaver, the women are told they must go with men to pay off the slaver’s expense of capturing them and clothing them in gaudy clothes.”
Sage leaned forward, asking, “Where do these women usually come from and how are they captured?”
“Mostly they come from farms and small towns. Some of them are lured here by newspaper ads,” here Hanke’s big finger tapped the newspaper that lay atop the table. He picked it up, snapped it open and read:
Wanted: Lady partner for vaudeville sketch—one who can sing and play piano preferred. Must have good appearance. Will furnish wardrobe for stage and street.
Tossing the paper down, Hanke said, “That’s a perfect example. A gal reads that ad and hops a stagecoach or train all excited about starting a new life. She gets to town all starry-eyed and a slick-tongued panderer immediately latches on to her. Or else, the panderer travels into the countryside to woo some ignorant girl with promises of a job or marriage. She jumps on the train with him and next thing she knows, she’s a prisoner in one of the whorehouses.”
“So, if a girl taken by a panderer is still in the city, we’d find her locked up in a whorehouse?”
Hanke nodded. “That’s where I’d look. Some places, like Miss Lucinda’s, the women want to be there,” The policeman screwed up his lips before continuing, “For a white slave gal, though, you’d want to look in the cribs attached to the saloons or those crummy houses catering to men without much money.”
Pearl-gray light washed across the eastern sky, heralding another day. Neither Mae nor Rachel smiled at the sight. Both women were tired and still sleepy as they walked toward another ten hours of work in sweltering heat.
“Thank you for keeping me company, Mae. I don’t think I could have spent another night alone in that room. I miss her so. I’m sorry my yakking kept you up so late,” Rachel said.
Mae took the other woman’s hand and squeezed it. “You’d do the same for me if the positions were reversed. Besides, we had to hear what Mr. Miner had to say.”
“Yes, thank you for him too. Now that I know so many people are looking for Becky, I have some hope.” She sighed and changed the subject. “It was nice of him to bring your clothes.” That comment was heavy with an unspoken question.
Mae chuckled, “Yes, he can be a right helpful fellow when he’s got a mind to be.”
A bit later Mae cleared her throat and said, “I have to ask, Rachel. Are you sure you want to keep on doing this union work?” She hurried to add, “We’d all understand if you are too upset over Rebecca.”
For a few minutes, Rachel walked in silence without responding, the morning croak of frogs in the swamp along the river the only sound. When she finally spoke, the words were calm and measured. “The women and men we work with are good people doing the best they can to stand on their own two feet. They deserve better. My father taught us that greed is a goal with no end, the very evil that brought about the Sodomites’ downfall. If my sister . . . ,” here she faltered, swallowed and finished, “If my sister were here, she’d say I should keep fighting.”
Mae glanced at the young woman’s determined profile that was strong and sculpted as a granite statue. “Well, back home, my pa used to say that the only way to clear a cornfield is one rock at a time. Guess you and I will be hauling us a wagonload of rocks in the days ahead.”
“Your father was a farmer?”
Mae laughed. “Not exactly. He planted a little bit of corn all right but mostly he added to his miner’s wages by cooking it up in small batches of moonshine. There were ten of us kids.”
“Is your father still alive?”
That question always brought such a stab of pain. It had been years, but still the wound was raw. “He’s dead. Killed by the mine owner’s thugs because he fought for a union in the mines,” Mae said.
Down by the river, the saw mill’s whistle tooted. Both women stepped up their pace. Neither looked behind so, neither woman saw Paul Sinclair slinking after them.
Chapter Twelve
“The notice is written and will be submitted for publication the day after tomorrow. And, tomorrow night, the troublemakers will get the boot and we’re locking the rest of them out the next morning. We’ll see how rebellious they feel after a few days of no income.” Cobb swallowed some coffee and smacking his lips, added, “I love the coffee in this hotel.”
“You said you have a meeting with the union today? Any chance of reaching a settlement?”
“No, Farley, there’s no chance because we intend to make an offer they’ll have to refuse. If they were to accept it, their own members would give them the boot.” Seeing Farley’s questioning glance, Cobb continued, “We’ve already made them drop the wage increase. The only thing left is their nine-hour workday proposal. We’re going to tell them they have to drop that demand as well. That leaves them with nothing. And, if they agree to take nothing, the workers will be so angry that they’ll vote to go non-union.” Cobb rubbed his hands together, a smile on his lips. “We’re going to have them trapped between the Devil and the deep blue sea, as the saying goes.”
Both men paused while a white-coated waiter approached their table with a coffee pot. “Just leave the pot, we’ll refill the cups ourselves,” Cobb instructed. Once the waiter was gone, Cobb leaned forward, his voice lowered. “Tell me, how are your operatives doing? I haven’t seen much of Sinclair.”
“Hmm, yes, well. Sinclair’s been trying to get at that Rachel woman but apparently she is now escorted everywhere by another of the women,” Farley said.
“Well, that shouldn’t stop him. Surely he can figure out how to separate them or else put the other woman out of commission so he can grab Levy.” Cobb twisted his lips in frustration, “I thought you said Sinclair could do the job. Up to now, he’s failed completely.”
“Well, not completely. He has the sister. By the way, he’s asked if he can let her go since she’s the wrong one.”
“Hell, no! Having her sister missing must pray on Levy’s mind. We need to do everything we can to throw her off her stride.”
“He says he can’t hide her in the whorehouse much longer, the woman there is unstable and ornery.”
“He’s already arranged for ship passage to San Francisco. Tell him to put both Levys on the damn ship.”
Farley didn’t respond rig
ht away to that idea. Clearly he had something on his mind and was trying to figure out how to say it. When his words came, they were tentative, “Sinclair is considered the slickest procurer in Chicago. But he’s always relied on his patter and charm. Most of his girls step willingly into his traps. They’re looking for excitement and an opportunity to experience the life of the city. This situation is different. This gal’s a reputable sales clerk. She’s got nothing to do with the union.”
“Jesus, man, are you telling me you were so stupid as to hire a panderer with scruples or a conscience?” Outrage laced Cobb’s hissed words.
“No, no. Well, maybe. He spent almost four years in a religious seminary before he abandoned it for the sporting life and opium pipe. I’ve been noticing that there seems to be some reluctance on his part.” Seeing the scowl on Cobb’s face, Farley hastened to reassure. “It’s probably nothing. He hasn’t refused to do anything I’ve asked him to do and I am sure he won’t. He’s gone too far and is in this too deep. Besides, he needs money for that opium he likes to smoke now and again.”
“You damn bet he’s in too deep. If he balks, we’ll deal with him in ways he won’t like. You let him know that,” Cobb said. “What about the other two? Now that they’re here are they having second thoughts as well?”
Farley shook his head. “No, they are exactly on track and making progress. Everything is going as planned and they’ll be ready for the lockout the day after tomorrow.”
“They’ve made sure Warder’s still on board?”
“Oh yes, one hundred percent. No worries there.”
“All right then, everything is ready. Tomorrow it starts.” Cobb’s grin was a mix of satisfied and wolfish. Then it vanished and his features hardened. “The girl stays locked up and Sinclair snatches the other one. You make sure he toes the line or else you take care of him, you hear me?”
