The Mangle

by S. L. Stoner

  “Well, ladies,” Sage said, his voice muffled by the arms and bodices pressed tight against him in grateful hugs. “I regret that you had to spend the early morning hours in the cells. It took me awhile to raise the cash.”

  “Oh Mr. Miner, sweetheart, we’re just delighted you thought of us at all since that bugger of a saloon owner decided to let us rot instead of bailing us out. And, after all the money we’ve made him,” replied a blowsy woman well past her prime. She obviously spoke for the six other women who gave vigorous nods in agreement.

  “There is a price,” Sage warned them. As one, they giggled, pursing their lips and making a show of twitching their hips. Their antics attracted the attention of the desk officer who made no pretence of ignoring them. The officers entering the building to start their morning shift added a few catcalls to the scene.

  Sage spread his arms to gently herd them out of the police station. “Come on ladies, let me buy you breakfast. I have something I need to ask you.”

  It was a jolly breakfast, the women seemingly no worse for wear after spending a few hours in the hoosegow. He waited until their plates were empty and their coffee refilled before telling them about the missing girl. “I was hoping you might have an idea of where they are keeping her,” he concluded.

  The women exchanged looks. In the morning light, their faces were pale, paint smeared and tiredly garish. But sympathy softened their expressions. One of the more restrained of them spoke quietly, “That’s what happened to me. It took me ages to work off my debt. Once I did, it was too late to go back home. I’ve written my folks more than once but they never answer.” Her eyes filled with tears and she looked down the table.

  Her words killed the group’s merriment and all fell silent. It was as if each woman was recalling her time of innocence—before her fall from grace. Sage wondered how many of these women would leave prostitution if they could. Life was hard for single women, for women cast adrift, all alone. He studied their faces, some of them ravaged by alcohol and opium addiction.

  Another woman at last piped up, “They won’t lock her in a room above a saloon. Too public, too many people and too expensive. Those rooms are for making money with plenty of customers wanting to use them. So, I’d look in one of the crappy sporting houses.” The other women nodded in agreement.

  “You could even narrow it down. Unless they have her locked in a cellar, she’ll be kept in a room with a boarded up window. That’s where they kept me at first. Maybe you could look for something like that,” a small woman with a baby doll face offered hesitantly.

  Everyone else nodded grimly. Sage nodded too, giving her a smile before asking the group, “How many crappy sporting houses are there?”

  “That’s the ticket, sweetie. Our Lucy girl has it right. You don’t need to look for her in the fancy sporting houses ‘cause they don’t do that kind of thing Just look in them run-down places that can’t keep all their rooms busy. I guess there’d be about thirty or so of them houses this side of town,” answered the oldest looking woman of the group.

  Sage let his breath whoosh out. Thirty. Too many to search all by himself. He needed to meet with Solomon, Fong and Eich. It was too late to arrange a meeting this afternoon, but maybe late tonight or tomorrow morning would work.

  His stomach clenched. There wasn’t enough time. If her kidnappers were going to move Rebecca Levy out of Portland, he needed to find her fast. Even a day’s delay might be too much. Frustration momentarily twanged. His hunt for her sure was distracting him from St. Alban’s mission. He should be sniffing around the steam laundries, getting to know the drivers and following Thaddeus Cobb. Because for certain, Cobb had something up his sleeve and it wasn’t good.

  Sage and the women exited the restaurant. After obtaining their promise to keep a lookout for the missing dark-haired, dark-eyed young woman, Sage received their hugs and admired their backsides as the entire group sashayed down the street. Raucous laughter floated behind them with one of the women tossing him a saucy wink over her shoulder. He sent silent good wishes after them.

  Mae sat against the wall, facing the table. Walking across the luxurious Portland Hotel lobby in her laundry worker dress and boots had made her feel drab and self-conscious. No doubt that had been Cobb’s intent when he insisted that they agree to conduct the bargaining in one of the hotel’s meeting rooms. She studied the men across the table. Although there were nine men in the association, only these four sat on the association’s bargaining team. Thaddeus Cobb was a trim fellow who obviously took pride in a well-turned out appearance. At a distance, he might seem good-looking but close up his eyes were too sunken and near each other, his lips too narrow and bloodless.

  Beside Cobb sat Lewis Gillibrand, manager of the ironically named Union Laundry. The two men couldn’t be more different. Gillibrand wore a grubby waistcoat sprinkled with the spots of food that had dribbled from his rubbery lips. The man was nervous because his tongue kept flicking out to wet those lips.

  Mae moved her gaze to the third man of the four. This was Joseph Cook, manager of the Pacific Laundry. Rachel said his workers hated him for driving them too hard on antiquated machines and for having a cold heart untouched by kindness. The man flashed gold every way he could—as a stick pin, heavy rings, sparkling watch chain. Even his rectangular slit of a smile flashed a couple gold teeth. It was a smile that looked more like a snarl and never reached his dead fish eyes.

  That left the fourth man, Ryland McCarthy. He sat a bit distant from the other three as if he couldn’t bring himself to be in the same corral with the rest of them. Mae narrowed her eyes as she watched him. He was twitchy as a cat with fleas. First shifting in his seat, next fiddling with a pencil, then glancing at his watch. He owned the American Laundry and was the only owner in the room. The other three were managers doing the dirty work of the owners. She noticed that of the four, only McCarthy had the rough, red hands of a man who actually worked in the laundry. She decided he was the only one of the four worth knowing.

  Early that morning Rachel had surprised her with the request. “Mae, I need someone there who can watch what goes on and tell me if we’re missing something. Doing something wrong. We have tried everything and it’s still like we’re talking to brick walls.”

  So, Mae was here at the bargaining session as an observer, sitting in her chair against the wall. The union bargaining team filed into the room to take seats across the table from the management team. The laundry union president was there as the lead negotiator, sitting in the middle with Rachel at his side. There were three other members on their team—two women and one man. Like Rachel and Mae, the other two women wore faded work dresses and heavy boots. The man was also shabbily dressed, obviously someone who minded the washtubs and extractors at his laundry.

  The management team looked well fed and rested. The workers on the union team were thin, pale and haggard of face.

  The laundry union president was the first to speak. “Mr. Cobb, I remind you that we have dropped our request for a wage increase. We have been awaiting your answer on our nine-hour day proposal for some time now. Surely, you men have had a chance to talk about it. We would appreciate your answer, sir.”

  Cobb’s smile was smug as he said, “Our answer is: we reject the union’s offer.”

  There was a collective gasp from the union side. They hadn’t expected such a summary dismissal of their compromise offer.

  Cobb held up a finger. “We do, however, have a counter. One you can take back to your members to make them think you weren’t a complete failure.” There was a snide implication in the emphasis he put on the word “complete,” which said that, in fact, the union had completely failed. Cobb made his offer: “We are willing to extend the lunch break from twenty minutes to thirty minutes.”

  The union team members looked at each other, dismay sagging their faces.

  In a sugary, helpful voice, Cobb suggested, “Maybe you would like to confer with your team about our offer. In the hallway.�
�� This time his look was so smug that Mae itched to slap his face. She looked at the other three. Two, Gillibrand and Cook also looked smug as two cats who just licked the butter churn clean. McCarthy was gazing into the corner as if he wished he were somewhere else.

  With dignity the union president rose, looked at his team and nodded in the direction of the door. They all filed out to stand together in the hallway. Mae stood with them.

  “He didn’t give us shit,” exclaimed the man. The others’ stormy faces showed their agreement.

  “We’ve already given up all of our demands except for the nine hours. I don’t think I could face my people if we accepted management’s offer,” Rachel said. Her words were met with vigorous nods..

  Rachel turned to Mae, “What do you think? Are they going to move toward us or is this the end?”

  Put on the spot, Mae quickly gathered her thoughts and then spoke, “I think they walked in knowing you would reject the offer. They were counting on you to reject the offer. That’s why McCarthy can’t look at any of us. Of the four, only he feels shame for what they are doing.”

  “But why don’t they want labor peace. If we strike them, they’ll lose money. Why won’t they meet us part way?” asked one of the other women.

  “Because Cobb thinks he can break us. He wants to teach us to stay in our place, that’s why,” responded the president.

  Mae cleared her throat, aware she was going to sound a bit preachy but deciding to speak anyway, “For them it’s more than money. It’s about power and control. That’s what they fear losing. Because if they lose their power, they might have to admit they are no smarter, no more deserving to be in charge than any one of us. That would tip them right onto the slippery slope—one where they’ll have to ask themselves why they have so much when the rest of us have so little. So, they must win. Otherwise, the walls around their consciences just might collapse. And that’s what scares them. They’d have to look at what they’re doing to other people.”

  There was a beat of silence as the others absorbed her words. It was finally broken by the union president who said, “Well, I guess it’s unanimous. We reject their offer and tell them we will stand on ours until we’ve had a chance to talk to our members.”

  “What’s going to happen next?” asked the wash man. His face was grim with worry but Mae noted that he stood with his chin raised and his shoulders back.

  “We’ll call a meeting of our folks. We’ll them what’s happened and see what they want us to do,” was the president’s answer.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rachel and that other woman, Mae something, walked into work around one in the afternoon. Both looked pretty grim. Sinclair was there because he’d been ordered to “mind the shop” while Cobb was in bargaining. Sinclair watched as the Levy woman paused to speak to some women who, in turn, spoke to others. Word spread among the employees like a breeze blowing through long grasses. Most nodded assent upon receiving Rachel’s word. If negotiations had gone as Cobb planned, Levy was telling them that there’d be a meeting after work. He might as well check.

  He began to walk among them, pausing here and there to give a quiet compliment. He didn’t have to make one up. These were hard working people. He got nods in acknowledgement but no smiles nor speech. He couldn’t take offense. After all, he was the boss’s representative. When he reached Chrissy she smiled, though even her smile was subdued.

  “Hey, there girl. You want to meet me at our usual place after work? I’d like to buy you supper.”

  This time her smile was bright but then it dimmed. “I can’t. We’re all meeting after work to talk about the negotiations.”

  “Oh yah, how are those going anyway? Cobb’s been real closed mouthed about them whenever he bothers to show up. I don’t think he trusts me.”

  “Not good, I guess.” She stiffened, “We better stop talking. Everybody says I’m not to blab to you.”

  “Ah, Chrissy gal, I understand. But, remember, they have no way of knowing that you knew me before I even started working here. Or, that you’re the reason I got this job in the first place. You know that even though I’m taking Cobb’s pay, I have no reason to be loyal to him. He treats you gals terrible.”

  She brightened. “That’s right. I am the one who told you about the job opening.” She situated the shirt collar in the mangle and pushed on the pedal to lower the pressing board before saying, “Well, maybe we could visit a bit after the union meeting? It shouldn’t last but an hour or so. Folks are pretty tired. That’s why we usually meet on Sundays instead of after work.”

  He gave her his warmest smile, making sure his eyes twinkled, “Okay, that’s what we’ll do. I’ll be waiting for you at that saloon near your boarding house,” he said, as he gave her shoulder a squeeze and moved on. As he did so, he glanced at Rachel who appeared oblivious to their conversation. Probably has her mind on her sister. The urge to reassure her pulled at him but he turned away instead.

  Heading for the cool of the office, he didn’t notice that two pair of eyes had been watching his every move—one pair calculating, the other pair narrowed in suspicion.

  Sitting in Solomon’s well-appointed apartment sipping iced lemonade, Sage felt a pang of guilt thinking of Mae at her ironing board in the midst of noise, stink and steam heat. Although she claimed ironing delicates was the easiest job, he hadn’t missed her grimaces when she pulled off her soggy boots nor the tiredness deepening the lines of her face and draining all color from it.

  It was late afternoon. Fong, Eich and Sage were sitting around a polished mahogany table, waiting for Solomon to arrive. Solomon’s home was on the ground floor, tucked behind the New Era Hotel’s lobby desk. A wide range of books filled elegant bookcases, family portraits hung on flocked wallpaper and comfortable couches and chairs sat atop ruby-red oriental rugs. It was the luxurious setting of a well-off and learned man.

  Solomon entered, wearing a wide smile on his face. “Sorry, gentlemen, for the delay,” he said. “A little mix up in the Portland’s dining room delayed my departure.”

  “That’s okay. We thank you Angus for taking the time away from your job. I trust your absence won’t cause problems for you.” At Solomon’s head shake, Sage continued, “I take it no porter has seen our girl Rebecca leaving on a train? And nothing about a dark-haired woman being taken onto a ship in the harbor?”

  Solomon poured coffee into their cups from a silver coffee urn sitting in the middle of the table as he said, “During the past few days, I have managed to query every porter on every line coming into and leaving the city. I did learn two things. The first is that two men, acting a bit secretive and unfriendly, arrived in town a day ago. I have not been able to ascertain where they are staying. I speculate that they are staying in a boarding house. They are below the standards of the Portland Hotel’s customary clientele but interestingly a housemaid reported seeing two men fitting their description in the corridor outside Farley’s room.”

  “That must be the two operatives Farley was expecting to arrive by train. Do you have a good description of them?”

  “I think I have better than that. The housemaid told me about the two men as soon as she saw them. So, I sent my nephew to linger about in the corridor until they came out. Then he followed them. They went over to the union hall. After they left there; they met with a third man in a coffee shop. Unfortunately, my nephew couldn’t go inside. ‘No Negros Allowed’,” he added with a wry twist of his lips. “Anyway, since they went to the union hall it suggests they will pass themselves off as union men.”

  “Probably. I suspect they’ll work the delivery driver angle. Help Farley keep the drivers in line,” Sage said.

  “Would your nephew recognize third man from the cafe if he saw him again?” asked Fong. “Cousins can keep under watch if he is pointed out to them.”

  “Undoubtedly, he could. If you want to meet me here later tonight, I’ll have my nephew here for you to talk to him,” Solomon said before continuing, “But
, I have news of the girl as well. Not quite as good but maybe you’ll find it helpful.”

  Eich leaned forward, dark brown eyes intent in his bearded face, “Did they see where she’s being kept?”

  Solomon gave a rueful shake of his head. “Sorry. One of the men working here at the hotel, said he saw a drunken girl with dark curly hair being half-carried along the street late Saturday afternoon.”

  “Where?” asked Eich and Sage simultaneously.

  “He says they were down near the rail yards, close to where he lives in one of the few houses left standing after they built Union Station,” he said, adding, “The station was built on top of my people’s houses, forcing most of them to move across the river into Albina. Anyway, he says he saw the couple just a few blocks from his house.”

  Sage leaned back in his chair, looked at his friends and said, “Well, his sighting tallies with the prostitutes’ information. They said if someone’s holding the girl captive, it will likely be inside a rundown sporting house like those near the rail yard. I don’t suppose your man can describe the fellow walking with the girl?” Sage asked.

  At Solomon’s negative shake of the head, Sage turned toward Fong. “Have the cousins heard of any imprisoned girls?”

  Fong said, “Sorry, cousins say she is not in any Chinese sporting house or with any Chinese pimp. And, they also ask every China man they see. No one saw white girl a prisoner in any white sporting house. ”

  That didn’t surprise Sage. Few Chinese cooked or cleaned in the white sporting houses. And, although the Chinese traveled Portland’s streets in the day time, they tended to stay away from places where they might encounter drunken white men. Ignorance, poverty and drink often brought out the bully in white men who enjoyed terrorizing people who were smaller and looked different than them.