The Mangle

by S. L. Stoner

  Cobb scowled, clearly not appreciating Farley’s optimism. “That would be true if they started from scratch. But I have reason to believe they are secretly negotiating for an already existing steam laundry. If that’s true, they can start operating the minute the ink dries on the sales contract.”

  “Which laundry’s thinking of selling? Did you find that out?” Farley asked.

  The waiter appeared and Cobb barked, “Scrambled eggs, toast and jam.”

  Farley looked up and said in a much milder tone, “The same, please,” before leaning forward to ask again, “Who, do you know who?”

  Cobb’s lips twisted. “I don’t know who, damn it. But it has to be a member of the association. The two other laundries, the U.S. and the Albina, are going to make a boatload of money as long we’ve got our operations locked down. No way either one would sell right now. So, it has to be someone in the association.”

  Farley leaned back, put a thumb to the side of his chin and absentmindedly stroked while he thought. As he did so, he noticed that Cobb was twitching in his chair. The laundry manager might hide his fear from the others in the association but Farley knew the meaning of Cobb’s twitching and bluster. The man was scared.

  Farley leaned forward. “Okay, then. The first step is to figure out who is thinking of selling to the unions.”

  “And, the second step?”

  “Ah,” said Farley, “The second step is to take whatever action we must to stop the sale.”

  “So, how are we going to accomplish that first step?” Cobb’s voice was tight with anxiety, the strain in his face willing Farley to come up with a solution. At that moment, Farley became aware that the waiter was standing at their elbows. At Farley’s nod the black man silently slipped two dishes before them, filled their cups and departed.

  How long was he standing there? Farley wondered but said nothing. Instead he smiled widely, “We’re in luck. My operatives are in a good position to make that very inquiry.”

  Mary Harris sent word through Sage’s lawyer friend, Philander Gray, that “John Miner” should call at the Society for Social Hygiene’s offices first thing that morning. Donning his businessman’s duds, Sage was soon on his way. Yesterday’s rain had washed away the dust, turning every tree lushly green. Telling himself he only wanted to walk beneath the trees, Sage detoured to the Park Blocks. There he strolled down the middle of the long green stretch, slowing only when he reached a point across from Lucinda’s house. She was nowhere in sight so he didn’t pause. Walking on, disappointment and relief warred inside him. If he’d encountered her, he didn’t know what he would have done. Still, he admitted ruefully to himself, a part of him yearned to see her.

  The offices of the women activists were abuzz when he got there. Four women bustled in right behind him and immediately closeted themselves inside an inner office with the door shut.

  He soon forgot them because Mary Harris quickly arrived on the heels of the receptionist who’d gone to tell her of his arrival. She was still dignified and still wearing her dead-black, high-necked bombazine dress but her smile was sunny as she said, “Mr. Miner, I do believe I have a little bit of news for you. Come back to my office.”

  As they walked toward her office, Sage heard a loud argument break out. He thought it came from the room the four women had entered. Mrs. Harris caught sight of the curiosity on his face and said, unapologetically. “The suffragettes are quite a lively bunch. Their work is a credit to us all. I understand they suffered a setback yesterday afternoon and are meeting about it.” Sage merely nodded.

  Entering her office, Mrs. Harris directed him to a chair. This time she closed the door behind them. That was progress of some sort. She sat down in her own chair and cleared her throat. For some reason she had a little smile on her lips as she asked, “I don’t suppose you would be interested in joining our little foray tonight? The Reverend Doggett is going to lead a parade through the vice district, entreating the prostitutes to abandon that life.”

  Sage’s eyebrows rose. He’d seen such parades and heard the hymn singing. “No,” he said quickly. “Besides, does that even work?” Mostly he’d seen rotten vegetables thrown from second story windows pelting similar parade participants.

  Her smile was brief, as if acknowledging the futility of such efforts. “Our colleagues in Chicago tell us that once and a while it works. They say it makes those in the parade feel like, just for a moment, the good people of the city have reclaimed the worst of the streets. I figured you’d say ‘no’ but I felt obligated to ask.

  “Now, I don’t have a specific name for you,” she said, swiftly changing direction. “But, there is definitely a new procurer in town from Chicago. My source,” here she seemed to be trying the journalistic word on for size, “says the strange part is that he doesn’t seem to be procuring any girls.”

  Sage wrinkled his forehead. “If he’s not doing business, how do they even know he’s a procurer?”

  Mary Harris tapped the edge of a rubber eraser on her desk, her face thoughtful as she said, “That’s what is most interesting. He went to the bars where prostitutes and procurers hang out. At every one he asked whether anyone knew of a madam who was hard up for money. Of course, none of them would tell him anything until he produced his bona fides.”

  “Bona fides?” Sage echoed.

  “He had to give them the name of a well-known Chicago madam. They telegraphed her to receive confirmation that he was who he said he was.”

  “Sounds like they were being cautious.”

  She smiled sweetly as she gave him the jolt. “Yes, Mr. John Adair, it seems they were better aware than I that a fellow might fib when it comes to saying who he really is.”

  Surprise spurred Sage into speech, “How did . . . .”

  She didn’t let him finish. “I knew I had seen you somewhere. Last night, I remembered. You were lunching at the Portland hotel and my friend pointed you out as the owner of that very fancy restaurant, Mozart’s Table. This morning, I asked around and got your name.” She leaned forward to confide, “Really, Mr. Adair, you aren’t the kind of man a lady forgets any time soon. Especially, with that white blaze at your temple.”

  Sage’s face flushed hot and he struggled to keep his voice calm as he said, “I am afraid you’ve caught me red-handed. I do apologize for misleading you, Mrs. Harris. It’s just that white slavery is unsavory. Not a subject for polite society. I thought it better people didn’t know that I was in any way associated. Bad for business, you know.”

  She relaxed in her chair. “I figured as much. And, I won’t reveal your secret or your involvement in this quest. I’ll do everything I can to help you find the girl.” At this she straightened once again and said, “I do have a bit more information.”

  “What?” Sage asked, glad to see the conversation move onto safer ground. He didn’t want to dwell on who or what he really was because it inevitably led to him telling even more lies. With some people, he didn’t mind lying. But with people like this woman, guilt always crept in.

  “The stranger apparently found an answer to his question because the next time my source saw him, he was telling everyone that he’d solved his problem,” she told him.

  “I don’t suppose your source got the name of this fellow?” Sage asked.

  She shook her head regretfully. “No, he tried. But he has to be careful or folks will get suspicious. He did give me a description.” She picked up a piece of paper and read from it. “Dark hair and eyes. In his thirties. Well-groomed. Always wears a bowler hat.”

  Sage tried to swallow his disappointment but knew it weighed down his words, “Darn, that sounds like half the men in Portland.”

  She nodded sympathetically. “I know. My friend is trying to get more specifics but that Chicago fellow isn’t coming around anymore.”

  “Do you think he’s left town?” As he spoke the question, fear snaked through him. If the procurer left town that would mean Rebecca was gone as well.

  “I since
rely hope not,” she replied, showing that she too understood the implication.

  Sage left the Society’s office with a muddled mind. Was it be possible that they’d already moved Rebecca Levy out of Portland? Then hope surged as he realized that there was one important thing about that Chicago-based procurer—he wore a bowler hat. And the pencil fellow was sure that a man with a bowler hat was still following Rebecca’s sister, Rachel. The fear he’d felt in Mary Harris’s office eased a bit as he let certainty take hold. Sure a lot of men wore bowler hats but it was still too coincidental. The Chicago man, with his odd inquiry and failure to make an effort to procure women, had to be the same man following Rachel Levy. So, that meant he just had to find the bowler-wearing man, follow him and liberate Rebecca from whatever locked room they held her in. He picked up his pace. It was time to find Mr. Fong.

  Mae sidled up to Caroline, grabbed up a cloth and began drying the soup bowls Caroline was washing. It was the second day of the lockout. Every time she looked, the young woman was helping to sort donated clothes, stirring the soup or otherwise making sure she remained in the midst of things. “A real paragon of helpfulness,” Mae grumbled to herself before deciding she needed to learn more about the young woman.

  “I notice you wear a cross around your neck. Are you religious?” Mae asked.

  Caroline smiled and nodded. “Yes, I was raised Catholic.”

  “Did you attend school at St. Mary’s Academy?” Mae probed.

  “No,” Caroline answered before quickly changing the subject, “I never thought the Association would lock us out. Did you?”

  “I suspected they would. Once we got down to the one issue of the nine-hour day, there wasn’t much else they could do. Either control the timing and scare folks with a lockout or wait for a strike, not knowing when it was going to come,” Mae told her.

  The woman’s brown eyes studied her appraisingly. “It sounds like this isn’t your first labor dispute?” she said, her tone rising into a question at the sentence’s end.

  Mae had the uncomfortable feeling that the tables had turned and now she was the one being interrogated. “No, it’s not the first. How about you?” she asked to deflect further questions.

  Caroline’s eyes widened innocently. “Oh, this is my very first union fight. I’m afraid it’s all new to me.”

  “I take it you’ve never worked in a laundry before,” Mae pushed, not wanting to lose her advantage.

  This comment triggered a shy smile before Caroline responded, “You’ve got me there, I’m afraid. I know very little about steam laundries. Though, I have to say, this past month has done a lot to educate me.”

  Her answers are slippery, Mae thought. It didn’t seem like the woman was lying but neither did she think Caroline was entirely forthcoming. “So, are you intending to stay working in laundries or has this experience soured you?” she asked.

  This time, there was a hesitation before Caroline responded, “I guess I’ll need to see what comes of this,” here she waved to encompass the room full of women. “I may stay working in laundries or maybe turn my hand to something else.”

  Mae looked down at those hands, noted the woman had a writer’s bump on her right, middle finger. It took a lot of writing to make a bump that big. This woman was no stranger to schooling. She decided to take the plunge, asking, “Why would an educated woman like you be doing laundry work?” She asked knowing her tone was too blunt to sound friendly. She was tired of chicken-stepping around.

  Her question rattled the girl, because Caroline suddenly looked around and said in a high pitched, excited voice, “Oh, there’s Gertrude, I’ve been looking for her ever so long. I have to catch her before she leaves.” Seconds later she’d turned and was moving across the room, leaving Mae’s question unanswered.

  Mae watched her greet another woman and so caught the furtive look Caroline cast back in Mae’s direction. Mae pretended she didn’t see that look, glancing away as she raised her hands to fuss with the bun at the nape of her neck. Even as she engaged in the ruse, Mae was thinking, “Well, little Missy with the cross around your neck. You might be slippery as a wet frog but I’m that falcon overhead and both of my beady eyes are going to stay fixed squarely on you.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was dark but still noisy in the saloon’s rear corner. The late evening light outside didn’t compete with the few electric bulbs overhead. Sinclair gave a mental smirk when he saw Farley twitch uneasily at the rowdiness around them. Sinclair had spent countless hours in such places. Heck, at age fourteen, he’d run one like it—soon after its owner, the madam of the adjoining brothel, had taken him into her bed.

  So, it was with a practiced eye he tallied how many men had reached the point of being susceptible to the come hither looks of the saloon’s whores and how many others needed more boozing to reach that state.

  At least that was his first analysis. But then he started seeing the scene differently. First, he noticed that this saloon could make some claim to cleanliness. Once you looked past the tobacco-stained floor, the scarred tables looked clean and the glasses lined up behind the bar lacked greasy smears. And, the customers weren’t the hop-headed wastrels, petty thieves and confidence men of Chicago’s Near West Side.

  Mostly they looked like lonely men who belonged to distant families. The women also seemed less hard. Beneath the face paint, he saw hopeless young faces with tired, world-weary eyes. Sinclair reached forward, grabbed his nearly full shot glass and gulped it empty. He reached for the whiskey bottle Farley had bought.

  Farley shifted uncomfortably and said, “Hey now, I don’t need you drunk for this meeting. In fact, you better be sharp as a tack because we have to make plans.” Once Sinclair nodded his agreement, Farley leaned forward so he wouldn’t have to shout above the piano’s tinny notes and the rough voices now raised in song. “I’m glad you arrived a bit early. I have to tell you, the two men we’re meeting are a bit short on character though you might not realize it looking at them.

  “Still they do their job. I’ve used them before. They know how to blend in. More than one owner has tried to hire them permanently once we’ve won the battle. I always tell them, “Oh no, sir. You don’t want to bring these creatures into your nest. They succeed at what they do because they crave the excitement of lying, cheating and thumping. That is what they like best—not holding down a full time job.”

  Sinclair had never worked in the management spy business before. Sure he knew about hired thugs, large numbers of them frequented the saloons and bawdy houses. He had to agree with Farley’s assessment of their character. But, Farley was a businessman, out to make money. “Seems like you could earn a finder’s fee if they hired them,” Sinclair commented.

  Farley grinned wolfishly as he said, “Ah, but you see, my goal is to convince the owner to put one of my better operatives permanently into his plant or business. I promise him that, for a small monthly fee, my operative will alert me if an organizer comes around and tell me which workers are disgruntled so the owner can fire them before they can cause trouble. The beauty of the setup is that I just start someone working there who’s willing to snitch off his co-workers for a bit of extra cash each month.”

  Sinclair’s nose wrinkled in disgust before he could suppress it. Farley noticed, saying, “Oh come now, as long as men have worked together, at least one of them will tattle to the boss. They want to get favorable treatment or power over others or even a pat on their head. Bosses discover right quick the fellow who is willing to betray his co-workers. You can bet they’ve always rewarded that willingness. Besides, what’s better? Having the tattler be someone with a grudge or who wants your job to go to a friend? Or, do you think you’d get fairer treatment from an outsider who is being paid for accuracy? Me, I’d choose the latter.”

  Sinclair wasn’t sure that someone who needed to justify their continued pay would act more fairly than a garden variety traitor. But, hell, snitching even happened in whorehouses. Before he coul
d respond, two men entered the saloon and looked around. Spotting Farley, they sauntered over. “Hey, there Mr. Farley,” said the blond one. Sinclair studied them, trying to see the venality that had to dwell within their souls. He saw nothing of it. They looked like ordinary men stopping in for a beer after work. Shabby clothes but clean. Hair trimmed even if not expertly styled.

  Farley gestured them into seats at the table and poured each a whiskey, his manner as gracious as a wealthy man playing host. Each man grabbed a glass, raised it and drank. When Sinclair looked into their faces he saw both had eyes hard as pebbles.

  “This gentleman here is Paul,” Farley said and then turned to Sinclair to say, “And this is Bill and Tom. Leastwise, that’s what we’re calling them today.” Everyone mumbled acknowledgements and fell silent until a disturbance at the door snapped their attention in that direction. A highly agitated drunk plunged in off the street and began hollering, “The goddamned whorehouse is on fire! It’s gonna burn up!”

  His yells sent chairs scraping across the floorboards as people leapt to their feet. One man shouted back, “What goddamned whorehouse, you fool? We got one on every corner!”

  “It’s that wood house, down there by the rail yards,” the drunk shouted back. His words hit Sinclair’s gut like a fist. She flashed into his mind’s eye, surrounded by leaping flames—drugged, tied and trapped behind the nailed boards. Already on his feet, he glanced in Farley’s direction before heading toward the exit.

  By the time he slammed through the batwing doors, he was moving at a fast clip. Since he hadn’t thought to look beneath the doors for feet coming in, he nearly bowled over a fellow who was entering. Only the man’s swift side step prevented the collision.

  Despite his panic, Sinclair’s early training in good manners made him throw the man an apology without slowing. That other man said nothing. But the fleeting glimpse Sinclair caught of his face showed the man’s concern rather than any anger. Once in the street, Sinclair began running. As he did so, he looked ahead to the east. Sure enough, the orange glow of conflagration was rising in a twilight blue sky. Fire bells clanged to life at a nearby fire station. Only then did Sinclair realize he’d left his bowler hat behind. When he’d jumped up, the hat had tumbled from his lap and rolled beneath the table.