by S. L. Stoner
Sage just missed getting knocked to the ground when the frantic man exited the saloon. That mishap surely would have made his entrance remarkable, which was the very last thing he wanted. When shadowing people you wanted to blend in and not be at all noteworthy. “Be the dark within the dark,” Fong would say. Well, the collision hadn’t happened, he was still upright. Besides, the folks inside the saloon were too riled up at the news being shouted by the drunk Sage had just seen stagger into the saloon. Apparently there was a fire somewhere.
He slid past the crowd around the drunk and found a seat beside the wall. From there, he could observe most of the saloon. He was careful to appear uninterested in the three men who were just retaking seats at their table. Even so, he shifted so that he could watch them from the corner of his eye. Unfortunately, none wore a bowler hat. But, he told himself not to fret. Solomon’s nephew had overhead Farley tell Cobb that there were three operatives. So far, they’d only found two. Maybe it was Farley’s third operative who wore the bowler.
Sage ordered his beer and started sipping. He’d had worse. At least it wasn’t dirty water with a smidgen of beer. If he’d had any doubts about the ability of Fong’s cousins to find and follow the right men, those doubts vanished the second he spotted Farley sitting with the two fellows he’d followed from a boarding house in Northwest Portland.
Although Sage was turned away, his ears were straining to hear like a frightened rabbit’s. It was a wonder they didn’t raise his hat. He desperately wanted to hear what these management spies were planning to do for the Laundrymen’s Association.
At first the conversation was too low to hear over the uproar about the fire. Once that calmed down, bits and pieces floated to him.
Farley’s low rumble was the hardest to hear though Sage’s ear caught him saying the word “drivers.” One of Farley’s companions complained about having to drive horses. The other complained about Portland’s lack of what he called “sensible plotting.” Their complaints stirred a vague sympathy in Sage who was skittish around horses and who had, more than once, gotten lost trying to find his way around the city’s crumpled landscape.
He kept his face averted. Farley might recognize him from the Portland Hotel. And, as for the other two, he’d memorized their faces while following them. Those faces made him sad. They both looked like decent men who earned barely enough to keep their clothes clean, food in their stomachs, a roof over their heads and a beer in their hands once the workday was over. It was their unremarkable looks that made him sad because it was so easy for them to pose as union brothers. It was dishonest men like these who betrayed the strikers and caused people to get arrested or sometimes killed. He knew because his father was a man like these two. His mother hadn’t given him the details but he knew his father had fit in, just like these men. And like with them, betrayal came easy to John Adair, Sr.
He shook loose from those thoughts and again tried to hear. This time his reward was Farley’s voice sounding clearly, “Cobb wants the deal stopped. I’ve got the one angle covered, but you men need to do your part. You nose around, lift up a few rocks and discover who it is. You do that and you’ll get a bonus.”
Find out who it is? Who what is? And, what angle? Sage took a big swallow of his beer, trying to wash down the frustration he felt hearing these snippets of sentences.
By this time, the fire outside had been forgotten. The lull inspired the piano player to pound the keys into a rousing march—one that everyone felt obliged to sing with lusty vigor. The men at the next table might as well have moved into another room. As long that the piano was making noise, Sage would hear nothing more. He forced himself to unclench his jaw. As Ma would say, “Don’t try to carry water in a holey bucket.” Fong, on the other hand, would advise him to “breathe deep, relax belly.” So, he stopped trying to eavesdrop and followed Fong’s advice.
When the men at the neighboring table began to stir, as if readying to leave, Sage stood and exited out the door ahead of them.
“I don’t believe it. She’s been working her heart out. The women like her. I’ve seen nothing but compassion from her.”
They’d been having the heated discussion all the way across the bridge. Rachel wasn’t giving an inch.
“Look, I’m not saying we take her behind the outhouse and thump her. I’m only saying we need to be cautious where Caroline Stark’s concerned,” Mae said in a patient voice.
“Mae, that’s not how I work. I’m about building unity, not about turning on folks who’ve done nothing but try to help.” Rachel’s voice was less strident, almost as if she were convincing her own self of what she was saying.
Poor girl, Mae thought to herself. Grief and worry about her sister, losing her job and now shouldering the responsibility for her suddenly unemployed co-workers had the gal hanging on by her fingernails. Mae pondered the strength of the young woman at her side. On one hand she was too young to carry such burdens. On the other hand, her youthful energy and optimism might help her jump hurdles that would slow down an older person. Mae grabbed the other woman’s arm and gently tugged her to a halt.
“I’m just asking that you move slow and careful where Miss Caroline Stark is concerned. Don’t take her to your bosom just yet. Don’t give her access to all of your information. Something about her isn’t right.”
Rachel’s face grew stormy, “Darn it Mae, you keep saying “something’s not right” about Caroline but you can’t tell me anything more. I am not going to turn down help from such a capable person on the basis of that. It’s not fair. It’s not right.” Rachel turned and resumed walking, Mae still at her side.
“Rachel, have you ever felt little prickles on your neck and then turned to find someone watching you?”
“No. I can’t say that I have.”
Mae knew this was an honest answer because the girl was a strider. She’d stomp toward her goals and woe to anyone getting in her way. If Rachel thought about it at all, she’d probably figure there was no sense worrying about something before it happened.
They reached the end of the trestle road that ran from the bridge end across the riverside marshland to dry land. A few blocks south, sparks shot to the darkening sky from beneath the wire netting of a lumber yard burner. Boat traffic on the river had ceased for the night. On the river’s west bank sailing ships gently tugged against their mooring ropes. The docks alongside were empty and still. For the first time, Mae became aware that very few people walked the eastside streets this late in the day and that the light was fading fast. Mae glanced behind and saw that their Chinese shadow. Funny how reassured she felt at seeing him.
“Rachel, I used to be like you. I believed in people who were helpful, friendly, and smart. I too wanted to think the best of people. But I learned, in the hardest way possible, that I also need to trust that little seed of doubt I sometimes have about folks.” Mae stopped there, not wanting to say anymore about her husband’s and others’ betrayals.
“Are you saying you think Caroline has something to do with Rebecca’s disappearance?” Rachel asked in an incredulous voice.
“No. Absolutely not. But I am saying her presence in the laundry just doesn’t make sense.”
“So what if she seems to be educated? People fall on hard times. Shoot, Rebecca and I were going to be teachers until our mother and father died in that railway accident. We still hope to be,” she added softly.
Then her voice became stronger as she said, “Don’t you see Mae? Caroline does everything I ask her to do and better than anyone else could. The other women, they’re wonderful but they have kids to care for and most of them, bless their hearts, can barely read. I need someone like Caroline to head up the job-finding committee, to go talk to prospective employers in a way that represents us well.” Here she looked at Mae and said in a tone that was both chiding and joking, “And, you’ve refused to take that task on.”
Mae sighed, “I have other responsibilities. Besides, someone has to keep an eye on you since you
refuse to show any sense when it comes to your own safety.”
“I don’t have the time to worry about myself. I am too worried about Rebecca and the women at the laundry. I don’t know how much longer I can go on.” Fear caught at Rachel’s voice.
Mae glanced sidewise at the young woman and saw that her eyes were full and her lips trembled. Softly, she made a concession, “Okay, how about this. How about you ask Caroline to compile a list of potential businesses that would hire our folks but you don’t send her out to talk to them on behalf of the union? And,” here she let her voice get stronger, “you don’t let her into your inner circle. You don’t let her know all of your plans, or help you make them?”
Rachel trudged along in silence, mulling over that suggestion. Finally, she nodded saying, “Okay, we’ll start like that but I can’t keep that up indefinitely. She’s going to realize pretty quickly she’s being shut out. We run the risk of losing her when that happens. This business is hard enough on everyone without them finding themselves under suspicion by the people they are trying so very hard to help.”
“Three days,” Mae said, “Give me three days.”
Rachel laughed, “Okay Mae Clemens, you have three days in which to discover the secrets of the mysterious Caroline Stark.”
Chapter Twenty
Sinclair rounded the corner and nearly crashed into the crowd gathered to watch the fire. He looked at the whorehouse but couldn’t see any flames, although smoke shrouded its faded clapboard front. “Where’s the fire, where’s the fire?” he shouted.
“Yeow, Mister. You just blasted my ear drum to smithereens,” came an Irish brogue next to him. “The fire’s in that yon corner house,” the man said, pointing at an equally run down building two doors away from where Rebecca was being held.
Though relief washed through Sinclair, he continued to push forward. If sparks settled on nearby roofs, the whole block might explode in flames. Most of the structures were dry wood. He struggled closer, just in case.
As Sinclair reached the front of the crowd, a fire wagon clanged up the block and halted, its two horses skittering sideways on the cobblestones. Hoses were unfurled and soon water gushed out. One of the firemen climbed an outside staircase, lugging the hose nozzle. Sinclair shivered despite the warmth in the air. He’d seen more than one tenement fire in Chicago. In his opinion, they didn’t pay firemen enough to risk their lives like they did. He’d seen more than one fireman vanish beneath a building’s fiery collapse. And more than one electrocuted by dangling wires.
Above the noise from the fire fighters, he heard the screech of two angry women. They stood on the boardwalk, on the fire side of the street. Both slovenly dressed in tattered satin fancy dresses that were too tight to be flattering and too old to impress. Sinclair saw that Rebecca’s keeper was one of them. What the heck is this about? The last thing he needed was for her to draw attention to that house. He crossed the street and sidled closer to hear their words.
“You Devil’s bitch, I know you set the fire.”
“Don’t you be calling me a bitch, you Satan’s whore,” screeched Rebecca’s imprisoning madam, Stella Block. “I didn’t have nothing to do with the damn fire.”
“I don’t believe you! Just this morning you were a screaming at me about stealing your customers. I can’t help it that your old flea bag of a pig sty drove them to my place.”
“My house don’t have fleas and you better stop shouting that or I’ll smack you silly!” Stella yelled, stepping closer to the other woman. “It ain’t my fault you don’t tend to your fires. Hell, I betcha you was brewing up some of that piss-beer you force on your customers. Probably set the fire your own damn self.”
“Why, you slutty, filth monger, don’t you be talking about my beer. Your rotgut is famous in these parts for sending men to the toilet.”
At that point, both women charged each other, their hands curved into claws. The ruckus drew the crowd’s attention away from the fire, which looked like it was coming under control. Soon there were cries in the nature of, “Get her, Martha!” or “Punch out her lights, Stella.” Sinclair could tell both women were well known and not particularly liked since those yelling switched their goading to whichever woman seemed to weakening in her anger. Sinclair had to chuckle. It was, after all, an entertaining and free diversion for the spectators, most of whom wore the raggedly clothes and tired faces of the itinerant poor.
“Blessed are you who weep now, for you shall laugh,” came the unbidden saying into his mind with the power of a blessing. He didn’t wonder where that thought came from. Of course, he knew. He’d heard it often enough over the years. Damn, would his head ever be rid of the empty platitudes?
There was grumbling from the crowd as a policeman, his beehive helmet bobbing above the spectators’ heads, officiously pushed his way forward. Time to remove himself from sight Sinclair thought and slipped between the whores standing in Stella’s doorway. Once inside, he ran up the stairs to the second floor. There he unlocked the padlock and stepped inside. Making his way to the cot, his hand found the lantern in the dark and lit it. Setting it on the packing crate, he hauled the chair next to the cot and sat.
Rebecca’s eyelids fluttered. No wonder, given the uproar outside. He stepped over to look at the boarded window. He’d been right. Even if she were able to stagger over to the window, she couldn’t pull off the boards. He wasn’t sure he could do it. The big nails were driven deep into the window frame.
A stirring at his side brought his attention back to her. She lay there, looking at him, her eyes wide with fright. “It’s okay,” he said. “There was a fire down the block but they have it out now.”
“A fire?” she repeated and struggled to sit up.
He leaned over, putting an arm around her shoulders, he helped her to sit up until her back was against the wall, her legs stretched before her on the bed. With one hand she yanked on the thin shift the madam had given her, making sure it was pulled down to her knees. Her other hand held the lapels of jacket she always wore tight together across her bosom.
He averted his eyes as he said, “When I heard there was a fire, I came to check that you were alright.”
“Thank you,” she said softly. He started, ready to defend himself, and then realized she was being sincere--not sarcastic.
“You’ll soon have company. I’ll be bringing your sister to you.” He watched emotions wash across her face—happiness, wariness, and finally, fear.
She raised her hand imploringly. “Please, don’t bring Rachel here. Please let her be.”
He shook his head, feeling unwelcome but genuine regret as he said, “I’m sorry, Rebecca, I have no choice in the matter. My boss is getting upset. I promised him. I’ve been paid.”
“We’ll pay you! You can give him the money back. Just don’t take Rachel,” she pleaded.
He leaned forward, reaching for her. She scooted away from him, scrunching up in the corner of the cot. “Don’t worry, I was just going to take your lapel pin. You can just hand it to me if you’d rather.”
Her trembling fingers opened the clasp of the enameled pin. Once loosened, she yanked it free and thrust it toward him, saying, “May you back into a pitch fork and grab a hot stove for support.”
The venom used to say the words far exceeded the venom attached to their meaning. He couldn’t help it. He laughed. For a minute her face blanked, then she turned her head away but not before he saw her lips twitch.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard such a utterly terrifying curse,” he told her, still chuckling.
She turned around and gave him a faint smile. “It was one of my mother’s. She taught us that ladies never use curse words but curses were alright.” After a moment’s silence she added, “It was the first one that came to mind.”
Although Fong’s slippered feet silently entered the room, his passing stirred the air and Sage woke up. “What time is it?” he asked.
“Near ten o’clock in the morning,” Fong answer
ed as he set a tray down on the small table in the windowed alcove.
Sage crawled out of bed, wrapped himself in a cotton robe and sat at the table. On the tray was a silver coffeepot, two cups, a pile of biscuits and a bowl of strawberry preserves. He poured the coffee into the cups and reached for a biscuit, saying, “I didn’t get in until 6:30 this morning.
“I know,” Fong said, taking the other seat at the table. For a moment he said nothing, his long face pale and lined with fatigue.
“Oh, cripes. I suppose you spent the night following me around,” Sage said, before adding, “When will I ever learn to see you doing that?”
“Couple times, you knew but you did not honor knowing.” Fong took a swallow of coffee and began spreading preserves onto the white fluff of Ida’s buttermilk biscuits.
Sage chewed as he thought back and yes, there had been a couple times when he had the uncomfortable feeling of eyes staring at the back of his head. “Maybe I did, but when I turned around I couldn’t see anyone.”
Fong nodded. “That is the way it should be. Look is not enough. You should lay trap when that feeling happens.”
“And just how do I do that?” he asked, aware he sounded exasperated, but then, who wouldn’t be after less than four hours of sleep?
“That is for you to figure out. Every situation different,” came another one of Fong’s confusing answers. He didn’t wait for Sage’s response before changing the subject, saying, “What is happening with mission?”
