by S. L. Stoner
“Good morning to you, Mr. Adair,’ replied his mother. She hadn’t told Rachel of their relationship and she was reminding him and Eich of that fact. “Have you any news?”
He nodded, saying, “I spoke with Leo and they have put out a solicitation for funds in the Labor Press. Unions and union members can now buy shares in the cooperative laundry. Each union on the Federated Trades Council has contributed sufficient funds to make the down payment. They expect to buy it next week.
“What about Rebecca?” Rachel asked, leaning forward. Her eyes were entreating and bleak above the dark smudges of sleepless nights. On the table, her hands clenched each other so hard that it seemed they were preventing her body from flying apart.
Guilt twanged through Sage as he shook his head, saying, “Nothing yet. But, I am expecting to hear something soon.”
Rachel’s eyes filled with tears and Mae put a hand over those clenched fingers and squeezed. “What about Lucinda? Did she agree to help?” Mae asked.
This was it. Sage glanced sideways at Eich and saw compassion soften the other man’s bearded face. “I didn’t get a chance to talk to her,” he said, his voice dropping.
Mae’s lips tightened. Good thing they were in a public place and Rachel didn’t know Mae was his mother. That meant when she spoke, Mae’s mild tone lacked the bite he knew she was suppressing. “It seems to me, you had better talk to her soon because, given our lack of success, she’s now our best hope of finding Rebecca.”
Sage nodded his agreement. He couldn’t discuss Lucinda now. “I did get some news that sounds good,” he said. “It looks like you might be right, Mrs. Clemens. The fellow who took Rebecca could be working for the laundry association. Also, someone may have seen him meeting with Cobb’s henchman, James Farley. If it is him, he’s been in Portland pretty continuously which means he didn’t have time to take her out anywhere. That means she’s still probably in Portland.”
Rachel’s face showed no relief. Instead, she said, “It’s been thirteen days. How do you know he hasn’t killed her? Or, sold her to a white slaver who has taken her away?” In the painful silence that followed, her tears spilled over.
The morning air skimming across the river just a few blocks away sent a cooling relief from the building heat. The picketers steadfastly waved their signs while they paraded back and forth before the Sparta Laundry’s closed doors.
“Good morning ladies, how are things going?” Rachel asked, as she handed out fresh breakfast rolls.
“Fair to middling,” responded one of the women. Her tone was spritely but Mae noticed a tightness around her eyes. She presented a worrisome picture, picket sign in one hand, small toddler clinging to her other. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, with corn silk hair of pale yellow, tucked into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. Her dress was faded but clean and well-mended. The toddler at her knee was better dressed in jaunty red knee pants and a new-looking little white shirt.
“Maisie, are you keeping well? You have enough to eat, a roof over your head?” Rachel asked. She’d also picked up on the woman’s worry.
The woman nodded, saying, “Aye, I’m paid up on rent till the end of the month. Folks have been bringing us food from the union hall so we’re not going hungry. Davy here even got some new clothes from the donations.” She smiled down at the little boy, flicked a stray hair away from his face and added, “Though, if Cobb keeps us locked out past month’s end, I’m not sure what I’ll do. My brother says we can move in with him,” she reached down to stroke the towhead at her knee, “but his wife isn’t keen on the idea. Not that I blame her. They’ve only got two rooms and there’s already four of them living there.”
Mae thought about her own tough times in the miners’ shantytowns. Sometimes, they’d lived three to a room. And there’d been hunger whenever the mine closed down. Such shutdowns were frequent either because of methane explosions or because the owners thought the miners needed to be taught a lesson. Those lean times, full of worry, were hardest on the mothers.
Rachel put her arm across the woman’s shoulders. “Maisie, we’re trying to get us all back to work. Things are looking hopeful. Just hang on a bit longer.”
The woman smiled and said, “I will, Rachel. Like I said, our heads are still above water and the alligators ain’t nipped at us yet.”
A few more exchanges with the other women on the picket line and they’d left but not before Mae saw Rachel slipping folding money into Maisie’s hand. Rachel was silent as they walked up the long ramp onto the bridge, the steady thud of their boots on the wooden boards sounding in matched cadence. Mid-span, Rachel touched Mae’s forearm with just enough force to halt her steps. “Mae, I can’t do this anymore,” she said quietly, her eyes shiny with unshed tears.
Mae’s heart sank. She glanced quickly around. Eich strolled ahead of them, nearing the bridge’s end. Behind them, one of Fong’s cousins paused to gaze down into the marshland along the river channel. The walkway was crowded, so Mae tugged Rachel toward the railing. There, they both turned to face the river.
Rachel looked downriver, her face bleak and lifeless. How the young woman had aged these past few weeks. “Tell me,” Mae prodded.
“These poor women need someone who has hope, energy, who can give and not take. I can’t, I just can’t anymore. Rebecca . . . .” She didn’t go on. She didn’t need to. Sleeping in the same room with Rachel, Mae knew that most nights, Rachel tossed, turned, cried and slept little. When she did sleep, her body twitched and she whimpered in her throat. She knew what that kind of worry was like. She’d been in the same position too many times—her father first missing, found murdered, her son lost in a mine explosion, and too often, these days, it was Sage in danger. “We’ll find Rebecca, I promise,” Mae said with more confidence that she felt.
Rachel shook her head. “I know Mr. Miner is trying but I have to do something. I just don’t have it in me to try to keep people’s spirits up when my heart is so heavy with worry. I need to look for Rebecca. I’m going to start going to the whorehouses, asking questions. I have to.”
She turned to look at Mae, her dark eyes burning, “Mae, you have to take my place with the women. Encourage them. They like you. They trust you.”
Mae could only shake her head. “Rachel, I can’t.”
“But you can!” Rachel insisted, “You can do everything I do and probably better. I know you like to stay in the background but I need you to step forward, to take my place. Please.”
“Rachel. There’s a reason why I stay in the background. I can’t tell you what it is. Please believe me, if I could, I would take your place. But I just can’t do it. Surely, by now, you’ve figured out there’s more to my life than working in a steam laundry.” Mae nodded toward Eich and then toward the Chinese man at their rear both of whom were now feigning an interest in the river water far below.
Rachel sighed. “I figured there had to be something. You can’t tell me what it is?”
“It’s not mine to tell,” Mae said, letting the regret show in her face.
Rachel nodded, accepting what Mae said though her shoulders sagged as she turned to again gaze downriver. “Okay, then,” she said. “It will have to be Caroline. The women like her too. She’s smart and well-spoken, and strong in her belief that the women deserve better lives.”
Somehow, Mae wasn’t surprised at Rachel’s declaration. “Rachel, I know you don’t want to hear this, but something just doesn’t ring true where Caroline’s concerned.” Mae raised a hand to halt the protest that started from Rachel’s mouth. “Yes, I know. I like her too. I want to trust her.” She used a hand to turn the young woman away from the railing to face her. “You gave me three days to discover more about Caroline. I still have today and tomorrow left. Promise me you will wait two more days until you turn over the reins to her. If I haven’t found out the answer by then, I’ll stand behind you and behind her if you still want her to take over.”
Rachel studied Mae’s face, took a deep br
eath and nodded. “Okay then, you have until the day after tomorrow, then I am done until I find Rebecca.”
Chapter Twenty Three
Cobb and Farley were leaning back in their chairs, puffing cigar smoke at the ceiling. “I bet you anything that Ryland is the traitor selling his laundry to the union,” Cobb mused aloud. “He’s been nothing but a weak sister since this whole thing started.”
Farley nodded, saying, “I fear you might be right,” when there was a timid knock on the half-open door.
“Come in!” barked Cobb.
The door swung further inward so a man could peek around its edge. “Ah, hello there Mr. Cobb, Mr. Farley. I was wondering if we might talk a bit.”
Cobb straightened in his chair and smiled widely. “Why, hello there L.D. Glad to see you stopping by. I was planning on us getting together sometime today.”
The man returned the greeting with a relieved smile as he stepped into the room and carefully shut door behind him. “Why, what is it you need, Mr. Cobb?” he asked as he removed his cap.
“L.D., take a seat,” Cobb gestured toward a chair against the wall, “First, tell us why you’re here.”
“Well, sir. I thought I better report in. I’ve been keeping a close eye on the men like you asked. They don’t much like having to walk past the picketers. I don’t suppose there’s a way you could chase them off? I mean, they’re only a few women, after all.”
Cobb and Farley exchanged glances, with Cobb’s narrowed eyes signaling caution. “Well, L.D., we don’t want to create a ruckus outside the laundries. It might draw the news reporters from that darn Daily Journal. That editor thinks he’s going to be the ‘voice of the working man’. Your men should just consider that walking through the picket line is one of the jobs we are paying them to perform.”
L.D. frowned, “Well, sir. That’s the other thing they’re worried about. Most of them say the laundries are pretty much in tip-top shape. They done all the painting, moving, installing and cleaning and wonder if there will be work for them next week.” L.D. was turning the cap in his hand, clearly nervous about asking the question.
“L.D., you can tell the drivers that the laundries will soon be back in business. Heck, we might even be able to get rid of the pickets. Things are afoot.” Cobb said.
The drivers’ union president relaxed, leaning forward on his chair. “Really? We’re opening up soon? The lockout will be over? Why, that’s great news.”
Cobb raised a hand to dampen Warder’s enthusiasm. “No, no. I didn’t say the owners are ending the lockout. I just said the laundries will be up and running. That’s all you are authorized to tell the men.”
“Ah, well, okay,” Warder said hesitantly. “But, I don’t understand.” Then his eyes widened. “Oh, you’re planning on hiring scabs?”
That question turned Cobb’s face stern, “L.D., we don’t use that word,” he admonished. “We call them ‘replacement workers.’ Good men and women who want to work an honest day for an honest day’s wage.”
This time it was Warder who raised a hand, “Oh, yes, sir. Sorry sir. Replacement workers. You think the women will give up once they see the replacement workers taking their jobs? And, the picketers will go away?”
This time a mirthless smile lifted the corners of Cobb’s normally thin, straight mouth. “Some of the women will give up. As for the picketers, we’ve got some experts on union picket lines coming in. They know how to make things uncomfortable for people on picket lines.”
Comprehension widened Warder’s eyes, “Strikebreakers?” he asked. “I don’t mean to tell you your business but the other unions will definitely get riled up if you bring in strikebreakers. After all, these are women. The men on the Federated Trade Council won’t like it a bit.”
Cobb’s hand flicked away Warder’s concern and he moved onto another topic. “L.D., you told us that the Council is negotiating to buy a laundry. Do you know which one, yet?”
Warder’s head shake was rueful. “No, Mr. Cobb. The men are clamming up around me. That Rachel Levy appeared before the Council yesterday. She complained that I was stopping the drivers from supporting the women. Since then, I haven’t heard a whisper. Though, I’m still asking around and I have some of my more trusted drivers keeping their ears open.”
Cobb frowned. “L.D., we really need to know which laundry is trying to sell us out. We think it could be Ryland McCarthy’s, American Laundry. The point is, L.D. a cooperative union laundry would be a blow to our plans.”
Cobb leaned forward. “How’s that second wagon you just bought working out? And, I hear your wife likes her new house.”
Warder got the point. “Mr. Cobb, I’m mighty grateful for the extra money you’ve paid me and for your putting in a good word at the bank,” Warder hurriedly said. “I swear I’m doing my level best to find out about that laundry sale. I’ll try even harder,” he promised.
Silence ensued following this declaration, only to be broken when Cobb said, “See that you do, L.D. See that you do.”
Warder clambered to his feet. “Uh, well, I guess I better be getting back to work then,” he mumbled and, when Cobb merely nodded, the driver’s union president exited the office.
Farley squinted through his cigar smoke at the ceiling. “You didn’t tell him that my two operatives are also trying to find out who is selling a laundry to the unions,” he mused aloud.
Cobb gave a derisive snort. “Hell, no, I didn’t tell him. You can’t trust a man who’d betray his own. If he’ll do it to them, he’ll surely do it to you.”
“This is ridiculous,” Sage said aloud. He was sitting alone on a park bench across from Lucinda’s parlor house. He’d already delayed until the middle of the afternoon, telling himself that she got up late. That part was true but the time was long past for that excuse to hold water. He kept recalling the last time he’d seen her standing on those very steps, sunlight catching in her honey hair as she flung her arms around that same man he’d seen her with a year before. Of course, trying not to think about that scene made him think of it all the more. Rebecca, Rebecca, maybe if he said the missing woman’s name enough he’d stop his wallowing and get on with it.
He stood up, strode across the single lane street, climbed the stairs, raised the brass knocker and let it fall with a clink. Lucinda’s house, with its neat brick front and mansard roof, looked no different than the abodes of her well-to-do neighbors. They tolerated her sporting house next door. Of course her customers were among the city’s most well-heeled and influential men. So, who could they complain to?
Elmira answered the door promptly. Her smooth, caramel face showed no surprise. Smiling, she said in her soft drawl, “I was a wondering how long you were going to stay out there in the park.” Seeing chagrin change his face she added, “Miz Lucinda doesn’t know you were sitting out there. I’ll tell her you are here. You go sit yourself in the front parlor.
Sage entered the room, at first thinking nothing had changed in the year since he’d last entered the house. But, there was a difference. The gas jet sconces had been converted to electricity, with glass light globes replacing the gas chimneys. He turned at the sound of a rustle in the doorway. There she stood.
For a moment they simply looked at each other. Then her face stiffened and her voice was cool as she said, “Well, what a surprise. What brings you to our doorstep after such a long absence?”
Okay, so that’s the way we’re going to play it, he thought before saying, “And, how are you? Have you recovered from your arduous nursing duties in Prineville?”
She gestured him toward a sofa and took the chair across from him. There’d be no touching, no friendly greeting, then. “Well, seeing as how I got back over a month ago, I’ve had plenty of time to rest. Yourself? You are well? And, your mother?”
Only the last question seemed to carry any real warmth. Lucinda and Mae Clemens had forged a bond in days past such that each woman held the other in high regard. “We’re both well,” he said stiffly. �
��In fact, I am here at her behest.”
For the first time, there was an unbending of Lucinda’s reserve as she leaned forward. “Is she in trouble? Does she need help?” There was no feigning her concern as creases wrinkled her smooth brow and her eyes went from half lidded to fully open. All coolness banished.
So, she might not care all that much for me, but Mother is still high in her books. Ouch. “Yes, we both need your help, if you’re willing,” he said.
“Of course,” she said. Was that bitterness or hurt that darkened her voice? She straightened and said, “What is going on? One of your missions I suppose.” She was one of the few in Portland who knew Sage worked as an undercover operative for St. Alban. More than once, Lucinda had aided their social justice efforts.
Sage told her about Rebecca’s kidnapping. “Despite Fong and Solomon’s efforts, we haven’t been able to locate the girl. We think she’s being held prisoner. One of Solomon’s people reported that, on the night Rebecca disappeared, a woman fitting her description was seen being “helped” down a street near the rail yards. If it was Rebecca, that might mean she is being kept in a bawdy house down there.”
“And Mae thinks I can help how? It’s not like I have much in common with the women running those establishments,” she said, gesturing around a room that was very well-appointed and tasteful by anyone’s standard.
Sage saw that Lucinda was slightly offended, but pushed on anyway. “We thought that you might be able to convince them that you were thinking of purchasing a second establishment to cater to a lower income cliental. Mae thought they’d be flattered by your interest and give you a tour of their places. Once you get a look, you might notice whether they had a room that was locked or they refused to show you. That way we can narrow down the number of houses where Rebecca might be.
“Good lord, there must be over 400 parlor houses in town. Just how many do you expect me to visit?” Despite this mild protest, Sage thought he saw a quickening of interest. Lucinda was always a game girl when it came to their intrigues.
