The Mangle

by S. L. Stoner

  Reaching the back porch, he crept up the stairs only to nearly tumble back down them when a voice hissed, “Took you long enough.”

  “Dammit! You nearly scared the holy bejesus right out of me! What the hell are you doing here, anyway?”

  Mae stepped from the shadows of the porch and said, “Two of us can search faster than one. In no time at all, the gals and their customers will tire of the entertainment you’ve arranged out front. That happens, you’ll be caught sure as a mouse in a flour bin.”

  Sage couldn’t argue. There wasn’t time. Already he could hear those inside hollering back at the missionaries. “Come on then. You do the basement and I’ll do the upstairs.”

  He eased open the back door and gestured her in, noticing that her skirt swung close against her legs. No petticoats then. She was ready to run if she had to.

  Inside, the main floor was much as he expected, tawdry flocked wallpaper, threadbare velvet settees , a few cheap knickknacks—all calculated to give a surface appearance of Victorian luxury. At least the upstairs bedrooms had doors instead of mere curtains across their openings. Still, the place was only a single step above the cribs that fronted on many North End streets. All the bedroom doors stood wide open so he saw, at a glance, that the rooms were empty. He didn’t bother with those at the front of the house since that was where everyone was gathered.

  He stood in the hallway, frantically casting his eyes about. Spotting an attic trapdoor in the ceiling of the upstairs hallway, he grabbed a chair, raised the cover and stuck his head through the opening. Nothing. The attic was an open space of rafters and exposed floor joists. Vents at either end provided the space’s only light and air.

  He carefully dropped the cover back into place, dismounted the chair and returned it to its place inside the nearest room. Racing downstairs as quietly as possible he reached the ground floor and ran toward the back of the house. By the time he was back in the kitchen, he could hear windows slamming shut and people moving about. Obviously they’d grown tired of baiting the missionaries who were singing at the top of their voices.

  Stepping out onto the back porch, he felt relief at the sight of his mother. “Whew, that was close,” he whispered. “Find anything?”

  At her head shake he said, “Come on, one more house to go.” He didn’t tell her that she’d been right. He couldn’t have searched both upstairs and basement in time, though he did admit it to himself. There was a chance that the next house might prove more dangerous. Even so, he wasn’t about to give her extra ammunition if he needed to ban her from entering next time. While Mae made her way to the back of the second whorehouse, Sage again entered the narrow passage between the buildings to reach the street. There he waited until he caught Mary Harris’s eye. At his nod, she stepped forward to tug the preacher’s sleeve. He stepped down from his box and began shepherding his singing flock down the street, his baritone voice singing loudly off-key.

  Sage slipped onto the boardwalk, quickly strolling ahead of the parade to find a new place to position himself. Once again he waited until faces filled the front windows before slipping away and into the backyard where Mae Stood concealed by a bush.

  He reached for the back door knob but she stopped him with a hand on his forearm. “I checked,” she whispered. “There is no cellar, I could see through a ground vent that it sits on pilings.”

  He paused. “Okay then, I can search the first and second floors myself. You can stay out here and keep watch. Give a whistle if you see anything.

  Mae smiled sweetly and patted his cheek none too gently before she elbowed him aside, opened the door and stepped into the house. Sage sighed in exasperation but followed, leaving the door unlatched behind them.

  They quickly looked into the back rooms on the first floor and found nothing. Upstairs, they entered a narrow hallway with six rooms opening off it, three on either side. Immediately, the door farthest from the front of the house grabbed their attention. An open padlock hasp dangled from it. They hurried down the hallway. Sage cautiously pushed the door inward, ready to fight if someone sprang at them. Nothing happened.

  Stepping inside, they surveyed a small, bare room. Despite having a window, the room was unnaturally dim. Sage saw that the window curtain was covered by boards that had been nailed across it. That way the boards didn’t show from the outside. Sage made out a single cot, a chair and a wooden crate beside the cot. Everything about the room said it was a prison cell.

  Disappointment washed over him. This room proved nothing. “It’s probably just the room where they always keep the new girls, feeding them liquor and drugs until they’re too ashamed to run. I’ll be sure Sergeant Hanke hears about it,” he whispered. What he wanted in the worst way was to kick the chair and upend the cot.

  Mae moved forward to lean across the cot before quickly standing upright. “Quick, Sage, get over here! Help me move this cot away from the wall. Quietly, so it doesn’t scrape the floor.”

  He hesitated. Already there were yells and jibes sounding inside the house, clearly directed at the missionaries. Time was running out. “Ma, . . .”

  “Get over here, now!” she commanded in the voice she’d always used when she expected unquestioning obedience. She was already lifting the crate away from the cot as he moved to obey.

  Together they moved the cot about two feet from the wall. She quickly sidled in. “Hand me a matchbox. Hurry,” she hissed.

  He pulled out his match box, handed it to her and she struck a match. Even in the feeble light, Sage could see there were scratches in the plaster just at the cot’s edge—letters that spelled out, “Rebecca Levy’.”

  Suddenly the noise inside the house increased. People were slamming the front windows shut. “Hurry, we’re about to get caught,” Sage warned. They quickly moved the cot and crate back into place. Seconds later they were rushing down the stairs, swinging around the newel post and racing for the kitchen. Behind them, an outraged male voice shouted “Hey! You! Stop!”

  They sped up, charged through the kitchen and out the back door. “Run!” Sage urged unnecessarily. Mae’s skirt was hiked well above her ankles and her boots were already pounding dirt as she ran into the dark field. Behind them the kitchen door slammed against the wall as someone charged out the door after them.

  Mae gingerly twisted a brass door knob already warmed by the sun. Even so, every muscle in her body made a painful protest. “I’m getting way too old to race across the fields like a spring colt,” she muttered as she stepped from the Monday morning heat into the cooler union hall.

  Inside, the customary mix of female chatter and toddler shrieks sounded muted. The day before, Mae personally visited every woman who’d surfaced as the natural leader of her own laundry’s group. She’d told each that Rachel Levy was missing, stressed that the absence was temporary, assured the woman that people were searching for Rachel and told them that Rachel would want the women to keep on fighting. They were all dismayed. More than one pointed out that Rebecca Levy had been missing for almost three weeks, despite the same people searching for her. Mae knew that telling them any different would be like telling a gopher to climb a tree. In the end though, all had agreed to try to keep the other women’s spirits up.

  “Hello, why’s everyone so quiet?” she asked a bleak-faced woman listlessly sorting clothes at the donation table. In response, the woman silently handed her a newspaper. It was open to the help wanted ads. Below a “Help Wanted – Female” heading were at least seven different entries advertising for laundry workers. Mae’s eye snagged on: “Wanted, neck band and body machine operator. Contact Sparta Laundry.” Below that was the entry, “Wanted, laundry shaker, top wage. Contact Star Laundry. And so on down the column that made clear all nine of the association laundries were replacing their union workers.

  So, two bits of bad news had hit the group this morning. Mae looked around the room at the subdued women. She shook off her own dispirited reaction. “Well,” she said briskly and loud enough for all
to hear, “Looks like the laundries plan on opening up with scabs. What kind of laundry do you suppose they’ll be delivering to their customers?”

  “Nothing at all from union households,” said one woman. “They voted Friday night to fine any union man whose household used the locked out laundries. They’ve been told to shift their business to the U.S. Laundry.”

  “Them scabs won’t have no clue about how to do a proper job,” asserted another woman to nods all around.

  “My husband’s a driver,” said another woman, “He says only about half the drivers are going along with L.D. Warder. The rest are honoring our picket lines.” Her back straightened as she said with pride, “And, my Harvey is one of ‘em.”

  The sly query, “Wonder how much those traitors’ tips will shrink once their customers get a gander at their spotty clothes?” brought out the smiles from most of the women.

  Mae’s shoulders relaxed as pride squeezed her heart. These women were sacrificing so much for each other and for future women. “Brave bonny lasses” her Irish ma would have called them. She breathed a sigh of relief as she watched them return to their tasks with lightened spirits and renewed vigor.

  Sitting on a chair beside Caroline, Mae pulled up her skirt and studied her ankles. Both bore deep scratches that still smarted despite the healing salve she’d spread over them.

  “Good heavens!” exclaimed Caroline, “What in the world happened to your legs?”

  “Got into a tussle with a blackberry bramble last night,” Mae said, before dropping her skirt and changing the subject. “What did your advisers say about you being our Rachel for a bit?”

  “They said I can help the women here in the union hall, take on some of Rachel’s duties and such but that I mustn’t be seen as a union leader out in public.”

  “What’s that mean you’ll be doing?”

  “Oh you know, say cheery things to the women and maybe organize who does what here in the hall and get the gals out talking to employers about temporary jobs. Set up speakers for the churches.” Caroline’s big dark eyes reflected a mix of regret that she couldn’t do everything needed and fear that her meager offer would meet rejection.

  Mae smiled as she reached over to pat the young woman’s thigh. “Well, that’s a fine start.” She stood, shook out her skirt and added, “All right then, my girl. Let’s get things a-goin’.”

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  “Shhh, stop clanking them damn bottles.” The two men were skulking through the North End, avoiding the busy streets and the gaslight flickering dimly before saloons and other, less respectable, establishments. It being a late Monday night, the streets were quieter, less populated. Absent were the weekend drunks with their roaring laughter and slurred shouts. It was late enough that the employed and those seeking work were resting, gathering their strength for the next morning. Even the shiftless and worthless were bedded down.

  “Well, you should have wrapped ‘em better in the towels,” came the aggrieved response.

  A forceful “Shhh,” came again, followed by, “We were in a hurry, remember? Tonight’s the best time to do this because nobody’s around this late.”

  The other said nothing, leaving them to trudge quietly up the street, the scuff of their boots the only sound marking their passage.

  Reaching a spot across from the laundry, they paused to assess their target.

  “There’s a light on inside. You sure no one’s in there?”

  “I’m sure. The laundry don’t have no watchman and it’s a Monday night, near midnight, for Christ’s sake. Ain’t nobody gonna be working in a steam laundry tonight. Besides, you don’t hear no steam engine puffing away do you?”

  “Wahl, I suppose it’s quiet, sure enough. But, what about that there light?” Trepidation quivered in the whining question.

  “He’s one of those fellows who likes having the latest things. I expect he left one of them electric bulbs powered up to scare folks away. Can’t really blame him, what with the lockout and all.”

  “So, what we gonna do?”

  The other man looked searchingly up and down the street before responding, “Nobody’s out and about right now. I’m going throw this here brick right through that big window over there. You be ready with the lit bottles. Once I’ve break it, you just toss them both in.”

  “I sure can’t throw it through any hole from clear over here.”

  “My God, do I have to explain everything?” Receiving no answer, a terse explanation followed. “We’re going to cross the street. I’m going to throw the brick. The glass is gonna break and you’re going to heave in your burning bottles. Got that?”

  At an answering, though hesitant nod, the two of them slunk across the street. After another quick glance in both directions, the one man heaved the brick. Everything went exactly as planned—the window broke and two burning bottles sailed in through the opening. What happened next was not according to plan. The explosion was a helluva lot bigger than it should have been. Luckily, they were a block away when it blew.

  A metal bar propped the skylight open to a muggy night softly lit by cloudy moonlight. Sage sat on the polished wood floor mulling over his various failures. Despite more than a month of trying, he’d found no lever to use against Cobb’s laundry owners’ association. He couldn’t even find a way to help the United States Laundry get its chemicals. Finley couldn’t keep going much longer without them. Worst of all, Rebecca and Rachel Levy were both missing. Maybe they were already tied, drugged and bouncing out of town in the back of some wagon on their way to an horrific destiny. The elusive stranger in the bowler hat couldn’t be found—he hadn’t been seen since Rachel vanished. “Good clue, Sherlock,” Sage muttered to himself.

  This morning the situation had worsened. The laundries were going to open up with scab labor. What was coming next? Professional strikebreakers? He shuddered at the thought. How would those weary laundry women, many of them mothers of small children, faced down hard-hearted out-of-town professionals experienced in the art of breaking heads?

  This is what it means to feel heavy of heart, he thought. It was a dragging, physical sensation in the center of his chest.

  “Do not sit like lump of cold rice,” came Fong’s voice, quiet but startling in that Sage hadn’t heard his friend enter Mozart’s attic. “Stand up, do form. Let thoughts wash through like water through fish net.”

  Sage obeyed, unwound his legs and took the opening position directly behind Fong. They began moving, Fong’s movements somehow combining both the gentleness of waving sea grass and, at the same time, the strength of the water that set that grass to swaying.

  Sometimes during the exercise, Sage had sensed those two forces within himself but it was fleeting, as if his recognition chased both forces away. Fong, on the other hand, seemed to always move at the point of their balance.

  Today his movements started out feeling totally unbalanced by the worries that wouldn’t leave his head. Fong sensed Sage’s problem. Upon reaching the end, he simply began all over and then did it a third time. Gradually, a sense of ease overcame the worries, calming their fervor until they flowed away like drifting leaves on a river’s surface. Fong was right. The exercise worked, Sage realized, before letting even that thought go.

  When they finally stopped moving, Fong turned around and smiled. “Feel better, now?” he asked.

  “Exactly what I needed. Thank you,” Sage said.

  “We are ready to make plans, I think,” Fong responded, pointing up towards the roof.

  The two of them climbed the ladder and came out onto the flat, tarpapered roof. In one corner stood the pigeon coop, its inhabitants burbling sleepy objections at the disturbance. With a guilty start, Sage realized that he’d been neglecting his boxes of flowers. In this month’s heat, he should have been watering them at least twice a day. The rooftop rain barrel had run dry. That meant carrying buckets of water up into the attic and then up the ladder onto the roof. He’d put it off to a point that he’d f
orgotten to do it. Sage squinted. All the plants looked healthy. The dim moonlight made their blooms colorless but they were there, along with leaves that seemed sturdy and without droop

  “Who’s been watering my plants?” he asked.

  “Young Matthew volunteered. He comes up before going out to be a messenger and after lessons he has with me.”

  Matthew was the nephew of Mozart’s cook, Ida. Now sixteen, he’d already been tested by the horror of his brother’s gruesome death at the hands of a railroad bull and by the terror of later being accused of that bull’s murder. Sage and his crew had saved the young boy by solving the mystery of the bull’s death. Since then, Matthew had helped around the restaurant, used his safety bicycle to earn money delivering messages and in the spring, he’d joined their mission to save Teddy Roosevelt from assassination. Matthew was a very smart kid but also a very clumsy kid.

  “You let him carry buckets of water across your attic and up the ladder?” Sage saw that as a real opportunity for a wet disaster.

  “Ah, Matthew doing very good with snake and crane. Not graceful yet, but not so much like pup with big feet,” Fong said, sitting down on the bench the two of them had hauled up onto the roof once the flower garden had begun to sprout springtime leaves.

  Sage joined him on the bench. “I am starting to panic,” he said.

  “About two missing women?” Fong guessed.

  “I don’t even know if they’re in town anymore. Once they snatched Rachel, I’m worried they shipped both women out.”

  Fong nodded somberly. “Maybe it is time to ask Farley operatives if they know anything. The cousins keep track of where those two are.”

  Sage looked up at the sky, noticing that cloud banks had moved in from the west. Idly he hoped that they would bring rain, or at least, some cooling. After a few days of cool it had turned hot once again. The unusually hot summer was getting on his nerves. He longed for the rinsing rain and the tang of autumn just as much as he’d longed for summer sunshine the prior spring. “So, you think we could corner those two tonight?” he asked.