by S. L. Stoner
The sight of their tired, pinched faces was humbling. People might be unthinkingly or inescapably heroic. These men, however, were even braver because the choice they made was a calculated, deliberate choice with no guarantee of success and every likelihood of failure. Rufus made that same choice and, in a single terrifying moment, the result was death and an impoverished, fatherless family. And these men continued to make that choice every single day they trudged down that muddy track to stand in the drenching rain. Instead of shutting up or slinking away, they chose to fight with only an abiding faith in life’s inherent justice keeping them at their post.
Sage clenched his fists, his anger toward the Mackeys and men of their ilk raging inside his head. Their fine dress and genteel demeanor concealed their true character. Just like the city’s defective bridges, the world these powerful men controlled also needed rebuilding by honest, compassionate and caring hands.
A hesitant voice at his side intruded into his thoughts.“You think there’s maybe still a chance, Sam?” asked one of the men.
Sage turned and rested a reassuring hand on the man’s shoulder as he said, “Absolutely. We are going to win this one.” Inexplicably Sage felt sure of what he said and was gratified to observe a few spines straightening at his words. We will win this strike or I’ll die trying, he silently vowed.
Saying he needed to check on Leo’s family, Sage headed back up the road. He trailed behind Fong who’d climbed out of the gully, a string of silvered fish dangling from one hand, dip net slung across his shoulder. Sage waited until they both reached the main road before catching up to the successful fisherman.
“I see that this morning’s guard duty wasn’t a total waste,” Sage said, pointing to the fish, figuring it would look like he was initiating a commercial transaction.
Fong lifted the fish higher, the pale sunlight glinting on their scales, highlighting their worthiness. “Pretty good catch,” he agreed. “I give to cousins for their assistance this day.”
“Mr. Fong, can you deliver a message to the newspaperman, Ben Johnston?”
Fong nodded.
“Ask Johnston if he’s able to meet me at the usual place in the farmers’ market in one hour. If he can’t make it, send word to me there. You know where.”
“I understand,” Fong replied.
Sage held up both hands as if cutting off further haggling over the fish and strolled ahead, his steps once again shadowed by meandering Chinese men.
s s s
Two hours later, Sage was making his way toward Stuart Franklin’s apartment in the North End. After making sure Mackey’s men weren’t tailing him, Sage sent his Chinese bodyguards home. At his meeting with Johnston, the newspaperman didn’t sugarcoat his opinion of the city engineer, Horace Bittler. “He’s a greedy, grasping, nincompoop who brags because he has to.” Johnston also imparted the information that it was Bittler’s habit to stop at the upscale Trade Exchange Saloon before heading home after work.
Sage’s arrival at Franklin’s apartment interrupted a lively checkers game between Chester and Stuart, each man sitting before an evenly matched stack of captured checkers. Their easy camaraderie gave Sage momentary pause. He envied them the time they were able to spend getting acquainted. Between Mozart’s and St. Alban’s missions, little time remained for him to cultivate new friendships
Chester stood up abruptly, leaving Stuart to steady the game board. “Is something wrong with my family? With the men?” Chester asked.
“No problems whatsoever, Chester,” Sage assured him. “I came by to see if you’d like to go out for a bit. I’m going to have me a little face-to-face talk with that city engineer and
need your bridge-building expertise. I don’t want him knocking me off stride with technical references. With you there, that can’t happen.”
“I guess I might go along with you, although I promised Stuart that I’d buy him dinner from that café downstairs. He planned to go down and bring it up after I beat him at this here game of checkers.”
“Don’t worry none about that, and besides, buddy, you ain’t that close to beating me,” Franklin retorted. He looked hopefully toward Sage. “I don’t suppose your little foray needs assistance from a busted up sailor?” he asked. “I’m mighty sick of these four walls, grateful as I am for them.”
Sage squeezed the other man’s shoulder. It was bony and bird-like, no longer the shoulders of the man who’d once braved the surging waters of the Columbia River bar in a rowboat just a few months back. “I know it’s hard having to take it easy. But, you know as well as I that the doctor said you are still a ways from being healed and he doesn’t want you taking any chances just yet,” Sage said. “At least three ruffians might be lying in wait for Chester and me. And, the man we’re going to confront might prove a little frisky. I’m not willing to risk you being hurt again so soon. Maybe there will be something for you to help with once I’ve arranged for some protection for the two of you. I promise to work on it.”
s s s
The Trade Exchange Saloon offered the city’s business elite an opportunity to rub shoulders with their own kind. Inside, an ornate mahogany bar with a polished brass foot rail stretched along one side of the square room. There was a scatter of marble-topped tables across a relatively clean, white ceramic tile floor unmarred by either the scrape of hobnailed boots or the smears of spat tobacco. Glass chandeliers, festooned with electric globes, kept winter’s gloom firmly at bay. When Sage and Chester stepped inside, wearing their workingman’s duds, the conversational hubbub muted as more than one pair of eyes widened with curiosity.
Johnston was right. Bittler was easily recognizable by his crimson bow tie and matching silk handkerchief. The city’s engineer sat alone at a table against the far wall, sipping liquor from a shot glass while he idly flipped the newspaper pages before him. The bartender moved to lift the gate and step from behind the bar, obviously intent on intercepting these rough-dressed interlopers and sending them off. Sage, however, ignored this guardian of propriety and strolled confidently toward Bittler who looked up from his perusal of the newspaper when he realized that strangers approached. Sage thought the thin-faced man paled. Bittler’s brow, however, started lowering so that his face was in full glower by the time they reached his table. The look was comical instead of threatening because his small dark eyes sat too close together underneath those beetling brows. That glower, the man’s pointed nose and his pursed mouth with its slight overbite, all combined to give him the countenance of a dim-witted guinea pig.
“Mr. Bittler,” Sage said, as he grabbed a chair and sat down before the other man could speak, “My name is Sam Graham and this is Chester.” Recognition flickered in the other man’s eyes before contempt hardened his gaze. The urge to slap the man silly came over Sage. He resisted. Instead, he said, “We need to talk to you about the Marquam Ravine bridge and other bridges about town.” Bittler clamped his lips so tightly shut they blanched white.
Sage ignored the reaction and continued, “Chester and I looked at the bridges and we’re here to tell you that we are concerned . . . .”
Bittler curtly interrupted, “Come see me at my office. I don’t talk about work during my leisure time. This isn’t some waterfront saloon.”
Sage glanced around. Businessmen sat smoking their cigars, sipping their whiskies, talking with quiet intensity. “Right, it’s no waterfront saloon. Too bad for that. Nevertheless, these men are working even as we speak. Besides, I’m not sure it’s a good idea for us to meet in your workplace to talk about your receipt of bribes,” Sage said.
With a loud screech of chair legs on tile, Bittler’s chair scraped backward, riveting the room’s attention on them. Shooting a quick glance at neighboring tables, Bittler hesitated. He leaned forward, bared his yellow teeth and hissed, “You better watch out. You besmirch my reputation and I’ll sue you and end up owning whatever little hovel you call home.”
Sage also kept his voice low. “I’m just telling you why w
e decided to talk to you away from the office. You and Mackey are endangering everyone’s life with that substandard repair work you approve. Any more of those bridges collapse and it’s you who’ll be looking at losing your home, not to mention serving some prison time.”
Bittler folded his newspaper with shaking fingers. “Listen you ignorant lout. I obtained my education in a well-known New York engineering school. The Mackey family is socially prominent and respectable. I do not intend to listen to any uneducated ‘bridge monkey’ . . . ,” he hissed the insult, “. . . instructing me on how to perform my job. I vest my complete faith in Earl Mackey. He is not going to jeopardize the people of this city nor his own standing in it.” He stood up. “Now, if you ‘gentlemen’ will excuse me, I am late for my supper. I trust you will not possess the temerity to intrude upon me again!” Bittler started to push past them.
Sage’s hand shot out to grab the other man’s forearm, squeezing until Bittler winced. Anger slowed Sage’s words as he said, “At least one trestle bridge roadway has given way and many others are in danger of doing the same. You can’t pretend it is not happening. This isn’t a sewer failure where people’s water closets are spewing crap all over their floors.” Bittler’s body twitched at the sewer reference. Sage squeezed the man’s arm harder as he said, “Two people are already dead, firemen are in the hospital, and the city’s fire wagon is a total loss. Another bridge collapses, you’ll be the man Mackey throws to the wolves.”
“Are you threatening me?” Bittler’s question ended in a squeak that sounded like that of the rodent he resembled. Those sitting at the neighboring tables dropped all pretense of disinterest and stared openly. Across the room, the bartender
again started to lift the bar gate, clearly intent on rescuing his regular customer.
Sage stepped away from Bittler saying, “Good God, man! Surely, you’re not thinking that you are anything more than a pawn in Mackey’s schemes.”
Bittler stood up. “Earl Mackey is my friend. That is what I know and I refuse to listen any further to your impugning of his character.” Bittler slapped a homburg onto his head and stepped around them heading toward the door. Sage and Chester trailed right behind, sidestepping the bartender. Outside, Bittler frantically signaled a hansom cab, clambered aboard and rode away.
Chester was glum.“Can’t see how that conversation offered us much to go on. He told us not a single licking thing.”
“Oh we learned something valuable from that exchange. Notice how Bittler’s hands trembled when he folded that newspaper?” Sage asked. “And, he had the barrel of a six-gun shoved into his waistband. I saw it when he raised his arm to hail that cab. Bittler is terrified, and I very much doubt we’re the ones he’s afraid of. “
FIFTEEN
His eyelids snapped open. Not his usual nightmare. No reliving the climb up a narrow ventilator shaft, no longer the terrified nine-year-old boy escaping a collapsed mine. No, this nightmare was worse because of the self-revulsion that lingered once he’d opened his eyes.
Sage struck a match to light his bedside lamp, his hand trembling, hoping light would dispel the feel of revolver’s heft and that unholy satisfaction of pulling the trigger and making Earl Mackey’s face disappear. At least the dream ended before he’d shot that pencil-licking clerk cowering at the dream’s fuzzy edges.
He pulled himself up until his back leaned against the wooden headboard. Questions prowled through his mind like restless cats in a cage. This was the first time during a mission for St. Alban that he’d dreamt of actually killing the opposition. That was understandable, given all the suffering Mackey’s greed had inflicted on decent men who only wanted to provide for their families. No, what made him uneasy about the dream was that shooting Mackey had felt good. Too good. Was he turning into the kind of men he fought? Could hate-filled action spawn a better world? Was that the sacrifice people like him made? His own humanity worn away by continually warring and every chance for a contented life sacrificed? One thing he knew for sure, deep in his soul, was that the squeezing of the dream trigger should not have delivered so much satisfaction.
Water from an over-full roof gutter dripped onto the window, its steady rhythm summoning him back into the room, the building, his life and all the problems. It was 4:00 a.m., his customary hour for confronting demons. Sage sighed. He wasn’t going to sleep so he might as well spend the time trying to think of solutions to those problems. .
One by one, he picked over all that he knew about old Mr. Mackey’s death. From what he’d overheard those two in the cooperage saying, maybe Earl Mackey ordered the old man killed. But that wasn’t exactly what they said. “Anyways,” as his mother would say, was it possible that any son could be that cruel to his old man? And, poor Leo. Hopefully he was asleep and not staring out from between jail bars at that seeping basement wall. And the strike. That was on the brink of disaster. And the bridge calamity—the dire threat of splintered timbers at the bottom of countless ravines loomed over the entire city. What to tackle first? The questions swirled endlessly, without snagging any answers, until they pulled him down into sleep, like soapsuds down a drain.
s s s
The new day began with a breakfast meeting among Sage, Fong and his mother.
“I not believe that son Mackey ordered his father killed,” Fong said after Sage finished laying out the various trails they needed to follow. “To kill one’s father is too big a step.”
Sage scrunched up his forehead. “But Leo did not kill Mackey, so all that remains is Mackey’s son as a likely possibility, right? Besides, those two thugs I heard talking spoke as if Abner Mackey’s death was a good thing. And, we know they work for Earl Mackey. So, I don’t see any other conclusion. To free Leo, we must prove that someone else is responsible. Right now, that someone else seems to be Earl Mackey. We need to find those two men and twist their tails to make them talk,” Sage said.
Fong raised his eyebrows even as he nodded assent.“Maybe two men know useful information. Still, I not sure they offer only direction to search,” he said.
Mae spoke up,“I’m thinking that the best thing is for me to get hired on as a domestic in the Bittler household. Who knows, I might find evidence that Bittler is on the take.”
“Whoa there, Mother. I don’t want you in the middle of that rat’s nest. Bittler’s carrying a gun because he’s afraid somebody’s going to come after him.”
At this protest, her brow furrowed, her bold cheekbones reddened and her blue eyes took on a steely glint. She opened her mouth to speak.
“I take it back. I take it back,” Sage said hurriedly, realizing immediately that protest was fruitless. Experience taught him that Mae Clemens would do exactly whatever she decided to do, regardless of his objections. So wisdom dictated going along with her. At least that way, he’d know where she was and what she was up to. “I admit that’s an excellent idea—provided Bittler has a job opening in his household,” he went on to say.
“Humph,” she responded. “There’ll be a job. Folks like the Bittlers usually need household help because they think a few cast-offs or a ‘thank you’ now and again will somehow erase their meanness and pushy demands. You watch, I’ll be working there within a few days.”
Fong cleared his throat, saying, “For my job, I will find two bad men and make sure cousins protect you and Chester and Chester’s family,”
“Okay, if you two take care of those things, all that remains for me are the teensy, minor tasks to accomplish—like proving Leo’s innocence and winning the strike,” Sage said, his rueful tone negating the sarcasm of his words. He stood up, plucked his bowler hat from a nearby chair and slapped it on his head. “Game’s still afoot, damn it all.”
s s s
When Sage reached the end of the block, he encountered Ben Johnston on his way to see him. “Glad to find you, Adair. Wish to heck you’d install a telephone, I really can’t spare the time away from the newspaper except some things have come up and I needed to update you.�
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“What? Has something happened?”
“Since I knew of your interest, I told my police reporter to keep his ears fanned out for any information on the Mackey murder case. He tells me that the police found a witness who says he saw Leo Lockwood lugging a kerosene can, near the cul de sac, the night Mackey died.
“I don’t believe that,” Sage said.
Johnston nodded. “Well, from what the reporter said, the witness sounds a little suspicious to me. This witness is a stranger here in town, an itinerant. On the other hand, only the fire chief and a few others know kerosene fueled the Mackey fire. Anyway, I thought you better know. I figure you’ll want to pass the information on to Gray, since I hear he’s taken on the case.”