Bitter Cry

by S. L. Stoner

  “Now listen here!” The man had pulled up his trousers and began to bluster.

  “No, you listen,” Sage snarled. “Consider yourself lucky we’re not the police. All you’re losing is a little money and the chance to engage in your sick pastime. You say anything more and I’ll club you with this gun barrel—that’s what I want to do.”

  The man shut up. Fong returned and nodded at Sage. They went back into the hallway, herding both men before them. In the next three rooms, they went through the same routine. Finally, they reached the last room. A key stuck out of its lock. By this point, they had five men in tow—the manager and his four customers. Sage figured that was the most he and Fong could handle should the men try resisting.

  Turning the key in the lock Sage pushed the door open and was startled to see a small girl child. She looked only about eight years old. Her eyes were huge with terror. Sage shot a disgusted look at the manager as Fong slipped into the room, picked the child up in his arms and once again headed toward the outside. This little one brought the total rescued to five.

  “You don’t know how much I want to shoot each one of you,” Sage said. “I’d say that you should be ashamed but you’re long past feeling guilt. Get inside and count yourself lucky that, unlike you, I am a decent man.”

  The five of them stumbled inside. Sage closed and locked the door behind them. Good, he thought to himself, now I don’t have to worry about them running after us. Through the door he said, “Don’t try to get out. I’m going to stand in the hallway here until I’m sure the children are far away.”

  Having said that, he moved silently down the hallway and descended the stairs. Exiting, he left the front door ajar in the hope that an enterprising thief would spot the opportunity.

  The second he clambered onto the van seat next to Fong, they began rolling away down the street. “I feel like I should go scrub in a tub of hot water,” he said to Fong.

  Fong nodded. “I feel same. But we have children. That is good.”

  Minutes later the van pulled up in front of the Boys and Girls Aid Society building. It was an imposing wood-frame structure, standing five stories high on the corner of East 29th and Irving streets. A large garden, recently donated by banker William Ladd’s estate, gave the children a place to play. At the top of steep cement steps, a covered porch stretched between the building’s two wings.

  Millie Trumbull hurried down the stairs to intercept them.

  “Do you have the children? How many?” she asked before anyone had alighted.

  “Five. Four boys and one tiny girl. Are you ready for them?” Sage said.

  “Yes, although he thinks it highly irregular, Mr. Gardner understands the necessity of him not knowing who is delivering the children to us. He’s waiting in the vestibule to receive them.”

  Sage leaned over and handed the cloth bag to Millie. “There should be enough money in here to cover their board for quite a while,” he told her.

  Meanwhile, Mae and Lucinda had opened the van doors and were lifting the confused children down onto the sidewalk. Seeing them, Millie hurried to take the two youngest boys’ hands. “Come with me, children. There’s nice hot cocoa and cookies waiting for you,” she told them with a warm smile.

  Lucinda held the little girl tightly in her arms, whispering reassurances in the child’s ears. Mae herded the two other children after Millie. Once the group reached the front door, the children were handed over to a small group of people—Lucinda doing so with obvious reluctance. That done, the two women hurried back down the stairs and jumped into the van. Fong immediately clucked the horses into action.

  “What happen to kids now?” Fong wanted to know.

  “Millie told Ma that she’ll take them to juvenile court tomorrow. Apparently, she also volunteers as a matron there. The judge will determine who the children are. If they have homes, Millie will investigate whether the homes are decent. If not, the people of the Society will try to find foster homes for them. If they can’t do that, the Society will keep them and try to teach them a trade. If the kids don’t run away, they should be safe.”

  Only the rattle and creak of the van traveling on the rough street made a sound until Fong broke the silence by saying, “Glad boy not in house.”

  “You are right. We didn’t find Glad,” Sage agreed. He was happy he could say that although he was less happy about what he said next. “Guess that means I’ll be working as a night messenger.”

  “Buddha say, ‘Life is suffering’,” was Fong’s only comment.

  Sage’s glance at his friend caught Fong smiling. “Very funny,” he said. “Given a choice, I’d pick a different kind of suffering, thank you very much.”

  Eleven

  The mood was celebratory as they sat in Lucinda’s kitchen. “I, for one, hope they stay locked up in that room for a few days,” said Lucinda.

  “Can you imagine? That little girl. Why, we were just in time. She said her daddy sold her for a whiskey bottle just before we rescued her,” Mae said. “I hate to think what her life has been like.”

  Sage glanced at Lucinda and saw her eyes fill with tears. She jumped to her feet and went to the stove. She paused with her back to them before she turned and said brightly, “More coffee anyone?”

  Sage wanted to go to her, to put his arms around her but knew this was a demon she wanted to fight alone. Bad memories ambushed like that. Even in a crowd they isolated, dug their invisible claws in, and only you could shake them off. He knew. He’d revisited that damn coal mine, asleep and awake, so many times that he’d lost count.

  Fong spoke softly. “We did good thing tonight.” He was looking at Lucinda who sent him a watery smile.

  Mae slapped her hands on the table. “Anyways, that poor boy, Glad, is still missing. We best think about how we’re going to find him.”

  “At this point, all I know to do is get next to his brother. That means getting hired by Speedy.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to just ask the brother straight out about Glad? Skip the messenger job altogether?” Lucinda asked.

  Sage shook his head. “Better not. If Eich or I ask, and he stonewalls us, then he’ll recognize us if we try anything else. Besides, given that the family is hiding Glad’s absence and the fact that Terry rebuffed the newsboy’s questions about Glad, I’ve no reason to think Terry will be forthcoming with us. Just the opposite. We’re total strangers.”

  He caught a glimpse of a sly smile flashing across Lucinda’s face and she winked at him. “What?” he asked.

  “Just thinking my bedroom wardrobe is acquiring quite a collection of your disguises. Now I’ll get to add a messenger boy outfit.”

  Fong grinned at her. “You be disappointed. Speedy messengers only wear cap. No outfits like Western Union and ADT.”

  “It figures,” Mae said. “Scalawags always cut every corner.”

    

  It was mid-afternoon, during a rainstorm, when Sage entered the Speedy Messenger office. Mae had been right. The company did cut corners because the space was small and shabby. A rickety table and chair facing the door served as the customer counter. Behind the table sat a sagging sofa, two scarred wooden benches and a small table with mismatched chairs. Two boys dressed in ragged clothes were playing cards on the table. Another two were crouched down, tossing dice against a wall. Coins were present at both games. In the farthest corner, a boy lay curled on the floor, his rolled coat serving as a pillow.

  All of them looked younger than sixteen. One looked about ten. The only adult was an unsavory type about Sage’s age sitting behind the entry table and eyeing Sage with lowered brow and sullen face. His lank, greasy hair straggled to his shoulders.

  “You looking to send a message, Mister?” the man asked in a tone only marginally polite.

  Sage doffed his rain-soaked hat and nervously smoothed his droopy mustache. “Why, no,
” he said. “Fellow told me you were hiring white men and I need a job.”

  Now that he knew Sage was not a customer, the man dropped any pretense of civility. “Is that so?” he asked aggressively. “And just why should we hire the likes of you?”

  Turning his hat brim in his hands, Sage looked down at the floor and then up to say, “Well, I know the city, I got two sturdy legs and I don’t mind working nights.”

  The man studied him in silence, long enough for Sage to fear rejection. Letting that fear show he wheedled, “Please, Mister. I’m at the end of my rope. I’ll do everything you ask without complaint.”

  The man lifted his shoulders and then dropped them, seemingly having made a decision. “Can you read?” At Sage’s nod, he continued, “Alright then. We pay you 2 cents to deliver a message but we charge the customer 25 to 75 cents for the delivery—depending on the distance. If you have to take a trolley, there’s an extra delivery charge to the customer. You get 10 percent of that charge but the cost of the trolley is taken out of your 10 percent. Is any of that going to bother you?”

  Sage relaxed. “No, no. That’d be just fine and dandy,” he said.

  “Our best customers might have you run errands for them. Will that be a problem?”

  “No, no. The fellow what told me about the job said that sometimes folks pay tips for running errands,” Sage said.

  “Yup, if the customers like you, you can do pretty good.” The man studied Sage for a long moment and then he said, “Alright, we’ll give you a try. You don’t have to wear a uniform but you do have to wear a cap. Rent for the cap is ten cents a week.” He gestured at the wall near the door where a line of black caps hung from wall pegs with an inked number on the wall above each one.

  Sage smiled in genuine relief. He was in. “I don’t have ten cents to spare right now. My landlady—”

  “You don’t pay now. I’ll deduct it from your first week’s pay,” interrupted the man. He continued, “My name’s Mr. Prang and I manage this place. I expect you to be here promptly at sundown today. You work until sunup. Is that a problem?”

  Sage was quick to shake his head. “No, no, that’s fine. I’ll see you then. Thank you, mister.”

  Sage started to leave only to halt at Prang’s next words. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m called, ‘John Miner’.”

  Prang’s face was stern and his eyes steely as he looked at Sage and said, “Well, Mr. Miner, you steal from us or our customers or cause us any trouble whatsoever, we won’t go to the police. We’ll deal with you in our own way. Believe me, that’d be much worse than going to jail. The last fellow couldn’t walk for a month.”

  As he exited, elation fizzed through Sage. For some unexplainable reason, he felt certain they were finally on the right track.

    

  Sage was back at the messenger company just as the sun dropped behind the western ridge. A sour-faced man with a bald head and scraggly beard sat at the table, flipping through papers and making entries in a ledger book. Behind him lounged a crew of different messengers.

  When he looked up and saw Sage he said, “My name’s Kimble. You Miner?” At Sage’s nod, Kimble asked, “You ever done messenger work before?” When Sage shook his head Kimble hollered, “Tobias, you got a new one to train,” and went back to his paperwork.

  Sage studied the boy who came forward. No question. This was Glad’s brother. He had the same widow’s peak above his forehead, the same elfin features. Only this boy’s dark eyes were dull and his face apathetic.

  “Get a move on,” snapped Kimble. “Remember what Willard told you!”

  From the backroom, someone mimicked Kimble in a falsetto whine, “Yeah, get a move on, Terry!” Snickers came from the group.

  Kimble jumped up and turned to glare at the others, all of whom became busy doing something else or feigning sleep. “Who said that?” he demanded but silent shrugs were the only answer. “I guess some of you need another Willard lesson,” he snarled and the boys seemed to shrink.

  Kimble turned to Glad’s brother and handing him a slip of paper he said, “Tobias, this here is John Miner. Get him outfitted with a cap and then take him with you when you run this message so he can see how to deal with our customers and fill out the paperwork. He’ll shadow you for a few hours before we send him out on his own.” He turned to Sage saying, “There’s no pay when you’re being trained.”

  The boy turned to the row of hats on pegs. “What’s his number going to be, Mr. Kimble?” he asked.

  “We’ll call him, “37”. That peg’s empty.”

  Sure enough, there was an empty peg below that number. Tobias studied Sage’s head and went over to a wooden crate. He raised the top to reveal a pile of caps, many of them tattered. After pawing through it, he brought up one but he didn’t hand it to Sage. “Whatcha going to do with that hat on your head?” he asked.

  “Roll it up and stuff it in a pocket. It’s been there before,” Sage said, speaking to him for the first time.

  “Alright then, let’s go,” said Tobias without passing over the cap. Once they were on the boardwalk and a few steps past the office, the boy turned to Sage. “Keep your own hat on for today. You’ll need to take this one home and boil it to kill the lice. In the meantime, we’ll stuff it behind these barrels in this alley and hope nobody takes it. Though if they do, they’ll surely regret it.”

  For the first time, Terry Tobias smiled, making his resemblance to his younger brother all the more striking.

  “Thank you,” was all Sage could think to say.

  They traveled just a few blocks to an attorney’s office, covering the distance at a near trot. Terry explained, “Prang and Kimble check the receipts to see how long it takes us to get places. They say we have to cover a block in one and a half minutes. That’s pretty fast. Speedy cuts our pay if we take too long.”

  The attorney’s secretary signed for the message, penciling in the delivery time. “That’ll be a 25 cent delivery charge, Sir,” Terry told the man who promptly paid, adding five cents as a tip.

  After they’d left, Sage asked. “Do people usually tip you?’

  Terry nodded. “Yeah. It’s a good thing they do. Otherwise, we’d all starve on what Speedy pays. Some folks don’t tip, though. Usually, the ones who don’t tip are the ones who hardly ever use messengers.”

  Back at the office, an errand was waiting. Terry glanced at the paper and frowned until he noticed Kimble watching him then his face went blank. “Mind what I told you,” the man called after them in a warning tone as they left.

  “What’d he mean?” Sage asked.

  “Nothing,” Terry mumbled.

  Minutes later they were climbing the steps of a crumbling wood house, the middle one of three red-curtained houses sitting a block from Erickson’s saloon. Sage knew them well—they were at Vera Clark’s brothel. Sage smiled in grim satisfaction. Maybe he would meet the woman who’d sent those hoodlums after Lucinda.

  Terry knocked and stepped back as the opening door sent a reeking miasma into their faces: a mix of cigar and cigarette smoke, stale booze, cheap perfume, and greasy pomades. But it was the sickly, fruity, scent that made Sage want to grab Terry’s shoulders and stop him from entering. Instead, Sage balled his fists and tried for deadpan.

  Terry hesitated on the threshold until the slatternly woman at the door said, “What are you waiting for, boy? You think we want to heat the outdoors or sumpthin?”

  “I’ve come from Speedy Messenger Service, ma’am,” Terry said, as they both entered and she’d closed the door.

  “‘Course you have,” she replied and turned to shout, “Vera! Messenger boy’s here.”

  There was a faint answering call. Terry shifted uneasily. A woman appeared at the top of the stairs. Sage studied her. This was, indeed, Vera Clark. Wearing a flimsy dressing gown, she was hag-faced and scra
wny. She descended the stairs, her eyelids drooping as if she was sedated.

  She studied Terry briefly before switching her attention to Sage. “Mirabelle, why are you making this customer stand in the hallway? Show him into the parlor!”

  Sage rescued Mirabelle. “Sorry ma’am, I am just a messenger being trained. I’m not a customer tonight.”

  Clark sniffed, stepped onto the entryway rug and said to Terry, “Well, in that case, I want you to take this envelope to the address written on it. Wait there and bring back what they give you. And, no dilly-dallying.”

  While she was speaking, Sage glanced into the parlor and saw why Terry stood with his back to that room. Inside were women, most scantily clothed in see-through silk. One was dancing, dreamily baring legs, breasts, and other body parts customarily seen only by husbands.

  Men were there, too. Some of them held women on their laps and drink glasses in hands that weren’t otherwise busy on the women. Laughter, coarse and shrill, nearly drowned out a tinny gramophone.

  Glancing at Terry, he saw the boy’s face was crimson. Then he saw why. Clark had let her tatty dressing gown fall open, exposing an otherwise naked body. Her emaciation made it far from sexy and her smirk said she was enjoying the twelve-year old’s embarrassment.

  Sage had had enough. He took hold of the seemingly paralyzed boy’s arm and tugged him toward the front door. “We best be going. We have another errand to run right after this one and we’re running late.” The excuse was clumsy and Clark’s shrill, mocking laughter followed them out the door.

  Once they were back on the street Sage asked, “Do you have to go into brothels like that very often?”

  “Every day. I don’t have a choice. I hate it. I daren’t tell Ma.”

  “So, you can’t refuse to go?”

  Terry gave a short, derisive bark of laughter. “Not if I want—” His voice trailed off. He looked at the envelope and said, “This address is about six blocks away. We better hurry. That woman complains if I take too long bringing her ‘medicine’.” The sarcasm lacing that last word gave Sage a good idea of what the errand was all about.