by S. L. Stoner
His mother was ready. “That’s right,” she said. “So, I was thinking I could tell her I need Matthew for a few days, to help me fix up my friend’s house. You know, nail down a few boards, patch the roof, clean out the weeds and gather the limbs winter brought down.”
“It would mean him missing school.” She had an answer for that also. “He’s a smart boy, getting real good grades. He can spare a few days off from book learning.”
“Yes, but, every time Matthew gets involved in our missions, I end up having to rescue him.” The sight of Matthew’s desperate, pale face and blurry eyes staring out from between the bars of the shanghaier’s holding pen was a sharp memory.
“Not last time, you didn’t. Not when the bridges were falling and you needed him to find that messenger boy. Last time, he did exactly what you asked. And, he stayed out of trouble. He’s older now, more experienced. And he wants to help. It’s not like he doesn’t know that we’re always up to something. He had that figured out the first month he moved in with Ida and Knute.”
Every word Mae spoke was the truth. Sage thought of the awkward, earnest red-haired boy. He was more mature and had proven himself to be responsible as well as smart.
“Okay, tell you what. I’ll see what Fong thinks of the idea. If he’s agreeable, then I’ll ask Matthew what his friend Ollie looks like. While we’re talking about that, I’ll try to find out if he’d be interested.”
It was a concession and they both knew it. Matthew was always “interested.” In fact, his interest in their affairs was one of their nagging concerns. It was hard to carry out secret missions when the inquisitive sixteen-year-old scrutinized their every movement.
They walked along in silence until they were a block away from Mae’s boarding house. Mae stopped and turned toward him, “Sage, something is troubling you, son. What is it? Can I help?”
The unexpected tenderness in her voice disarmed him. He spoke without thinking, right out of the sore spot that hung near his heart. “Fong says I shouldn’t hate. He says it’s a ‘distraction.’ But these days, I feel consumed by it. I look at the ugly things men do to other people and I hate those men. I want to stop them, yes. But, I also want to make them hurt like they make others hurt. It doesn’t seem fair that they keep getting away with it, even thrive from doing it. But what I do for the labor movement–well, I like to think that I do it because I love my fellow man. But hating and loving humanity at the same time seems to be one heck of a contradiction.”
Her blue eyes, dark and changeable like his own, filled with tears and she looked away, down the street. He knew she wasn’t seeing the buildings, the nighttime strollers or the horse and buggies rattling over the cobblestones. The expression on her face said she was staring into a painful past.
She turned back towards him. “I don’t need to tell you that I have cause to hate. We’ve both plowed that rocky field more than once. And, I’ve never been a big enough person to forgive. But I have found a way to put hate aside. What I do is write down the name of the person I hate on a piece of paper. I fold up that piece of paper up and put it in that wooden box on my dresser. Then I shut the lid, tight. That’s where they stay and that’s where my hate for them stays.”
She looked at him then, the faint gaslight showing spots of red on her cheeks. “Kinda silly, I suppose, but it seems to work,” she said.
* * *
Fong had been waiting for him on the third floor. A plain white teapot sat in the middle of the small alcove table. Fong was sipping from his handle less cup and staring out the window when Sage opened the door.
Despite Fong’s appearance of ease, Sage sensed tension in the other man. “What’s happened?” he asked.
Fong smiled. “Good news. Cousins find thee hurt men all together . . . one arm, two feet.”
“Great! We know where they are staying yet?” Sage asked. “No. But cousins sticking to them like rice grains in cook
pot. We soon know where the three pillow their heads. After that, we will follow everywhere. See who they meet. Follow that person too.”
“The cousins will do that for you?” Sage asked. He didn’t know why Fong commanded such respect from the silent Chinese men who were always available to help out. Maybe it was Fong’s skill with the snake and crane fighting style, maybe it was because Fong owned a small provision store in Chinatown, or maybe because they belonged to Fong’s fraternal “tong” organization or maybe–a thought sent a shiver rippling across Sage’s shoulders–maybe their loyalty had something to do with their admiration for Fong’s skill with a hatchet. Whatever the reason, the cousins had proved themselves invaluable more than once.
Fong flicked the window curtain aside to gaze down at the wood block street.“Yes, they said they will help, he said. He turned back toward Sage. ” Cousins do not like Roosevelt because he call Chinese men ‘heathens.’ Thinks we all belong back in China. But cousins like Trust men even less.”
Hot shame flooded Sage’s face. He’d assumed that the men of Chinatown neither cared nor knew little about white men’s doings. It had never occurred to him that Fong’s Chinese foot soldiers, searching throughout the night, might be well aware of the stakes. So aware that they were risking their own safety just to thwart a plot against a man they disliked. Slinking around the city’s dives after dark was a dangerous activity for Chinese men. According to city ordinances, once the sun went down, they were supposed to retreat to those few areas that comprised Chinatown. The ordinance wasn’t strictly enforced, but its existence made them fair game for any surly drunk who decided to act out his frustrations.
“Be sure to let them know that I will make up any lost wages and then some,” was all he could think to say.
“Already done that,” Fong assured him, with a sardonic twist to his lips. “But, not every Chinese man wants to return to China,” he said. “Some of us think we are Americans.”
* * *
The next morning, Sage found Matthew on his hands and knees scrubbing the restaurant’s white marble floor. No doubt, Matthew would prefer pedaling his safety bike around town with his gang of friends, but Ida required Matthew to work for his bed and board. The boy never seemed to mind. Instead, he was a diligent and cheerful worker. He’d once assured Sage that nothing could be worse than standing ten hours a day in a cannery gutting ocean fish From this emphatic statement, Sage surmised that Matthew had left the Marshfield canneries behind for good.
Other than Matthew, the dining room was empty. Sage went into the kitchen, fetched two cups of coffee, black for himself, heavily milked and sugared for Matthew. Returning, he gestured to a table. Matthew rose and took a seat, perplexity creasing his freckled forehead.
“Matthew, I need you to give me a physical description of Ollie.”
Matthew scratched his head. “Well, let’s see. Ollie is about five inches shorter than me, so, about five and a half feet. He has yellow hair that’s sort of curly but not real curly. Wavy like.”
“Unfortunately, that description could fit a lot f boys in this town. Is there anything about him that is unusual?”
The boy thought for a bit, then answered, “I guess the thing a person might notice about Ollie is that he has really big feet and his eyes are green. Real green, like bottle glass.”
“Now, that is helpful. Average height, big feet, green eyes and wavy yellow hair. That’s a very good description.”
Sage could tell the boy wanted to ask questions. But, instead, Matthew turned his mug of coffee round and round about, staring into its depths, his lips clamped shut. The boy had taken to heart Sage’s instructions to stay out of the matter. Such restraint was a good sign.
Sage cleared his throat and the boy looked up eagerly. Sage exhaled loudly, trying to let loose the feeling that he might be about to make a very big mistake. He looked sternly into the boy’s face and said, “Matthew, I need to have a little discussion with you. A discussion you must keep to yourself. You can’t be telling your friends or anyone else. Do you u
nderstand?”
The boy nodded, somehow managing to slosh his coffee onto the table top at the same time. Lurching to his feet to fetch a rag, he jostled the table, causing Sage’s coffee to spill as well. A few minutes later, the boy’d wiped up the coffee spills and was settled back into his chair. This time, he held himself rigid, his freckled cheeks flaming ed.
“Don’t worry, you’ll grow out of the clumsiness,” Sage assured him.
The boy nodded but didn’t look reassured. He mumbled, “I’m clumsy and that is that. My ma sez that I came into the world with two left feet, it’s just my toes that got put on right.”
Sage smiled, thinking Matthew’s mother must be a fine woman given the quality of her son. He pushed that thought aside and picked up where he’d left off. “So, as I was saying, this talk has to be kept secret. Even from your aunt and uncle. Can you agree to that?” He hated asking the boy to keep secrets from his aunt and uncle. But, that’s the way it had to be.
Again, the boy nodded. He said nothing but Sage could see the excitement building in the bright blue eyes. So, he made his voice stern, “This is serious business, Matthew. Not some lark. You could get hurt and you could cause other people to get hurt.”
The boy’s eyes widened and this time his nod was solemn. “I understand, Mr. Adair. I will keep my mouth shut. I won’t tell nobody, not my friends, not Aunt Ida or Uncle Knute. Is it about Ollie?”
“Yes, it’s about Ollie and the boy he was worried about and it’s about other boys like them. I told you we would try to help find Ollie, right?”
“Yes, sir, you did. And I thank you for it. Do you want me to help? Maybe ask some questions of the other street boys?”
“No, you shouldn’t talk to anyone about Ollie. I need you to do something more difficult and more dangerous. It would mean you taking a few days off from school. Are you at a point in your studies where you can do that?”
Matthew thought for a moment. “I got an essay due tomorrow but I am almost finished with it. Another boy could take it in for me. After that, it’s just book reading I got to do. I’m pretty fast when it comes to reading.” Pride tinged the boy’s words.
Sage took a deep breath, then he told Matthew where Mae Clemens really was, why she needed his help and the ruse they’d devised so Ida would let Matthew out of her sight for a few days. Not surprisingly, the boy eagerly agreed to their plans.
Sage didn’t try to hide the misgivings he felt when he said, “Don’t be so damn eager. This is no lark. You must promise me that you will only observe and report to Mrs. Clemens. You will not go exploring. You will not stick your nose into unusual places in the BCS building. You will tell her what you observe Captain Branch and others doing and you will do absolutely nothing else.
You promise?”
“I promise, on my honor, I will only do what you tell me to do.” Matthew said, struggling to keep his face solemn even as the sparkle in his eyes gave away the excitement that had taken over.
Once the boy returned to his floor scrubbing with renewed vigor, Sage carried their cups to the kitchen sink, hoping that Matthew really comprehended the dangers that lay ahead. Mae planned to turn up later in the day to ask Ida the favor of her nephew’s help with her ill friend in Linnton. If Ida agreed, Matthew would be checking into the BCS that evening, a simple farm kid looking for a warm bed. Hopefully, the boy’s advanced age meant he’d be considered too old for Lynch’s house of child prostitution. Matthew’s face had blanched when he heard of the suspected fate of the BCS’s younger residents. He’d swallowed hard, his new Adam’s apple bobbing, but he hadn’t shied away from the scheme.
The night before, it was Fong’s observation that had finally convinced Sage to chance using Matthew’s help. “Many boys Matthew’s age are already doing man’s work. Some travel across country by themselves with nothing but wits. Some, like my nephew, Choi Ji, travel half way around world. Matthew is young man. No longer a boy. He will rise to trust we place in him.”
Sage wished he had Fong’s complete confidence in Matthew. But, he didn’t. As he passed Ida’s door on his way to the third floor, the memory of her tear-streaked face sprang into his mind, sending a gush of guilt and fear surging into his belly. He forced himself to again envision those wan-faced boys sprawled atop those steps that led to that accursed red door.
NINETEEN
Dispatch: May 14, 1903, President returns to San Francisco.
“Justice consists not in being neutral between right and wrong, but in finding out the right and upholding it, wherever found, against the wrong.” —T.R.
Sage stepped stealthily down the third floor hallway toward his mother’s room until he caught himself doing it, then he paused. “There’s no one but me up here. Besides, she wouldn’t have told me where to look if she didn’t expect me to look. She knows me too well,” he told himself out loud.
He pushed open her door. The room was spare and spotless. She hadn’t wanted her room to display trappings of wealth like his room did. Not just because adornments wouldn’t be suitable for Mozart’s sometime hostess, cook and general all-around helper, but also because luxury made her uncomfortable. “Frou-frous and geegaws cluttered about make me feel silly as a milk cow wearing tail ribbons,” she’d once told him. Inside the room, her rocking chair sat with its back against the window so as to capture the best light, a wicker basket of mending close by its runner. Her single bed stood against one wall, a patchwork quilt snugged up to the headboard, an extra one folded neatly across its foot. Old and tattered, the quilt was a possession from those days she rarely talked about.
The plain, pine-top dresser was his focus. He’d seen that wooden box atop it before but had thought nothing of it. Now the box seemed to have grown in size, capturing and holding the light streaming through the room’s only window.
He walked to the dresser and lifted the box lid. Inside were three small pieces of folded paper. He picked one up and carefully unfolded it. The angular slant of his mother’s handwriting spelled out the name of the mine owner who’d forced a Hobson’s choice on her those many years ago: “Raise your only child in dire poverty or, relinquish all contact with him, and I will raise and educate him alongside my grandson.” She’d made that sacrifice for the remainder of his childhood. It had been a childhood tainted by that mine owner’s scarcely concealed resentment over Sage’s survival of the mine explosion that had killed the mine owner’s only son. But, he’d persisted in raising Sage because of the debt he owed the kid from Appalachia who’d saved his grandson from the same explosion.
Though Sage had experienced all the privileges and trappings of wealth, the undertone had been an undertone of derision coming from the mine owner and his friends. Sage had felt like an organ grinder’s monkey. Still, he did not hate the mine owner. Neither did he feel overwhelming gratitude or any strong favorable emotion toward the man. Sage carefully re-folded the paper and placed it back in the box.
The next name was no surprise. It was that of the Dickenson supervisor whose gang of agent thugs had swarmed over Mae’s Appalachian hills and hollers those many years ago. They’d used their guns and fists o crush the Irish miners whose only crime was wanting to give their families lives free of hunger and uncertainty. Those Dickenson agents killed Mae Clemens’s father and brother after they’d been betrayed by a man close to them. It was that man whose name was written in bold strokes across the third piece of folded up paper–“John David Adair.” Sage’s father.
* * *
“Thank you for coming so promptly, Sergeant,” Sage said as he entered the kitchen and clapped a friendly hand onto Hanke’s broad back. The police sergeant, who was sitting at the kitchen table, made as if to rise.
“No, no. Finish your dinner.” Sage poured himself a cup of coffee and sat opposite the big man.
Holding up a massive paw, Hanke shook his head. “It’s okay, I can talk now, Mr. Adair. I know you’re busy out front what with it being the dinner hour and all.” He began pulling the na
pkin out of his collar.
“We don’t have a problem there. We’ve promoted Horace to the position of fill-in maitre’d whenever Mrs. Clemens and I have to be absent. Got him fancied up in a new suit. He’s having a grand time and doing a very good job of it,” Sage assured him. “Go ahead and finish our meal and then we’ll talk.”
Hanke chuckled but still demurred, “Really, Mr. Adair, I might be stuffing y face like a farm hand but, my ears work fine What’s the problem?”
Sage glanced around the room. The two kitchen help girls were jumping to Ida’s orders and the two waiters were bursting through the doors at a steady pace, stacking up empty plates and snatching up full ones. Good, Ida’s new special of the day was being well-received. They’d debated adding the Italian noodle dish but it seemed that people liked it.
He shook his head. “No, Sergeant, we’ll need to go upstairs for this talk. Too many folks busy around here. We should get out of their way.” He cupped his ear as if scratching it.
The sergeant’s blue eyes widened but he said nothing. He cleaned his plate with a few rapid forkfuls. And, for once, he didn’t look around expectantly in the hope of seconds. Mozart’s owner had never before invited the sergeant to his private third floor quarters. The policeman rose to his six-three height, tucked his beehive helmet under his arm and let Sage precede him from the kitchen.
They climbed the stairs to the third story. Sage saw Hanke shoot a quick glance around the room but the man’s broad face betrayed nothing. Sage gestured toward the small table standing within the window alcove.
Once Hanke got settled, Sage took a deep breath and began, “Sergeant, you’ve known me for over a year now. We’ve worked together on three cases and every time, I’ve made sure that you were in the right place, at the right time. Isn’t that so?”