Black Drop

by S. L. Stoner

  They approached the building and strode back and forth, since the lack of windows meant observation from inside was impossible. Sage stared glumly at the narrow gaps alongside the building. “Any windows in the back?” he asked Li, who shook his head.

  That didn’t look good for a sneak attack. Evidently fearful of robbery, the warehouse builder had provided only high windows at the top of each side and probably skylights in the roof for light. Sage paused to study those side windows. One good sign was the faint guttering glow behind the grimy glass. Someone was inside.

  The windows were frustrating. They were wide enough to admit a small man but far too high to peer through. At least ten feet above ground. He supposed they could hunt up some crates, stacking them like steps against the building’s side. But that was risky. One misstep and the element of surprise would vanish.

  He turned toward Mr. Li only to see that the other man was engaged in a whispered conversation with two of the tong “cousins.” Before Sage could say anything, the two slipped into the gap beside the building and stopped below one of the windows. He watched, amazed, as one man quickly slipped from his boots and jumped onto the thighs of other man’s bent legs. Like acrobats in a circus, the first man catapulted onto the shoulders of the second man, whose shoulders rested against the building. Very slowly, the bottom man straightened, the effort silently raising the first man’s head above the window frame. “My God,” Sage breathed, “that is incredible.”

  “Those two are specialists. Performers. They carry head of the largest dragon during Chinese New Year celebration,” Mr. Li said softly. His explanation conjured up a memory of the tall, brightly-colored paper dragon, its many-legged body advancing up Second Avenue through the swirling smoke of exploding firecrackers. The crowd gasped and cheered whenever the dragon’s fearsome head reared up to tower above everyone else. Now Sage knew who was responsible for that dramatic effect.

  Unencumbered by the immense dragon head or the need to move, the bottom man held rock steady while the topmost man raised on his toes and looked through the window. After a moment, he slowly reached out and pushed a finger against the window. Sage saw it slant inward. Good. That window, at least, was unlocked. A minute later, as silently and swiftly as it had been erected, the two-man totem pole collapsed with the topmost man landing neatly atop his waiting boots. He slipped back into them, tied up the laces and both men returned to the boardwalk.

  The four of them moved away up the street, away from the building. Li and the two acrobats paused to hold a whispered exchange in unintelligible Chinese. To each side of the warehouse, small groups of men–their men–leaned casually against building fronts out of the rain. Since there was no street activity this time of night, any passerby would think their presence odd. But that was unlikely. Apart from the sleeping itinerants and a few foraging dogs, no one else was abroad.

  Beside him, the conversation stopped and the two acrobats stepped off up the boardwalk only to melt back into a doorway close to the warehouse.

  Expectantly, Sage turned toward Li who said, “Street door is fastened shut with a simple hook. There are two men sitting around a lantern, back near another door on the river side. That door is barred but it is made only of weak tin. Also, another man is lying on the floor, all tied up, by the wall under the window.”

  Relief flooded Sage. Meachum had to be alive if he was tied up. Before he could say anything a third Chinese man slipped up to speak to Li. Once they had spoken, he too melted back into the night that had darkened with a thickening of clouds. No longer did hazy patches of a star-studded night sky dot the canopy overhead. Instead, a lowering mass of sullen gray obscured all night light. “Good. The darker the better,” Sage thought.

  Mr. Li spoke. “My men say that earlier tonight they heard shouting and cries from inside. Then before we arrived, another man knocked on the street door and they let him in. He left the warehouse maybe one half-hour ago.” Li didn’t have to say any more.

  “Do you have men watching the river side?” Sage asked. It would be horrible if those two inside opened the door and heaved Meachum into the water before a rescue was launched.

  “Yes. There are two men there on the back wharf. My best swimmers. They are also ready to fire a gun and drive the bad men back inside.” Li responded, showing that he too recognized that Meachum was in imminent danger given the river’s proximity.

  “Let’s move down the block a bit and meet with our men,” Sage said. “We need a plan that won’t get Meachum killed during its execution.” At Mr. Li’s nod of agreement, they moved northward along the boardwalk, signaling to the other watchers that all should follow.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  May 21, 1903, President’s train readies to leave Salem, Oregon.

  “Because of enormous changes in cities and industrial practices, the wage earner can best use his individual will and power if he unites with other wage earners.” —T.R.

  In the end, their rescue plan was simple. The Chinese acrobats were key. Sage, with Meachum’s right-hand man, Buddy Kendall, at his side stepped down the dark street. When they reached the latched warehouse door, they exchanged a look. Their part was easy, unless the galoots inside let fly with a few bullets. Sage nodded at Kendall before raising a fist to bang on the building’s front door.

  “Hey, Gus, it’s Elmer and Casey, open up!” he shouted, his words slurred. “We got us a bottle of that thar Scots firewater you like so much.” They kept up the racket, pounding and shouting like two happy drunks out on a binge and seeking companionship.

  Immediately, a querulous voice shouted back from within. “There ain’t nobody here called ‘Gus.’ You men have the wrong warehouse. Move along.”

  Sage looked toward the remainder of Meachum’s men. They stood at the right front corner of the building. At his nod,

  they quickly slipped out of sight, trailing each other down that side of the building, heading toward the dock at the back. There they were to wait.

  It was time to step up the racket. Now both Sage and Kendall started pounding on the door in earnest and shouting at the top of their lungs. It was crucial that both of Meachum’s captors move to the front of the building, away from Meachum and the rear door. Sage grinned at Kendell when the second captor’s voice sounded from a point just inside the door, “Shut the hell up you fools. We don’t want no whiskey!”

  Sage raised his hand and Mr. Li stepped from under the awning of a neighboring building. He signaled to his two acrobats who were waiting beneath the high side window.

  If all went as hoped, that signal would propel the Chinese acrobat onto his partner’s shoulders once again. Once Sage and Kindell had the two men inside sufficintly distracted, the topmost acrobat would ease open the window and drop to the floor inside. From there, he was to race over to the rear door, unbar it and return to protect Meachum.

  Buddy and Sage stepped up their assault on the tin door, Sage kicking it with his heavy boot, Buddy pounding on it with the butt of his revolver. All the while, both of them shouting, keeping up the pretext of being friendly drunks eager to share their bottle. That friendliness was the only thing keeping the two men inside from firing their guns straight through the door. Once they realized they were really under assault, bullets would pierce that thin metal door easy as hot knives through butter.

  Sage’s ears strained to hear over the racket he and Buddy were making. Mr. Li, who had moved to the building’s left-hand corner, was peering along its side. Suddenly Li raised a hand and circled his index finger in the air. The acrobat had dropped into the building. Sage instantly stepped up the noise and began to pry at the door, hoping to spring the latch.

  “There ain’t no damn ‘Gus’ here! You git away from that damn door or I’m going start . . . . ” came a yell from inside before it abruptly cut off. A distant clamor and a sharp whistle sounded in the night air. Both signaled that the rear door was open, the team had entered the building. Sage and Buddy, as one, slammed their shoulders into the
flimsy door. Their reward was a metallic screech as the nails anchoring the inside metal hook tore loose from the wooden door frame.

  It was dim within, the only light being a kerosene lantern flickering near the rear of the building. Still, even in that feeble light it was clear that the assault was over. One of the thugs was clutching his shoulder, blood pouring from between his fingers, as he struggled to steady the hilt of a deeply sunk knife blade. The other thug, his rheumy eyes wide and glistening, stood like a frozen statute with his hands high in the air. He was not a total fool. The muzzles of six guns were pointing at him.

  All Sage cared about was reaching the side of the warehouse where the acrobat had reported seeing Meachum. Buddy was already kneeling beside his boss. As Sage reached his side, Buddy looked up, his face pale and wide-eyed with fear. “He’s breathing mighty shallow, he’s hurt bad,” he said. Meanwhile, one of Li’s men knelt at Meachum’s back, sawing at the unconscious man’s bonds. As Meachum’s hands fell free, he gave a groan but his puffy eyes remained closed in a face that was barely recognizable.

  “Let’s find something firm to carry him on. He might have broken bones. We’ll take him over to the hotel. Angus is expecting him. I sent word ahead,” Sage instructed. Two of Meachum’s men rummaged around the warehouse and returned with a door. They laid their coats atop its surface before gently sliding the injured man onto it.

  Swiftly, they headed out, Sage trotting behind. As they exited the building, he saw Mr. Li standing in the cluster of his men. Sage raised his palms to signal Meachum’s chance of survival was unknown. Li nodded and gave a slight bow before he and his men turned away to head down the street.

  Sage paused. Without Fong’s Chinese “cousins,” Meachum would not have been found. He would have died for sure. Sage wanted to yell out his “thanks” but decided they’d made enough noise on this street. Someone might have called the police. He pulled out his pocket watch, tilting its face to catch the faint light. It was twelve-thirty in the morning. In just eleven hours, the president’s train would chug into Union Station. To the sound of marching bands and cheering crowds, the assassination team would slip into place. A mix of anger and fear surged up from his gut. He reluctantly turned back toward the warehouse and the two captives. Above, the sullen clouds loosed a spate of spring rain, its light, well-spaced droplets making vanishing circlets in puddle surfaces.

  * * *

  Matthew was still groggy but he’d shed most of the opium’s residual effects. Enough so that he was able to comprehend the whispered discussion between Herman Eich and Mae Clemens.

  “We can’t wait for rescue,” Mae was insisting. “Sage has his hands full already. We aren’t even sure that anyone knows we’re missing!”

  “But, if we do get Matthew out that transom above the door, he still has to get himself past Mister Growl who’s guarding the stairs. Why, he could drop down right in front of the fellow. I say we wait until they open the door and we jump them. They won’t be expecting us to have our hands free.”

  “Don’t you realize they could set fire to the building without ever opening the door? And, they took away the damn door key. Do you really want to be trying to break open that door from inside when the hallway’s in flames? They made it clear as springtime rain that they’re going to act and soon.” Mae was adamant, fear hissing in her whisper.

  Matthew cleared his throat, “I agree with Mrs. Clemens, Mr. Eich. From what they said, I think they plan to burn us up tonight and soon. It must be getting near morning. They wait any longer and too many folks will be up and about. At least, if we . . . .” Matthew didn’t get to finish his point.

  “Shh! Listen,” commanded Mae. The three held their breath as they strained to hear whether something was happening outside their prison. Then they knew. Faint illumination brightened the transom window over the door. Their eyes, already adjusted to pitch black, had no trouble discerning the terror on each other’s face. As one they moved toward the door and listened even harder. In the end, it wasn’t their ears but their noses that answered the question foremost in their minds. All three knew the smell. Everywhere in the city small, gas-powered generators ran workshop stitching machines, printing presses, harness makers, electrical plants and a host of other equipment. It was the chill, chemical smell of gasoline that now slithered beneath the door to fill the room.

  Mae and Herman looked at each other, their initial terror replaced by thin-lipped determination. Herman bent down, putting his hands onto his knees so that his back formed a table. At the same time, Mae grabbed Matthew’s arm, saying, “You crawl out that transom, boy. If you can, run on down to that room where the other boys are kept and free them. Lead them down the stairs.”

  “But, you’ll be trapped inside here. There isn’t even a window!” Matthew protested, even as he grabbed the door frame to steady himself while he climbed atop Eich’s back.

  “There’s nothing that can be done about us, boy. They took the key out of the lock. It would take an axe to break down this door and there isn’t time to find one and do the job. You told us that they leave the key in the other lock. You go see if it’s there. Find a way to free those boys, now!”

  Matthew reached up, shoved open the transom window, and extended his forearms into the hallway. “All clear” he said, fear making his voice loud. At that, Mae grabbed hold of his legs and with a grunt, she shoved the boy upward, propelling him out. There was a thump as he landed on the hallway floor.

  “Oh, God,” he whimpered, “the rug is soaked.” Eich straightened, a hand on the small of his back. “Do what Mae said, Matthew,” he called. “Free the others. Lead them out. Go for help. We’ll be fine”

  They heard the thud of his feet as he ran down the hallway in the direction of the room where the Cap’n had the boys imprisoned. Overhead, the transom window hung slightly ajar. The odor of gasoline grew stronger in their prison. Mae and Herman stepped to the farthest corner of the room. As they stood there, their backs pressed against the windowless wall, Herman slid an arm across Mae’s shoulders and pulled her tight. She slipped her arm around his waist and hugged him back. “Regrets?” he asked, his lips touching her hair. He felt her head shake “no” and tightened his hold. “That’s the girl,” he whispered.

  * * *

  “Hurry, hurry, hurry,” Robert Clooney’s voice was a near squeak as he shooed the waiting men through the side door into the BCS’s stairwell.

  McAllister paused, “What took you so long?” he asked even as he noted that Robert’s face was dead white and more tense than he’d ever seen it.

  “The Cap’n’s been running all over the place, shoving things into suitcases. And his two henchman have been guarding the stairwell all night long. They’ve got the damn front door blocked shut with a desk. I tried to move it and made way too much noise. They almost caught me. I had to hide in the dining room under the table.”

  “What’s happening right now?”

  “The Cap’n and that guest of his just fled out the kitchen door with their suitcases. The two thugs are up on the third floor with gasoline cans.”

  As if on cue, gasoline vapor flowed down the stairwell. The four other men with McAllister yanked revolvers from their coat pockets and rushed toward the stairs. McAllister paused to say, “Robert, go outside and keep watch. We’ll take it from here.”

  “Like hell you will,” Clooney said, pulling out his own revolver before charging past him up the stairs.

  McAllister followed, fear and admiration giving such strength to his legs that he was soon back in the lead.

  * * *

  The mercenary leaned down to wipe his knife blade on the deadman’s clothes. “It’s a good thing I keep my friend here sharp,” he thought to himself. “Damned hard stabbing a man through a heavy coat and all those layers. The fool must be wearing his entire wardrobe.”

  He reached down and picked up the Cap’n’s bulging suitcase. “Nice little bonus this. Mighty obliging of the fool to gather up all his valuabl
es for me.” There was the clank of metal on metal. He smiled to himself. The BCS’s silver was heading to a new home.

  When he reached the alley mouth, he looked both ways. The street was empty of any life except for a passing dog, sniffing his way along the gutter. No human was abroad at five o’clock in the morning. Glancing over his shoulder, the mercenary looked down the street toward the BCS’s third story. In minutes, maybe only seconds, there’d be that satisfying whoosh followed by an orange flicker behind the window glass. That glass would eventually explode outward, cries would sound and the fire truck would rumble toward the conflagration. A sight to see but one he had to forego this time.

  The mercenary turned and strode away in the direction of the livery stable. Heavy suitcases in each hand, he marveled that the Cap’n had been so stupid as to think he would still be alive at the end of the operation. Despite the lack of sleep, his steps were lively. Anticipation coursed through him as well as satisfaction.

  Both were sensations he liked but rarely felt. In the end, and after a few problems, everything was proceeding as planned.

  Meachum was dead by now. Too bad there hadn’t been one more opportunity to teach him a lesson. The rocks he’d told them to put in Meachum’s pockets guaranteed that his body wouldn’t surface for some days. Meanwhile, a rented buggy sat waiting at the livery stable. He planned to stash the two suitcases behind its seat. He’d instructed the livery owner to have the horse harnessed and ready to go at five p.m. sharp. He’d be on his way within minutes after the job was done. South to Salem. There he’d catch the train. He’d be out of Oregon before nightfall, hours before the chaos died down. He smiled to himself, imagining that chaos. Everything would happen just as planned. The police force, that do-gooder chief police, the extra detectives and even that strange combination of chinks and union bums couldn’t stop him. President Theodore Roosevelt, the so-called “Rough Rider” hero, would lead no more assaults up piddling hills or get his picture taken with the carcasses of animals he’d shot.