Land Sharks

by S. L. Stoner

  “There must be some way to stop him,” Sage insisted. He rejected the idea that justice couldn’t prevail. That didn’t fit his picture of how the universe operated. In a flash of insight he saw how the idea of justice related to Fong’s repeated references to the need for “balance.” Maybe that’s it. Maybe, injustice throws the universe out of balance.

  “Tell me again, what the doctor said about Stuart,” Laidlaw said, prodding Sage out of his silent contemplation. So Sage told about the broken bones and concussion. After that, both men strode the final block to the hospital wrapped in silence. Within sight of its entrance, Laidlaw pulled Sage beneath a fir tree’s low-hanging boughs. “Listen, Adair, there may be a way to get Mordaunt. While at the Cabot Club today, I learned that all Portland’s judges, except Clarence Berquist, will be attending a statewide meeting down at Seaside. They’ll all be absent for five days. And they’re leaving Judge Berquist in charge.”

  “That’s good?”

  “Very good for our plans. As far as I know, Berquist is the only judge who refuses the crimps’ help on election days. And he’s found a crimp or two guilty in the past. As a result, those types of cases are now assigned straightaway to other judges. If you can find an honest policeman to make the arrest and believe me, that will be hard to do . . .”

  Sage interrupted, “Not for me it won’t,” he said, immediately thinking of the stolid but reliably honest Hanke.

  “Good, good. That’s half the battle. If we can get the evidence. And if Mordaunt is arrested and taken before Berquist, there may be a chance. Mind you, it’s just a chance, but it’s the best one we’ll have where Mordaunt’s concerned.”

  Sage gave a confident nod even though he still had no idea how to get accepted into Mordaunt’s operation. He couldn’t shanghai someone onto the Karluk whaling ship. Not when that the old salt, Thimble, predicted it would soon sink. Admittedly there were times, in the course of his work for St. Alban, when Sage found himself being deceptive. But, he’d never strayed so far as to put an innocent man in jeopardy just to achieve some end, no matter how laudatory the goal. That idea stank. It was too much like the disgusting ploys promoted by that Italian philosopher, Machiavelli. Anyway, this was not the time to sort that out. Sage started to step out from beneath the fir tree, intent on reaching Franklin’s side but Laidlaw’s hand restrained him.

  “No, Adair. You can’t enter the hospital. They might be watching. If they see you with me and Franklin, you’re a dead man for certain.”

  So Sage stayed beneath the tree, watching Laidlaw mount the hospital steps. Just as he reached the entrance doors, they opened and the Society’s chaplain, Robinson, stepped out. The two men conferred, and then both re-entered the hospital.

  Next morning, when Sage stumbled out of the boardinghouse door into bright sunlight, driven forward by Pratt’s hectoring, the street seemed empty. It wasn’t until a familiar voice quavered, “Please, mister, a few coins for a hungry old woman,” that Sage saw her hunkered down next to the stoop.

  He paused, extracted a few coins, and dropped them onto her soiled palm. Pratt saw and started up. “You lazy son-of-agun! First you abandon your post at the door until all hours of the night, now you delay us by doting on some filthy hag. Well, I’ll be damned!” Pratt pulled back a foot to kick the old woman who’d just spat on his shoe. “I’m not going to stand for that right on my own doorstep!”

  Sage jumped between them, shoving Pratt away down the sidewalk as he shot the woman a warning look. She smiled sweetly and called after him, “I hope to see you soon, good sir.”

  Pratt snapped back an immediate reply, “If you’re still here when we get back, I’ll see that you do your spitting in the calaboose, you old cow.”

  Mae Clemens cackled wildly in response to Pratt’s threat.

  The old crimp continued to fume as they walked. “Don’t you ever let me see you giving beggars money on my front stoop again. You do that, and pretty soon they’ll be thicker than the flies on that horse dung,” he said, pointing to a steaming manure pile near the curb. “If you have so much extra money that you’re giving it away, maybe I’m paying you too much . . .”

  The yammering continued, but Sage let it flow around him like creek water around a boulder. Why had his mother shown up at Pratt’s door? Sage understood her message. She needed to talk to him and soon. What about Fong? Why hadn’t he carried the message? She’d worked the North End once before in pursuit of a murderer, but only something important would have taken her away from Mozart’s to squat on the sidewalk in Portland’s roughest district.

  After a morning of rowing and a free lunch with beer, they returned to the boardinghouse for Pratt’s customary afternoon nap. Within minutes of Pratt’s first ripsaw snores, Sage strode out the door, up the street, into the tunnel and soon arrived in Mozart’s third floor hallway. His mother waited for him in his room. She looked clean and tidy, her hair tightly controlled by its customary bun.

  “What’s the matter? What’s happened?” he asked.

  “Sergeant Hanke came by last night. He said that the folks on the east side of the mountains have no interest in capturing that man, LaRue.”

  “Fong knows?”

  “Fong’s the one he told. I just happened to be there and heard it.”

  “Where’s Fong? Why did he let you go to the North End?”

  “Don’t be silly! He didn’t know I planned to go down there. I didn’t even see him.” Tension made her voice sharp. “After Hanke told Fong the bad news, Fong left and stayed gone until just about an hour ago. That’s one reason why I rushed out to find you this morning. I didn’t know if he’d already done something and needed help.”

  “Did he say anything to you when he came in?”

  “He assured me that he hasn’t done anything yet, but there’s no question that he intends to, and soon.” She was as close to panic as he’d ever seen her. Not surprising. A powerful bond existed between his mother and Fong. Sometimes that bond irritated Sage because they seemed to enjoy ganging up on him, as though he were a befuddled, amusing kid.

  “Where is he now?”

  “Upstairs again, in the attic. With that damn hatchet.” She hunched her shoulders in a shudder.

  Sage stepped into the attic but remained just inside the door. He stood in the shadow looking toward the attic’s center. There brilliant light streaming from the skylight fell onto the man who moved within its rays. His movements, unfettered by his loose cotton tunic and trousers, were fluid, as effortless as a fish gliding through water. The gleaming hatchet in Fong’s right hand, however, belied any poetic flight of fancy. Its slashing blade shone as a blur of silver.

  Fong paused, his back to Sage. When he spoke, his words sounded lifeless. “Mister Sage. Your mother told you Hanke’s news of LaRue?”

  Sage started at Fong’s words. He’d thought he’d gone unnoticed. But then Fong always noticed everything—the subtle change in air currents when another entered the room, a bird touching down in the rooftop garden.

  Sage pushed past his hesitation,“Yes, she came to the North End to tell me.”

  Fong nodded, “Put herself in danger. Your lady mother is fine woman and fine friend.” He sighed and sat upon the pine floor, the hatchet close at hand.

  Sage sat also and sought to lighten the moment by telling Fong of Mae Clemens’s unladylike but heartening spit onto Tobias Pratt’s boot. Fong didn’t laugh, although his smile did reach his eyes for a brief flicker before winking out.

  “Mr. Fong, I know I shouldn’t ask this of you, but . . .”

  Fong didn’t allow him to finish, holding up a palm to stop the words. “No, Mr. Sage, do not ask me. Life has brought my uncle’s killer to me. There is a purpose to this happening, one I must complete.”

  “But the law will call it murder. An execution of a white man by a Chinese man. You’ll hang if they catch you!” The panic Sage had suppressed earlier when talking to his mother now roared out at full strength.

  “
I cannot help that.” Fong’s jaw clenched in a determination that Sage knew he could not change. Still, Sage tried.

  “Mr. Fong, we, Mother and I, we can’t continue without your help. You are so important to us. For our sakes, please don’t do this.”

  “Lady wife will have a hard time, too, but she understands what I must do. She has given acceptance even though she hides tears,” Fong said, his voice mournful.

  “Then don’t do it! We’ll think of something else.”

  Fong snapped, “You don’t think I have tried for many days to think of some other action? There is nothing. Nothing. LaRue must die. It is a matter of family honor. My family honor. You know nothing of that kind of honor, no white man does. Leave me.”

  “I do know. I want to help.”

  But Fong’s face closed as tight as his fist. “No more talk, Mr. Sage. Leave me. Now.” Sage stood. Before leaving the room he took a long look at the man sitting on the polished floor with the hatchet by his side. He wondered if that look would be his last.

  NINETEEN

  MAE CLEMENS WAITED AT THE bottom of the attic stairs, her long fingers clenched tightly together, deep worry lines around her mouth. Her eyes sought Sage’s. He shook his head. Her hand covered her mouth, stifling a cry.

  “He’s not budging,” Sage said, taking her elbow and leading her into his room.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know, something. We’ve got to do something. I saw him, you know. LaRue, I saw him.”

  “Where?”

  “In Topper’s saloon. He was bragging about killing Chinese. Afterward, I followed him to his hotel.”

  “Maybe you could tell LaRue to leave town, warn him that he’s in danger. If he leaves, Mr. Fong can’t take revenge against him.”

  Sage emphatically shook his head. “That is the one thing I cannot do, Mother. LaRue killed over thirty innocent human beings, and he brags about it. If I warned him, I doubt he’d go, I’d just put him on alert and make it more dangerous for Fong. But even if LaRue did leave, Fong would never forgive me. A person needs to believe that somehow, someday, there will be justice.”

  She clutched at his forearm, her strong fingers clamping down, as she said, “At least Fong would be alive. A dead man’s friendship is mighty cold comfort.”

  He saw no point in arguing. He would not warn LaRue no matter what her argument. He’d spent hours debating with himself. He would not warn LaRue and he would not tell her where LaRue stayed so she could do it. Subject closed.

  “Please tell me that you sent Matthew off to Milwaukie to help Grace Kincaid,” he said to change the subject and because Matthew hanging about only added to his worries.

  “Indeed I did. I gave him money and told him to fill her cupboards with food. I also told him to buy and chop at least three cords of wood so she won’t have that worry this winter and to do whatever else she needed. He pedaled off on his bicycle this morning. Says he’s going to ride it all the way out there. The prospect of a long distance pedal had him excited as all get out.”

  “Good, he’ll be out of my hair. I swear. Everywhere I turn, I see him skulking along behind me. I suppose that he’s figured out I wear disguises.”

  “I know he has, no question about that. Yesterday he asked me why you went around in different clothes. I told him that’s how you helped people, like you did him, but to keep that strictly secret. ‘Course, that only whetted his interest. He started peppering me with more questions. It forced me to get a mite sharp with him.”

  “Oh, that must have been real hard for you,” Sage said, dodging a flashing hand swipe in his direction. He commented in a more somber tone, “So many people are in on our secret I’m beginning to think we can’t call it one anymore.”

  “That reminds me, what about Lucinda?”

  “What about her?” His tone sounded unexpectedly querulous to his own ears. He took a breath. “I mean, did she stop by or something?”

  “Yes. In fact, she stopped by the restaurant late yesterday afternoon. We spoke for a bit. I told her you were working on something. But Sage, you need to see her. She seemed very sad.”

  “She understands.”

  Mae shook her head, saying, “Being understanding feels much better if you get the opportunity to show you do understand. I think she feels abandoned.”

  Irritation surged. “Look, I’ve got to get back before Pratt wakes up from his nap. Every minute of the day and night he’s talking my leg off, never letting me out of his sight. The only time I have to investigate is when I can sneak out after he starts snoring,’ Sage said, his tone heated. “There’s just no time for me to visit Lucinda.”

  Mae Clemens sighed. “I’ve said my piece.”

  “Good.” Sage dropped a kiss on her forehead. “Keep Mr. Fong company. And I’ll try to figure out what to do. I’m thinking Fong will wait until nighttime to go after LaRue. Create some kind of kitchen crisis and keep him here for the next two days. Buy me some time?”

  “To do what?” she asked.

  “I wish I knew.”

  At the opening to Mozart’s basement tunnel, Sage paused, a kerosene lamp in hand, studying its dirt floor and the stained bricks that formed its roof and inward-leaning walls. Usually as he sped along its thirty-foot length. He would tell himself that his mouth went dry because of the dust and that his heart thumped faster because of the speed at which he moved.

  “This time, I can’t play that game of self-delusion,” he told himself. “Too much is at stake. It’s time to conquer my fear of the dark. The answers are in the underground.”

  Despite this internal chiding, the entrance into the tunnel immediately triggered the terror that always seized him whenever his surroundings turned dark and musty. “I have to conquer this fear if I’m going to join Mordaunt’s gang,” he scolded himself, stepping forward, advancing slowly even though beads of sweat jumped onto his forehead in the tunnel’s cool air. “I have no choice.”

  Sage was sitting on the boardinghouse stoop when Pratt woke from his nap and hollered for “Crowley.” Within minutes they were heading back toward the docks and into the rowboat. “Now, this time we’re meeting with the captain. Pretty good old boy. Treats the sailors fairly well and doesn’t try to steal more than a reasonable amount of their earnings. I steer the sailors toward him whenever his ship’s at berth.”

  “Steal their earnings?” Sage had begun speaking in short sentences so that Pratt couldn’t interrupt before he finished the question.

  “Yes, you idjit. You think all these ship captains are victims or something? Sailors forfeit their wages if they desert while a ship’s in port. If the captain wants to keep those wages, he makes a deal. Points the man out to the crimp, pays the crimp a little bit and then that crimp makes darned sure that sailor misses the sailing. That way, the captain splits the wages with the ship owners and the crimp gets himself a man to sell.”

  Right. Sage remembered Laidlaw telling him of the practice. Worry about Fong was clouding his thinking, Sage realized. “Doesn’t the harbormaster . . .”

  “Harbor master, hell. He’s more like the crimps’ handmaid. He gets his cut, too. Makes more from the crimps than he gets from the State for doing his job, is what they tell me.”

  “But . . .”

  Pratt shot a stream of brown tobacco juice into the wind so it blew toward Sage’s face. Sage closed his mouth and ducked his head.

  “Crowley, you ask too damn many questions. If you’d used that energy of yours for rowing instead of snooping, we’d getthere a darn sight faster. I told you when I hired you, I’m not spending time training someone who wants to take my place. So you keep your yap closed and them pencil arms a-rowing.”

  The solution slid into Sage’s thoughts during that dreamy interval between sleep and wakefulness. The canvas cot had long ago stretched into a gripping pouch that prevented him from shifting his position. But it wasn’t discomfort that tipped Sage into wakefulness. Weariness prevailed over the pain of
being trapped in one position throughout the night. No, it was the milk cart trundling by. The clanging cans signaled the day’s beginning, penetrating his sleep. In that dreaming moment of near awakening the solution presented itself like a calmly uttered sentence.

  He struggled upright to sit on the edge of his cot and study the solution from every angle. Its practical simplicity withstood wakeful scrutiny. It should work. He should have thought of it sooner. He hadn’t because of his pressing need to get next to Mordaunt so he could avenge Amacker, Kincaid and Franklin and prevent further shanghaiing. But now a solution had seized him, full blown and ready for execution. Only his conscience presented an obstacle. Taking a page from Hanke’s book, Sage did not lie to himself about the action he was considering. When it came down to it, though, he decided his conscience would just have to learn how to bear this particular burden. After all, to paraphrase Fong, would life have delivered this opportunity to Sage if it did not intend for him to exploit it?

  Sage swung his feet onto the floor and reached for his trousers. The night before, Pratt said nothing about an early start. Unless the tide schedule demanded otherwise, the old man favored lying abed. That left a few hours for Sage to put his plan into action. He jumped up, pulled on his clothes and boots. Seconds later, he headed away from the boardinghouse toward the New Elijah Hotel, a few blocks away. Solomon might not appreciate a visitor at such an early hour, but Sage’s intuition said that time was running out.

  Solomon stood in the hotel kitchen, using a long-handled spoon to stir the savory-smelling contents of a cook pot. When Sage appeared at the kitchen door, Solomon let go the spoon, whipped off his big white apron and tossed it aside. Another man quickly stepped into his place before the stove. Grabbing a few biscuits and two mugs of coffee, Solomon led Sage into his apartment off the hotel lobby.