by S. L. Stoner
“Well, things are quiet here. How about you have yourself a coffee and a rest and I’ll wander over for a chat?”
“Yah, sure,” Sage responded, not for the first time mentally grumbling about the class and race prejudice that forced them to adopt such ruses just to carry on a simple conversation.
Once Sage again sat at the room’s least desirable table by the kitchen door behind a palm, Solomon wandered over. “They were here just for coffee so they didn’t stay long. It was Farley and another man I haven’t seen before.”
“Can you describe that other man?”
Solomon shut his deep brown eyes, transforming his face, with its high cheekbones, into a sculpted mask. Not for the first time, Sage saw traces of an Indian heritage in that burnished copper face. There’d been a lot of such mixing in the Carolina’s where Solomon was from.
The brown eyes opened and Solomon said, “White fellow. About five feet ten inches tall, dark hair, straight nose, intelligence in the eyes. No mustache, nothing special or unique about him. Sorry, John. After I sent a runner for you, things got really busy with a minor disaster in the kitchen. By the time I returned to the dining room they were gone.”
Both men were distracted by the sight of a waiter closing the restaurant doors to the lobby. The doors wouldn’t open again until just before the supper hours began. Solomon glanced at the chair across from Sage, “Do you mind?” he said, even as he sat down.
Once the doors closed, their table wasn’t visible from either lobby or veranda so the two of them could sit together like normal people. Solomon didn’t have to worry about the wait staff or kitchen help tattling to his bosses about this breech in racial etiquette because he’d recruited every single one of them.
A waiter hurried over to pour his maitre’d boss a cup of coffee and received Solomon’s thanks in return. Once the fellow left them alone, Sage said, “I’ve spent a couple of frustrating days, Angus. I was able to find the two operatives but that elusive third fellow seems to always disappear just before I get there.”
Seeing Solomon’s interest, Sage told him, “Right now, I’m trying to figure out whether Farley’s third operative is the same man who’s been following the union representative, Rachel Levy, and Mae Clemens. If so, is he the same fellow who was following Rebecca Levy before she got snatched? Because, if he is, that might mean Rebecca is still in Portland.”
Solomon was nodding, clearly tracking the convoluted tale. Sage continued, “Yesterday, I met with a pencil seller who’d seen the man. He’s a little bit slow in his thinking but completely honest and alert. He gave me good news and bad news. The good news is that he’s seen that man almost every single day. That means, if he kidnapped Rebecca, she’s probably still here in Portland. He hasn’t had time to take her away to some other major city.
Regret lengthened Solomon’s face. “I am so sorry John that I didn’t notice more about the man. We’re short-handed today so I couldn’t ask one of the fellows to follow him.”
Sage reached across the table to grip the other man’s hand, “Believe me, Angus, I understand. Restaurants are always chaotic. Heck, look how long I took responding to your message. Well, I better go. I need to hit the streets again. It’s about time for Farley’s delivery driver operatives to get off work. They’re working short hours during the lockout.”
Their chairs scuffed quietly on the floor carpet as both stood. After shaking hands, Sage headed toward the door. Just as he reached it, he turned around. “Say, Angus. I don’t suppose you noticed what kind of hat the stranger was wearing?”
Again, there was a pause as Solomon tried to recall. Smiling, he said, “Matter of fact, he wasn’t wearing one when he came into the dining room. But, I’m pretty sure I saw him carrying a bowler.”
Sage grinned and said, “Angus, you just might have made my day!”
“Ouch,” Mae said and stuck her finger in her mouth. “Hidden straight pin,” she responded to a woman’s questioning look. They were sitting at a table with a group of other women, sorting a pile of donated clothing.
Mae studied the women, many of whom returned her gaze with a smile. Here she was, once again, with a group of women around a table. But this was so much better than the steam laundry’s sorting table. That thought made her speak, “Sure is nice to be sitting instead of standing,” she remarked.
“Sure is. And sure is nice these are clean, dry clothes instead of hot, wet, chemically ones,” rejoined another.
“That’s right,” agreed another. “Look here, my hands have gone from lobster red to a lovely shade of possum-nose pink.” The other women laughed as they nodded in agreement.
“I can’t believe it’s the middle of a summer day and I’m not thinking about fainting or throwing up from the heat,” another offered somberly. Silence greeted that comment. Every woman there could remember when those worries were foremost in their minds.
“Has anyone else noticed the blessed quiet?” queried another woman who’d stayed silent up to that point. No sooner had she finished stating that thought than one of the toddlers galloping around the hall, let loose with a high piercing shriek that only very young girls could make. Everyone at the table burst into laughter with the gal who’d just spoken, laughing loudest.
Mae thought about how quickly women bonded when their hands were busy. Before today, she’d never met these women. They came from different laundries. Yet, they shared the same thoughts and laughed like women who’d been sugar-borrowing neighbors for years.
She also thought of how much she’d come to like Rachel. Looking around, she spied Rachel in a corner, talking quietly with Caroline. It was clear from the way the two women leaned toward each other that they shared a mutual liking. Heck, that was no surprise. They were the same age, both educated and intelligent. Matter of fact, she liked them both, too. The only difference was, she’d trust Rachel with her life. Caroline, well—knowing whether Caroline was trustworthy continued to be the problem.
Last night had provided no answers. Only more questions. After leaving the union hall, Caroline headed into northwest Portland with Mae following. Once there, she’d stepped into a cafe. Mae watched through the window as tea was served to her. Next, Caroline pulled a small notebook from her dress pocket and began writing. The young woman wrote steadily for a good ten minutes, then she’d finished her tea, pocketed her notebook and left the cafe.
Mae followed her for another three blocks until Caroline mounted the steps of a very well-maintained boarding house. It was too nice a place for a laundry worker’s pay. Mae couldn’t linger. She would have stuck out like a rooster comb on a duck had she tried to keep watch.
Another child’s shout brought Mae’s thoughts back to the union hall. She looked down at the shirt she’d been automatically folding. Good, she hadn’t lost her touch. It looked perfectly tidy.
She gazed again at the two women in the corner. “Two more days and come hail or high water, I’m going to see what you’ve been writing in that little notebook of yours, if I have to snatch it right out of your hands,” she vowed.
Chapter Twenty Two
“I’m sure I needn’t remind you gentlemen that each of you must keep the faith,” Cobb told them. The laundry association members were again at the Portland Hotel, meeting over supper in the small private dining room. Cobb studied each of their faces in turn, his eyes steely and expression stern. The eight men shifted uneasily but returned his look with solemn nods.
Cobb leaned forward, “I remind you of your commitment because my sources have given me a bit of unsettling information.”
That pronouncement straightened postures around the table. Letting the tension build, Cobb pulled out a cigar, snipped its end and set it afire. His words followed the first smoky exhalation. “It seems one of you, here at this table, has been talking to the unions about selling your business to them for a union-run cooperative.” There was a sharp intake of breath but Farley, sitting quietly in the corner, couldn’t tell who’d been startle
d into taking it.
Cobb shoved his plate aside, stood, put his palms on the table and leaned forward, threat in every line of his body. “I don’t have to tell you that such a sale would be gross act of treachery. A complete and utter betrayal of the solemn oath each one of you gave when we formed this association. A union-run laundry would take business away from us and, since profit would be less important, it could pay the employees more and still provide service at a lower cost.”
Angry muttering broke out around the table. Cobb took advantage of it. “Whoever you are, you can see that the rest of us abhor this betrayal. If you sell to the unions, your name will be mud not only among those of us at this table but among those at every single table in polite society.”
He sat, eased back in his chair and let the silence build until someone felt compelled to speak.
“How did you hear about this, Cobb? Is it more than a rumor?” asked Lewis Gillibrand. “I can’t believe that any of the men sitting here tonight would do such a thing. Maybe it’s the U.S. Laundry who is dickering with the unions. You know we put the kibosh on Finley getting chemicals. If he can’t get chemicals, then he won’t be able to take advantage of the lockout.”
Cobb gave a short, irritated head shake. “It’s only a matter of time before the U.S. Laundry ships chemicals down from Seattle. We’ve inconvenienced Finley and the shipping costs will dent his profits a bit but, no, it is not one of the two laundries who’ve refused to join the association. Unfortunately it is one of us, sitting at this table. Someone here is secretly talking to the unions.”
Consternation lowered every brow with each man voicing adamant dismay and disgust. “One of them is a pretty damn good actor,” Farley thought to himself. He, of course, knew Cobb’s source since he’d been the one to carry the information to Cobb. It was the drivers’ union president, L.D. Warder. Since the driver’s union office was in the union building, Warder had picked up stray tidbits of information from unsuspecting attendees of the Federated Trades Council meeting.
Not everyone knew Warder was a traitor to the laundry workers, although he told Farley that fact would soon become public knowledge. Recently, the Council’s chairman had given him an ultimatum: Warder would either support the laundry women or see the drivers’ union kicked out of the Council. Warder was supposed to give his answer in the next few days.
Ryland McCarthy spoke up, changing the subject. “So, what are Farley’s three operatives doing to assist us, anyway? I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of them. Exactly what are we getting for our money?”
Farley and Cobb exchanged glances before Cobb said in a controlled tone of voice that telegraphed his irritation, “Ryland, we told you before that the operatives are doing exactly what we need them to do. But, given that we now know there is a traitor in our midst, we are not going to say exactly what it is that they are doing.”
McCarthy’s face flushed with the effort of holding his tongue but he didn’t press the issue. Instead, he asked another question. “It’s been nearly a week since the lockout. I’ve got my drivers performing maintenance and a few other chores but I’m about to run out of busy work for them. Besides, it’s costing me a bundle to keep their wages up when we’re not bringing in laundry and making money.” There was a quiet murmur of agreement as everyone’s face swiveled toward Cobb.
This question didn’t surprise Cobb because his tone was relaxed as he said, “One more week and we start hiring replacements. The ad will appear in next Wednesday’s Gazette. We’ll interview local folks Thursday and Friday for a start-up the following Monday. Additionally, Farley has already sent telegrams out to experienced strikebreakers he’s worked with in the past. Acceptances are pouring in. A whole passel of the fellows should arrive by train the first of next week.”
“Strikebreakers? Professional strikebreakers?” questioned Henry Teague, who ordinarily didn’t speak at the meetings.
Cobb nodded. “Farley tells me there’s lots of folks willing to travel and take the strikers’ jobs. They either don’t like unions or they like the excitement. Of course, we have to pay for their wages, travel and housing but, there is no question they know how to break through a picket line and keep the replacement workers on the job.”
“I don’t see why we have to pay for outsiders to come in. There’s plenty of unemployed folks here in town who’ll snap up the work, no questions asked. Why do we need replacement workers and professional strikebreakers?” said McCarthy.
“You’re right, McCarthy. The majority of the replacements we hire will be local. They’ll either be former employees willing to leave the union or else new employees desperate enough to cross the picket line. Once enough people take the jobs, the locked out employees will come crawling back to work. But, we need the professional strikebreakers to keep the replacement folks in line, tell us if we have spies in our midst and thump a few heads if the union members start threatening the replacements we hire.”
The faces around the table were glum with McCarthy finally clearing his throat to express everyone’s concern, “Professional strikebreakers won’t know how to do laundry work. Neither will people right off the street. Customers aren’t going to stick with us if we do a bad job or ruin their clothes.”
Cobb had anticipated this question as well because he quickly responded, “Our customers might get irritated but they’ll give us a second chance. They’ll understand we’re doing our best under difficult circumstances. We won’t need to use the strikebreakers or unskilled workers all that long. Once it looks like they might permanently lose their jobs, those women will trample each other coming back to work for us,” he predicted with a smirk.
He glanced at Farley who took it as his cue to offer additional reassurance. So, he stood up and stepped closer to the table. “Strikebreakers are key to putting an end to your union troubles. Once they’re on site, leading replacement workers through the picket lines to fill those union workers’ positions, you’ll see the women crumble.
“Think about it. There are few jobs for women unless they have schooling and, most don’t. The best they can find is house maid work. I’ve already given the local canneries a list of their names so they won’t get hired there.
“We all know that steam laundries are right at the top when it comes to women’s wages. Even so, you’ve kept your workers’ wages low enough that they can’t have saved anything. Without savings, they won’t last long—they have kids who need to eat and have a roof over their heads. The single women adrift aren’t in any better position. Most of them live paycheck to paycheck.”
He glanced at the faces around the table, noting the men’s fine suits and well-fed faces. Not one showed a smidgen of guilt upon hearing his words. He smiled to himself. That very absence of guilt is what kept him in business.
The previous night, for over an hour, he’d stood in the park, across the street from Lucinda’s. Inside, lights blazed and piano notes drifted out the open window into the warm summer air. He thought it was Lucinda playing the piano. But he couldn’t steel himself to climb the stairs and knock on her door. Couldn’t face the chance of encountering her lover. He’d cursed himself for being a mooning calf, for being a coward and letting his mother and Rachel Levy down. Because at this point, they needed Lucinda’s help. Despite their best efforts, neither Fong’s men nor Solomon’s had discovered where Rebecca Levy was imprisoned. They’d narrowed it down to near the rail yards but couldn’t determine exactly which whorehouse.
So, this morning, dread accompanied him as he walked east across the Morrison Bridge. At the bridge’s center, he paused. Below him the gray river flowed north, its current brushing against dock and warehouse pilings, ship hulls and the watery reeds of the eastside’s marshland. Anchored sailing ships in the river’s middle, waiting for a berth or the outgoing tide, rocked in the waves of passing paddlewheel tugboats pushing loaded barges. Overhead, gulls wheeled against the bright blue sky, scouting for eatables, impatience sharpening their cries.
Sage raised his eyes from the river. For once, a smoky haze didn’t blanket the city. The light wind steadily ruffling the river’s surface was carrying away kitchen smoke and, it being summer, no furnaces burned.
He sighed. He loved this city, despite its self-righteous attitude. In actual fact, it was no better than other cities of its size. On the surface it appeared staid and respectable, but corruption flourished behind its elegant doors and suffering roamed its streets. Still, Portland bubbled with a hopeful vigor that inspired good people, like Mary Harris with her social hygiene group. More and more people, mostly women, were eager to improve civic society. He didn’t always agree with their approach but he applauded their desire to create more compassion in the world.
John Sagacity Adair, you are stalling, he silently chided. He tapped his fist on the rusted bridge railing feeling frustrated and angry because he still hadn’t talked to Lucinda. If he delayed much longer, Mae Clemens would be very unhappy. As it was, she was certain to ask. Heaving a sigh, he turned toward the bridge’s end. Might as well get it over.
The cafe occupied a small wood building squeezed between two faded warehouses. Fong’s cousin lounged against the side of a horseless dray. Of course the Chinese man waited outside. He’d be unwelcome inside the cafe Nothing Sage could do about that. Just pay the man exceptionally well for his efforts and take comfort from the fact that Portland’s Chinese were more adept than he was at ignoring the white man’s idiocy.
Two hours earlier the cafe would have been crowded with people eating breakfast before work. Now, at eight o’clock, it was nearly empty so he quickly spotted Eich, Mae and Rachel sitting together in a wooden booth. Sage crossed the room to join them.
“Good morning!” he said, sliding onto the bench next to Eich and across the table from the women.