by Miller, Tony
“Here, son, Mr. Rockefeller wants you to have this free dime.” The old man dutifully and carefully put the dime in the child’s hand. The child’s eyes lit up, and the mother’s lips curled into an approving smile.
Ivy signaled the secretary to ask the mother his two questions. “Do you know that’s John D. Rockefeller?”
“Oh, my lord, I thought that is what I heard him say,” the mother responded.
“What do you think of Mr. Rockefeller?” asked Ivy.
“Well, he certainly seems to love children. It’s obvious he’s a family man, seems like a wonderful gentleman.”
In just a matter of minutes he had a crowd of kids around and he had given out the ten dollar roll of dimes. Ivy and John D. stepped back inside into Rockefeller’s office. In a few minutes the secretary came in and handed Rockefeller the surveys. All were glowing acknowledgements of John D. Rockefeller’s goodness and esteem that these newly met mothers held him in.
Rockefeller sat behind his desk, and as he finished his last glowing report, he looked up at Ivy Lee. Ivy Lee held his gaze steady and said, “You just bought those mothers’ opinion for a dime.”
Rockefeller hired Ivy Lee on the spot and gave him an unlimited expense account to develop this new field of public relations. This, Rockefeller knew, was the future control of the masses, and he and his would be the controllers. Ivy Lee pretty well proved that well-crafted lies beat the truth any day, as would be confirmed by Ivy’s only competition, Edward Bernays.
Sam broke out into a small sweat as he began to realize that the future seemed to belong to Rockefeller, Paul, and Ludwig. They must have defeated the best efforts of the General and the Duke. The paradox puzzled Sam.
A sudden blast of the ship’s departure horn startled Sam out of his reverie. He looked down at the bustle on the wharf below. A crowd waved at their departing loved ones as the huge ship slowly cleaved itself from its moorings. Another blast and the massive liner, the Oceanic, expertly eased itself toward the open ocean and its destination, America.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Paul descended the stairs from his room, entered the study, and approached his father. “Father, perhaps you can help me?”
Judge Hawthorne looked up from the paper he was writing. He put down his pen and turned to face Paul. He moved his half-glasses to his forehead and rubbed his eyes.
“Sure, son, how may I help you?”
“Well, first I’d like to apologize for my anger yesterday. I was shocked to discover Anne, my almost fiancé, was involved with her groomsman. I guess I just lost control.”
“Understandable, son. Just let it go and cut your losses now. It is better to know now and avoid the financial mess a nasty divorce later would cause.”
“You’re right, as usual, father. By the way, I’m writing a paper on entrepreneurs and remembered the story you told me of one of your old law school buddies. I believe he started a detective agency?”
“Of course, that was old Eddie Rucker. He teamed up with Allan Pinkerton to form the North Western Police Agency. It only lasted a year. Pinkerton joined with his brother and started the Pinkerton & Co. Detective Agency. Anyway, it is now the Pinkerton National Detective Agency.”
“Wow! The Pinkertons?” Paul feigned awe, but he was aware of the Pinkertons. However, he needed an inside, trustworthy contact, and flattering his father would get that for him.
The judge continued, “The Pinkertons indeed. Allan and his brother were certainly entrepreneurs. Although the agency has grown tremendously, it certainly has had its share of controversy. Using the detective agency for strikebreaking was a mistake, in my view. The pressure of that negative situation is probably what killed Robert Pinkerton. He should have hung on because Allan has returned the organization to its true purpose-finding out information. Now that has value.”
“Father, you’re amazing. Not only are you a wealth of historical information, but your contacts are like a huge spider web.”
“Truly spoken like a prejudiced son should speak!” They both laughed.
“Father, I’m going to try a long shot. Do you have an inside contact to interview just to help me make my paper outstanding?” asked Paul.
“Hmmm.” The judge opened a drawer, rummaged around, and pulled out a leather binder. He opened it and scanned through. “Ah ha.” He picked up his pen and scribbled on a scrap piece of paper. He handed it to Paul. “This is your guy, James McParlan. He lives in San Francisco. He’s a tough old mick.”
“Mick?”
The judge laughed.
“He’s Irish, okay. It’s a slur actually, so don’t call him that, lest you want to find out why they’re called the fighting Irish.” The judge laughed again.
“It’s like calling a Negro a nigger, or for that matter, calling an Englishman a limey.”
“I’ll make a note of it, to avoid a future nose breaking.”
“This McParlan infiltrated the Mollies and exposed the leaders.”
“Uh, who were The Mollies?”
“Oh, some troublemaking strikers. They were named after some old woman in whose house they held their first meeting, in Ireland. Molly McGuires, they were called. Thanks to McParlan, twenty of them were hung.”
“Sounds like my man, indeed,” said Paul.
“I’ll wire Allan Pinkerton to contact the San Francisco office to expect you. They love the attention and possible free promotion. They have huge egos.”
<><><>
Two days later Paul stood before the Union square office of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency. He climbed the steps and entered the office. He stood in its small foyer upon a marble floor, which was highly buffed. In the center of the foyer was a huge ornately carved desk. A thirty-ish, gum chewing, bleached blonde, with two inches of black roots, sat behind the desk. Her hair was pulled into a bun with a pencil stuck into it. She wore bright red lipstick, which was slightly smeared.
She looked up as Paul entered. “Can I help you?” she asked in a nasal whine.
“I’m looking for James McParlan.”
“And who might I say is here to see him?”
“My name is Paul Hawthorne.”
Her eyes seemed to light up.
“Oh, yes, the judge’s kid. We got a wire from the big man himself to treat you right.” She continued to stare with a combination of lust and awe.
“Uh, excuse me, is McParlan available?”
“Oh, oh yes, I mean sure, I’ll get him for you.” She stood, turned on her three inch heels and headed down the hall. He watched her do a wiggle walk and knew she was aware that the tight skirt showed off her excellent derriere. She disappeared behind a mahogany door with opaque glass. A moment later a red-faced, rotund detective emerged with the secretary in tow. He had a walrus moustache and meaty hands that attempted to straighten his too short tie. The tie was to one side, and Paul noticed his shirt buttons strained to cover the hairy belly. He extended his hand and attempted to smile. It was obvious smiling wasn’t a natural state for his face, and that a scowl or a piercing accusatory stare would probably be more the usual.
“Good to meet you, Mr. Hawthorne.” They shook hands.
“Pretty impressive when Allan Pinkerton wires to order me to be at your service.”
“Did he say why I needed to talk to you?” Paul inquired.
“Nope, he just said to do whatever you needed.” He glanced at the large clock over the doorway. It was almost noon. “I’ll tell you what, how about I buy you lunch at my pal Hank Klee’s place a few blocks from here. The Old Ship Saloon is my kind of place.”
“Excellent!” said Paul.
<><><>
Once outside, McParlan turned to Paul. “Welcome to my fortress of privacy.” He gestured at the buildings and sidewalks.
“Nothing more private as moving along a sidewalk, away from prying ears. We have about a thirty minute walk to get any my- ears-only out of the way, and it helps me burn a few of the calories I always put on at my pal Hank�
�s saloon.”
“Thanks, Mr. McParlan; I do have some personal interest in your services as well as getting your take on the strikes and Pinkerton’s efforts to help the good guys break them. I plan to write a thesis on it to start the dialectic process of discovering truth, which I maintain resides with business, the Pinkertons, and most of all your undercover work exposing the Mollies.”
“Well, thanks, I’m flattered, and I can tell you, at the Pinkertons, there are enough stories to write a library, much less a college paper. The public doesn’t have a clue about all the drama that goes unknown to all but a few of us. From political and business corruption to cheating spouses, we see it all. Before we get into that, why don’t you tell me the secret type personal services you may need me for.”
“I’m in need of two thorough background checks on a couple foreigners in Fresno.”
“And where might these foreigners be from exactly?” McParlan calmly enquired.
“England.”
“Good. We have lots of contacts there.”
“Well, my fiancée’s groomsman, a fellow by the name of Colton Johanson, has a partner by the name of Sam Novak. He’s a black man.”
“An uppity nigger, yes, I’ve met the type. An English accent just doesn’t fit,” McParlan huffed as he walked.
“Yes, I don’t trust him or Colton Johanson, as they’re always whispering of some secret plans of some sort or the other. Now I must tell you up front, I just found out that my fiancé has been having an affair with the groomsman.”
Paul looked away as they walked.
“We see such all the time, Paul, and I can tell you it’s good you know. It makes my job easier, but why the background checks now? You should just let it go and move on.”
“Well, her father is a local doctor and a friend of my father, Judge Hawthorne, who is a friend of Allan Pinkerton’s. It’s concern for my father and her father that I at least need to know what sort of flim flam they may be up to. I must say I still have tender feelings for her as well, even though I now know it is not returned. Still, I wish to protect her from possible hurt. My conscience wouldn’t allow otherwise.”
“That is admirable.” McParlan wheezed.
They continued to walk briskly, and Paul was impressed at the big man’s stamina. Only the wheeze betrayed the strain. “Okay, Paul, I will have a cursory background check in two weeks. A thorough one will take months. In two weeks, though, we will uncover any alarming known, uh, how do I say, uh, defects!”
“That would be outstanding!” Paul beamed.
They arrived at The Old Ship Saloon and Paul entered behind James McParlan. A raucous din greeted them. This was where the working class stepped off the merry-go-round of work responsibility and sleep. The aroma of good food and plentiful cheap drinks promised to recharge any battery.
“Hey, Jimbo!” a voice boomed over the mayhem. McParlan raised an arm at the bartender.
“Hey, Hank! I brought another victim to your culinary slaughter.” McParlan laughed with gusto.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
McParlan sat at his desk and opened the Western Union telegram from his contact in London. His contact, Jack Lund, was an agent for Scotland Yard. He requested a preliminary quick check, although it had only been three days. This would uncover any public record bearing their name and any police record.
McParlan suddenly sat up straight as he read the telegram:
James McParlan-stop—
Colton Johanson—son of Henry Charles Lennox—3rd Duke of Gordon—stop—
Henry Charles Lennox—3rd Duke of Gordon—currently instigating investigation of Paul Hawthorne—Fresno Ca—Ludwig Stephan Diefendorf—Fresno Ca/Vienna—stop—
Sam Novak—son of Lord General Maxmillion Novak—Lord General Maxmillion Novak—currently instigating investigation of Paul Hawthorne-Fresno Ca—Ludwig Stephan Diefendorf—Fresno Ca./Vienna—Sam Novak recently completed investigation of Diefendorf in Germany and currently returning to America—stop—
Best—Jack Lund
“Holy smokes! Who the hell is this Paul Hawthorne?” he mumbled out loud. McParlan pondered the magnitude of his subject’s family tree. He doubted Hawthorne knew of this connection. He was certain Paul had no idea he himself was being investigated.
McParlan knew he had to inform Paul Hawthorne quickly. The Pinkertons had a reputation to uphold, and the loyalty was to the client. He did wish, however, that he had the other end of the contract. Hob-knobbing with royalty would be interesting. Well, an investigation of all the players couldn’t hurt.
“SALLY!”
<><><>
Sally Sanders cocked her head. “What does that fat ass want now?” She put the lid back on the jar of Graf’s Hyglo nail polish paste. She was just about to massage the powder into her nails, and then polish them to a high shine. Oh well, later, she thought. She stood, straightened her shirtwaist dress and checked her Gibson hairstyle. Perfect!
“SALLY!”
Sally wiggled down to McParlan’s office. She bought her dress a little too small to show off her butt better, but it made walking a bit slower. It was worth it, however, if admiring glances were considered. She opened McParlan’s door.
“Yes, boss,” she said demurely, adding a sweet smile.
“I need you to take a message, to be wired to Paul Hawthorne.”
“I’ll get my pencil,” Sally said.
“No, no, I have one here. Just the time it would take to walk to your desk and back in that dress would cost me two dollars.”
He opened a drawer and pulled out a pencil and pad of paper. She sat down at the ready and he began:
Dear Mr. Hawthorne,
I have received a cursory report from London. Colton Johanson is the son of Henry Charles Lennox, 3rd Duke of Gordon. Sam Novak is the son of Lord General Maxmillion Novak. Sam Novak has recently completed an investigation of a person named Ludwig Stephan Diefendorf and is currently returning to America aboard the Oceanic liner scheduled to arrive in the Port of Los Angeles from Liverpool, England on Oct 1st. The Duke and General have an ongoing investigation of you and Diefendorf. This investigation is in the early stages so not much available. We at Pinkerton’s are also available for counter-intelligence should you so desire. I will continue to attempt to uncover all information that may be useful to you. I await your instructions.
Sincerely, James McParlan
“So Sally, use the telephone to call the messenger, to hand deliver this message to Western Union. I don’t want any mistakes.”
“Got it, boss!”
“I sure hope so, Sally. By the way, I like the hair better without the black roots. Did you just do it?”
“Yes, just last night. Thanks for noticing.”
“It’s my job to notice things.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Paul sat at his desk, in his room, where he felt most powerful. Outside on the streets he knew there were other people who thought they had power, too. He hated that. He didn’t want to share power. He wanted all the power. He despised the common people who didn’t know their place. They had one true purpose, to serve the two percent at the top who made all things happen.
He looked over at Ludwig, who sat at the other end of the desk poring over the second quarter financial report of MOMS.
“So, Ludwig, how lucrative was a ‘Matter of Minds’ this quarter?” Ludwig looked up and smiled.
“I think a ‘Matter of Minds’ just might be a misnomer.”
“Oh, really. Why do you say that?”
“When you see the bottom line of this financial report, we may want to call it, ‘A Matter of Money!’” They both laughed.
“So, we did well?” Paul asked.
“Almost twenty thousand in two months.”
“That’s a good start, hmmm.
“Yes, but there were expenses.” Ludwig said.
“How much?” asked Paul.
“Almost two thousand.” Ludwig smiled.
“You mean we made
eighteen thousand in two quarters?” asked Paul.
Ludwig just grinned broadly.
“How did you do it? You never seem to be working?” asked Paul.
“Why put off till tomorrow what you can get someone else to do today!” Ludwig smiled.
“What do you mean?”
“I simply put an ad in the Republican stating that all good mothers were needed for an evaluation of a new wonder drug to eliminate the pains of motherhood and the stresses of life that cause melancholia. It’s a matter of minds and mothers,” said Ludwig.
“The Hughes Hotel had a packed house. I simply gave them a talk on our successes in psychiatry and some newspaper clippings touting the cures of Freud. I then got them excited about its wondrous affects against lunacy. They were spellbound. I kept my eyes open for the woman among them who would grab the reigns and lead them.”
“Evidently you found her!” said Paul.
“Yes, indeed! She started up with a bit of skepticism, as is typical. Of course, the others became riveted by her bravery. I knew I had them. I simply validated Mrs. Miranda for her astute intelligence and pleaded for her to stand as leader of ‘Mothers of the Hearts Entire Revitalization and Sanity’ or MOTHERS.
“Of course, all her friends burst into applause, and I knew her ego would take over. After all, I’m a psychiatrist. I informed her of the need for vast sums of money to help these unfortunate creatures and that, as a volunteer, her rewards would be in heaven.”