Chapter One

Portland, Oregon Early August, 1903

Hearing creaks and clops, he peered around the corner. Just a big-wheeled wagon rolling up the dirt street, a drooping horse between its shafts. Water dribbled from the huge tank on the wagon bed. After rainless weeks, street watering damped down the dust about as well as pissing on a rock—especially in this heat.

He snorted and leaned back against the building, grateful for the shade. Probably, some councilman’s relative won the watering contract. That’s how things worked here in Portland, Oregon. Not like Chicago where they spread out the jobs to keep their butts in office. There, hands were always out. It was expected. No pretending to be holier-than-thou, like around here. He knew what was holy. More than most folks. It sure wasn’t the well-dressed society folks who took advantage all week long and then sat in the Sunday pews exuding piety. That’s one reason why he left the God business. That and the money.

“No point in thinking about such things,” he told himself. He’d ambled too far down the path. Damn, he wanted to be done with this job. Three nights he’d wasted, hanging about, waiting for a chance to get her. So far, no luck. If she’d been an ordinary doxy he would have had her the first night. He knew the patter, knew how to spot the ones tired of being tired and how to trick the ones who weren’t as smart as they thought. But no, this one was special. They’d warned him that she’d never fall for patter or tricks. He’d have to do a snatch. He fingered the bottle in his coat pocket. One whiff and she’d be his.

So far, there’d been no opportunity. Sure, it was dark enough, barely a glow in the western sky by the time she came out the door. But always there were too many people. It being summer sundown, the streets were crowded with folks getting off work at nearby canneries and other factories. They might be dead tired but they’d still leap to stop him. Besides, she was savvy. On the way home, she kept away from gaps between buildings and never used the deserted alley even though it would have shortened her walk.

He took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow before once more peering around the corner. The laundry’s door remained shut. Maybe tonight, she would vary her routine, stray into an isolated spot. That’s all he needed. Just one opportunity and he’d have her. He pulled a readymade from his box and lit it. They were paying him so much, four times the usual. Afterward, he’d stay away from the pipe, he promised himself even as he felt his inner demon smirk.

Around him, the dusk deepened and the shadows spread. The musky marsh smell drifted up from the river, filling the space between the tin-sided warehouses and carrying mosquitoes. Slapping at their buzz, he drew deep on his cigarette, exhaling smoky clouds to chase them away.

Patience would soon deliver her into his hands. Eventually, he’d get her, one way or another. After all, everyone said that the man from Chicago was an expert in the business.

Sage’s hired cab picked her up, just a few blocks from the laundry. After mumbling hello, Mae closed her eyes and slept. He cursed softly whenever the cab jostled into and out of the paving’s grooves, gaps and holes but she didn’t waken. The city officials’ cronyism explained the deplorable condition of streets paved in a hodgepodge of cobble, woodblock, asphalt and dirt—most in disrepair.

As they rolled to a stop before Mozart’s Table she awoke, climbed down from the cab, pushed open the restaurant door and headed upstairs, too tired to even glance toward the dining room. She climbed slowly, as if carrying a hundred pound miner’s pack on her back.

Once inside, Sage paused to confirm all was well in the restaurant before following her upstairs. This assignment was taking a huge toll on her. “Just how long do you think you can keep this up? You’re not a spring chicken anymore,” he said as he entered her third floor room. Though his words were teasing, they carried worry’s bite.

For once, she didn’t bristle. “I’m asking myself the same question,” she said, her words muffled because she sat at the table, forehead resting on her folded arms. Raising a face that glimmered white with sweaty exhaustion she said, “It’s that god awful heat. The work isn’t that hard. He has me working the “old lady” job, hand ironing ruffles, laces and frills. Lordy, though, I do wish Cobb would give us stools. Ten hours is too long to stand in one spot—especially in this god awful heat.” She straightened and with a groan, bent to unlace her sturdy boots.

His gaze sharpened. Mae Clemens usually gave as good as she got. That was one of the things he liked about working with her. But tonight, she’d barked no comeback to his gentle tease. His mother was only in her mid fifties but, still, he’d rarely seen her so tired. How much longer could she last? It had been over a week already.

He collected the tray Fong had left on her dresser and carried it to the table. She toed off her boots with a sigh of relief before dully examining the sandwich and milk he put before her.

“I’m so pooped my appetite’s already gone to bed,” she said, poking the sandwich with a finger. “I can’t imagine how those poor women manage to go home and cook dinner for their kids after a day like today. I feel as bad as I did after eleven hours separating coal ore. Except, back then, I was thirty years younger. I could recover.”

Her words triggered his memory of the mine shed. It was a memory sharp as the coal that scarred their hands. They’d both worked year around in the sheet metal shed, in sweltering heat and freezing cold. Beginning at age seven, he’d crawled atop the conveyor belt to toss aside the ore chunks the women sorters, like his mother, couldn’t reach. That job ended when he was nine and they sent him to work down in the mine. After wriggling into slits dug beneath the coal faces, he’d hand-drilled holes for the dynamite and shoved it in.

Day after day, he rode the rattling cage down into that hot, dark hell until fate intervened. There’d been an explosion. Even now, his body twitched. There’d been choking dust, sweat burning his lacerated back, his arms and legs white-hot with pain as he inched up the air shaft, the mine owner’s grandson clinging to his chest like a terrified monkey. Only the two of them had survived.

His mother cleared her throat, her face apologetic. “Oh, son, sorry I brought that up. I’m so darn tired that I can’t keep my tongue leashed.”

He laughed. “Well now, that there’s a real change of pace,” he teased as he hugged her shoulders gently. She had to be sore.

She lifted a hand, as if to give his arm her customary slap, but then let it drop. “I’m too tired to keep you in line. So, you just go ahead and abuse your poor tired mother.”

“Tell me about your day,” he urged, to remind her that her suffering was in the aid of important work. St. Alban wanted their report. The national labor leader had assigned them to help Portland’s steam laundry workers who were negotiating with the laundry owners. They were asking for so very little: To work six days a week for nine hours a day rather than the ten they now worked. And, they wanted a few cents more than the ten cents an hour they were currently making.

Usually, it was Sage who acted as St. Alban’s primary undercover operative in Portland. But, this time, there’d been no job openings for men at the Sparta Laundry. And, it had to be the Sparta, rather than one of the six other steam laundries, because its manager, Thaddeus Cobb, was the ringleader of the laundry owners’ association. Cobb’s single-minded intent kept all the other owners in line.

Mae had been the one to get the laundry job because women did most of the laundry work. She was watching Cobb and tracking the progress of the workers’ efforts even as she ironed.

Her work-reddened hand kneaded her aching shoulders as she said, “One of the girls was nearly hurt bad tonight. She was feeding sheets into a mangle that has no safety guard. Her fingers got tangled in the sheet. It nearly pulled her arm between the rollers. Scared the poor gal so bad that she just yanked off her apron and walked out the door.”

Mae looked at him, her face sad. “It’s the god awful heat and noise. By that last hour we’re all dizzy, barely able to keep upright. When the outside thermometer reads 100 degrees, just imagine how hot all that steam and equipment makes it inside. Two ladies fainted right where they stood. Anyways, the feeder girls were moving fast, trying to get done so they wouldn’t have to work overtime. The light was failing. After ten hours in that heat no one can think right.” Mae drank milk and bit the sandwich before adding, “Those poor women.”

In his role of restaurateur, John Adair, Sage toured the Sparta Laundry the day before so he knew exactly what she meant. He’d told Cobb he wanted to determine whether the facility could adequately clean his restaurant’s linens. Since Mozart’s Table was Portland’s second most exclusive restaurant, Cobb had been eager to prove the Sparta’s modernity to its owner. Escorting Sage through the plant, he’d emphasized the laundry’s efficient equipment while Sage hid his reaction to the hellish working conditions. His head started to pound as Cobb yelled his sales pitch over a deafening cacophony of belt snaps, metal clanks, engine chugs, steam hiss, steel wheel rattles and sloshing water. The air stank of chemicals, starch and soiled clothing. Underfoot, scummy water slicked the floorboards. Every worker wore heavy boots.

About five males worked in the wash tub area. Clad in sweat-soaked sleeveless undershirts they dumped clothes and linens into the cylindrical wash tubs, mixed in chemicals, hauled out the washed clothes and dropped them into whirling extractors to centrifuge the water out. After that, they piled the cloth onto hand trucks for delivery to the women.

The lion’s share of the work fell to the women. There were about sixty of them. They worked steadily as sweat drenched their dresses and dripped from their pinned up hair. Some sorted and marked the incoming soiled clothes, others shook the wet fabric loose and carried it over to the women who fed it into a variety of mangles, releasing steam clouds into the air. Some of the women were repetitiously stomping machine pedals to press cuffs, collars, shirts and who knew what else. An overhead clutter of vibrating belts, wires and pulleys powered the specially-designed machinery.

He’d immediately removed his suit coat, noting that Cobb had left his own coat behind in the office. Between the heat outside beating down on the roof and the stinking steam that billowed from every piece of equipment, it felt like a steam bath, the thick air clinging to everything it touched. Overhead, two open skylights did nothing to relieve the heat. There were no exhaust fans.

Mae interrupted his recollections, saying, “At lunch Rachel Levy told us about the morning’s meeting with the bosses. She said the union’s dropped the wage increase demand. Now, they’re only asking for a nine-hour day. Cobb promised to give them the association’s answer tomorrow.” Defeat deadened her words.

“Jeez, I hate to hear that. How can those women possibly live on six dollars a week? Especially, those with kids and no working husband?” Sage hated that they’d dropped the wage demand but understood how fearful they’d be of striking. No one could build up savings when they earned only six dollars a week.

Mae was shaking her head. “I know, I know. Most are single mothers or single women without any outside support. I feel the same as you do but I kept my mouth shut. Just did what I’m supposed to do—‘observe, support and now, report’. Though, I surely did want to say something.”

Sage grinned, “I’ll just bet you did. No wonder you’ve had a hard day. Bet you nearly bit your tongue off keeping your opinion to yourself.”

This time she delivered a feeble blow to his shoulder. But it was a feeble blow. She really was tired. “Finish eating,” he said. “Then to bed. Are you going to work again tomorrow?”

His question kindled fire in her eyes and she snapped, “Well, really, Sage. Surely you know me well enough to know I don’t give up that easily!”

He grinned at her. “That’s more like it!” he said, artfully dodging the swift hand she shot in his direction.