Chapter Five

He stood and stared. The lunch bell hadn’t rung. But, there she was, coming straight toward him. It was Saturday. The laundry would run all day long. So why was she out on the street late morning and dressed like that? Normally, she wore faded gingham dresses with hemlines a good two inches above heavy work boots. Not today. Today it was a neat, dark blue outfit like clerks wore in department stores—a long skirt and a high-necked white blouse covered by a short jacket the same color as the skirt. She’d tied a jaunty red scarf around her neck, shiny walking shoes covered her feet, and a yellow straw hat perched atop her curly black hair.

He stepped toward a shop entrance, turning his back, aware his surprised reaction might draw attention—especially from her. One couldn’t stand on the boardwalk, gawping at strange women and go unnoticed. That was the last thing he wanted, today in particular. He quickly stepped inside the rundown hardware store. Sunlight streaming through the filthy windows dimly lit its interior. An eager clerk approached him, asking “May I assist, sir?”

“Umm, ah, I was needing a wrench,” he said, his eyes flicking toward the window. She would pass by any second.

“Certainly. Our wrenches are right back here. We have some fine ones in stock. Did you desire a pipe or a buggy wrench?” the clerk asked, turning to bustle away toward the rear of the store. When he glanced back, to make further conversation, all he saw was the outer door closing behind his would-be customer.

Once back outside, the man from Chicago followed her down the boardwalk. He’d never seen her out of her drab working clothes and heavy boots. For the first time, he realized that she had a trim little figure and, while her features were too strong to call her pretty, she was far from ugly. Handsome was the word. A little bit of face paint and she’d be striking. She had the kind of face you’d notice first in a room full of pretty women—an iris among the tulips.

She’ll be good little earner—wherever she ends up, he mused. That thought gave way to image he tried to ignore, that of a dingy whorehouse servicing the Panama Canal’s construction crews amid the heat and swarms of mosquitoes.

In God’s hands, he reassured himself. Just like they’d told him. All in God’s hands, not his.

Half a block ahead, she paused to speak with the slow man selling pencils from a corner packing box stand. The man from Chicago halted, pretending to study a warehouse window, as if reading something posted there. There were so many homeless job seekers flooding the street he could play at being just one more.

The pencil peddler and the woman exchanged words and smiles before she walked on. Holding his breath, he followed. Maybe, for the first time, she’d go down the alley to reach her boarding house. It was, after all, broad daylight.

She paused at the alley’s opening to peer down its length. He again turned aside, just in case she looked back. She didn’t. Instead, his sidewise glance caught her shrug just before she boldly stepped into the opening. He fingered the bottle in his coat pocket. If he acted fast, that shortcut would be her last act on Portland’s streets. He sped up.

Sage paused in the dining room entrance admiring, not for the first time, the tall straight figure of Angus Solomon. The Portland Hotel’s maitre’d stood at his podium like a benevolent ruler surveying his troops, And, in a way, he was exactly that. This dining room was the most exclusive one in the city, even more so than Mozart’s Table. Certainly, it offered the city’s most skilled wait staff. The black waiters, recruited from the Carolinas, were an attribute the hotel used to justify advertising itself as the most elegant establishment on the west coast. Solomon himself had been enticed away from service in a Carolinian governor’s mansion to oversee the new dining room.

When Solomon spied Sage standing at the back of the line he nodded toward the room’s least desirable table—one next to the kitchen and behind a drooping palm. Sage stepped out of line, seated himself and ordered coffee from the waiter who appeared at his shoulder. It would be a while before Solomon would be free to talk. So, Sage settled back in his customary seat and mentally replayed the discussion he’d had earlier in the day with three of his fellow conspirators.

They’d delayed their meeting until early Sunday afternoon because Mae needed to sleep after six days working in the laundry. Once she was ‘up on her pins’ as she liked to say, they’d gathered in his third floor room above Mozart’s. It had been just the four of them around the alcove table: Herman Eich the ragpicker, Fong Kam Tong, Mozart’s ostensible houseman who was also Sage’s teacher and Mae Clemens.

Sage started off by addressing his mother. “So, nothing happened yesterday? Like Cobb giving the women his response to their nine-hour day demand?”

“He told Rachel that he still hadn’t had a chance to ‘confer’ with the other laundry owners.” Contempt coated her words.

“Well, that’s a lie. I saw him with at least three of the other laundry managers yesterday morning. They had every opportunity to ‘confer’,” Sage said.

She nodded glumly, “Yes, that’s what we figured. He’s just stalling.” She told them about the foreman quitting, adding, “They tell me that Cobb spent more time on the shop floor yesterday, than he did all the whole month before.”

“The question is, why is Cobb stalling?” Sage wondered aloud. “We know he’s got something planned that he said will ‘up the game’. He mentioned it to Finley.”

Mae knew about Cobb’s visit to Finley at the United States Laundry and what Sage had overheard, but Fong and Eich didn’t so Sage filled them in. As he did so, he studied the two men.

Fong was short, slender and, although raised in Canton, his was the narrow, angular face of a northern Chinese. When he’d arrived at Mozart’s kitchen door, he’d wanted an opportunity to work in the restaurant so he could learn how to run one of his own. He discarded that idea once he discovered Mae and Sage’s undercover work for St. Alban. Fong had joined in their missions and been crucial to their success. He was also teaching Sage the deadly Asian fighting art he called the “snake and crane.”

Herman Eich was just as unlikely a comrade as Fong. Yet, he too, had proven himself invaluable. Tall, where Fong was short, Eich was an oft seen figure on Portland’s streets, pulling his creaky, two-wheeled cart from dust bin to dust bin, collecting discarded items to fix up and sell to those of small means. The ragpicker liked to quote poetry, his or someone else’s. Lately, he’d turned sweet on Mae and Sage suspected the feeling was mutual. He dare not ask. His mother could be surly as a mother bear when it came to her personal business.

“If I may give a summation of our understanding at this point?” Eich asked, before continuing at everyone’s nod. “The laundry workers are waiting for Cobb to accept or reject their nine-hour day proposal—he appears to be deliberately withholding that response. Cobb has threatened another laundry owner with retribution should that laundry not join the association’s position. Cobb has also indicated that he has something up his sleeve but we know not what. There appears to be a man in town, name of Farley, who might be a union buster working for the laundry association. If he is here, there is every chance he has or, will, import other miscreants as well. Finally, the city’s unions appear to be rallying behind the laundry workers’ cause and taking steps to assist. The only exception is the union that represents the laundries’ delivery drivers. There is also a new laundry worker, Caroline, whose behavior seems suspicious. Oh, and the decent washroom foreman has quit his job.”

“Good summation, Herman,” Sage said. “It underscores that there is still much we don’t know.”

Fong, who’d stayed silent, moved to add more tea to everyone’s cup. As he poured, he said, “They will attack fast like viper. Maybe many vipers at same time. We must learn all about vipers. ”

Fong’s analysis and strategy, as always, was both sobering and accurate. There was nothing more to add.

“Tell me, Mae, is there any one woman whose absence would wound the laundry workers’ efforts, discourage them from pursuing their goals?”

Eich’s question brought a vigorous nod from Mae. “Rachel Levy is their chosen leader. She’s brave, outspoken, smart, humble and kind. I think they’d follow her anywhere. If she were gone, I can’t say they wouldn’t give up. But then, I haven’t been looking around to see if there is anyone who can fill her shoes.”

Eich ran gnarled fingers through his beard, his brow furrowed in thought. “Perhaps, Mae, you might start looking for Rachel’s understudy and get to know more about that Caroline woman? If everyone’s agreeable, I’ll appoint myself Rachel’s invisible guardian and general observer of the laundry building. That way, if she or the others appear in any danger, I can intercede and sound the alarm.”

“Her boarding house is about ten blocks from the laundry. It stands on pilings in the ravine that runs along Southeast Eighth. She’ll be leaving there tomorrow morning about six. That’s a tad early to haul your cart all the way across town.” Mae said. Eich lived in a lean-to alongside the Marquam ravine, south of downtown, on the west side of the Willamette River.

“Ah, but that is the beauty of these hot summer days. I can bed down in one of the fields on the eastside, not far from her boarding house. As long as I stay away from the mosquitoes infesting the river marshes, I will be quite comfortable,” he assured her.

“My cousins and I will look for Farley’s strike-breakers. Some cousins who work in hotels may know of other newcomers.” Fong’s offer was welcome because the efforts of “cousins” proved invaluable many times in the past. These men were not Fong’s blood relatives but, instead, were members of his fraternal organization, what the Chinese called a “tong.” The cousins were effective informers because they performed Portland’s lowest paid work in rich people’s homes and in hotels, restaurants, bordellos and drinking establishments. In their lowly servant roles, they went unnoticed by the whites.

Sage heaved a sigh. “Okay, then. I’ll take on Cobb and the other association members. I’ll keep tailing Cobb when he leaves the laundry. And, I will also try to find that union-buster boss from New York. I suspect he likes to travel high on the hog, especially since he has some boss paying his expenses. That means a visit to Angus Solomon,” he said, as though that prospect was onerous.

His theatrical gambit didn’t get past Mae. “Ha, poor you. Fong’s going to creep around town, risking a thump on the head. Herman’s going to rest his weary bones in a field, I’m going to continue slaving in that sweatshop of a laundry and you, poor Sage, will be forced to sit and stuff your face in the luxurious Portland Hotel dining room.”

They’d all laughed—appreciating that humor ended the meeting

So, here I am, Sage thought as he gazed around the “luxurious” dining room. Mae wasn’t wrong in her use of the word. Linen cloths, heavy silver cutlery, crystal glasses, carpeted floor and plenty of light streaming through the tall glass doors from the hotel’s covered veranda made for an elegant scene. Belt-driven overhead fans caught and whirled the air flowing in through the open doors. This was a much cooler place to dine than Mozart’s these days. Not for the first time, Sage questioned whether his opposition to electrifying the restaurant wasn’t but a simple case of stubbornness. It looked as though electrification was here to stay.

Solomon was still graciously greeting guests so Sage signaled a waiter and ordered lunch. May as well prove his mother right—she’d like that. Around him, the room was nearly full. In one corner, a demanding group of men kept the waiters hustling. It would be a while before Solomon could break free.

It was Monday morning and Mae was trying not to be alarmed when she saw that Rachel was absent from her cuff and collar mangle. Cobb probably called for a negotiation meeting, she assured herself. That assurance flew out the window when Cobb charged into the washroom with a stranger in tow.

Cobb looked like he was prancing on his toes, glee elevating him above the floor. He gave the bell hanging by the office door a vigorous clang—signaling that they should quiet all machines and gather around. Next to him stood a well-groomed fellow with brown hair, narrow in the hips and too darn poker-faced to be trustworthy.

“This gentleman here,” said Cobb, “is your new foreman. His name is ‘Mr. Sinclair’. I expect that you will show him respect and do exactly as he instructs. No back talk. He’s not a weak-kneed softy like the last fellow.”

None of the women smiled a welcome. Mae understood. They had little hope that Cobb’s handpicked foreman was anything other than a toady and probably a bully as well. “Birds of a feather,” Mae muttered under her breath. The woman standing beside her nodded.

An awkward silence followed the introduction until Cobb said, “Well, I told Mr. Sinclair that there’s to be no union talk during working hours. Keep your minds on your work, instead of on making trouble,” he said before scooting back into his office, no doubt relieved to escape the stares of his unhappy workers.

The new foreman took a few minutes to gaze about him, looking like a duck who found himself in a chicken coop. As the women returned to work, Sinclair began wandering around the washroom, pausing beside each work station but saying nothing. The faces of the workers he observed stayed blank except for a grim clamping of their lips.

When the foreman reached the shaking table, Mae paused to watch. She wanted to see if he exchanged any special looks with the new laundry worker, Caroline. There was nothing. In fact, it seemed as if Caroline deliberately averted her gaze. Well, even that could be a sign they knew each other.

Mae sighed and went back to ironing her ruffles and laces. Another new face at a bad time, she thought. But that concern was quickly replaced by a sharper one. Where was Rachel? Did she quit? Was she fired? Or, had something worse happened to her?