Chapter Fifteen

The workers cast sly glances at him as they trooped back in following their twenty-minute lunch. Well, that was to be expected. By the third time one of them asked him for assistance, he’d realized they were testing him. Their reactions told him he’d failed each test.

Meandering around the room, Sinclair eventually made his way to Chrissy’s mangle. “How’s it going Chrissy?” he asked, putting a light hand on her shoulder.

Even before she responded he knew that she had changed. Beneath his fingers her thin shoulder felt rigid as a stick. She didn’t shrug off his hand, but her movements as she kept working the collar mangle were abrupt and faster than normal. Her response was equally abrupt as she snapped out the single word, “Fine.” She didn’t even look at him.

When he turned to move on, he saw more than one pair of watching eyes. Maybe, when she was out from under their scrutiny, she’d be more likely to talk to him, he told himself. He’d try again after work.

Cobb appeared at the office door and gestured for Sinclair. As he made his way across the washroom, Sinclair realized that Cobb never walked through the washroom. Instead, he seemed to remain in the front office, whenever he was there at all. Sinclair gave a mental shrug. What did he care? Lots of bosses are afraid of their workers and lots of bosses kept themselves looking busy doing everything but productive work.

Cobb got right to the point once they were inside the office with the door shut. “Sinclair, this is the day we start the ball really rolling. So, once the end whistle sounds, I want you to hand these out to the seven people who are named at the top of each notice,” he said, thrusting sheets of paper toward Sinclair.

Sinclair took the papers and read the top sheet. It was a simple statement:

Your services with Sparta Laundry are hereby terminated as of this date. Your final check will be available for pick-up from the office on the regular payday, Friday of next week. You are not otherwise permitted on Sparta Laundry property. Should you violate this directive, you will be arrested for trespassing.

Thaddeus Cobb

Manager, Sparta Laundry

Sinclair said nothing, thinking only about how cold the brief words seemed and about how the people who received the notices would feel when they discovered their livelihood abruptly cut off. He tried another mental shrug, telling himself once again that what happened in this laundry had nothing to do with him. “Why not hand them out now?”

“Good Lord no!” Cobb responded sharply. “You do it now, who knows what those union hooligans will do. They might break my machinery or walk off the job. We can’t have that. They need to finish this last load of laundry. In fact, if they haven’t finished by quitting time, I want you to keep them working until they do.

Sinclair felt his forehead wrinkle as he pondered Cobb’s directive. He asked, “So, exactly how do you want me to hand out this notice,” giving the papers a little shake.

“When all the work is done and people are leaving, I want you to stand outside the door. As they exit the building, I want you to hand the notice to the seven people. That way, only those already outside will know we’ve fired their leaders. Later today, two of Farley’s men will be here. They’ll stand inside the washroom to make sure no one comes back in. And, they’ll be guarding the place overnight.

“Where will you be?” Sinclair had to ask.

Cobb made a theatrical show of astonishment. “Why home, of course. I don’t stay late, you know that. It will be up to you and the guards to lock the place up.”

“Does this mean I can stop trying to grab Rachel Levy?” Sinclair asked.

Cobb shook his head vigorously, “Absolutely not. Just firing her isn’t going to extract that particular thorn from our side.”

Apparently, thought of the Levy woman triggered another sore subject for Cobb because he said, “I don’t know what has happened to women today. All their yammering about the right to vote is ridiculous. Hell, half of them are idiots and a womanly woman doesn’t want the vote. She wants to take care of her husband, children and home in that order. The last thing we need are women like Rachel Levy getting the vote, women like her are too passionate and ignorant when it comes to politics. Look at those Temperance gals. Women are sticking their nose into everything and I’m damn tired of it.”

Sinclair could only nod but he was wondering, “Just when could a woman working in Cobb’s laundry find the time to play “womanly” woman? He paged through the papers, noting each showed a woman’s name. Yes, he’d given Cobb the names of the most outspoken union supporters. They were all here.

“Are any of these women supporting children?” he had to ask.

Momentary vexation pressed Cobb’s lips into a thin line and furrowed his brow before he said, “Sinclair, I don’t know and I don’t care if any of them have brats. And, neither should you. I am paying you to do a job. Now, do it.”

Sage greeted Mozart’s guests and, when not doing that, filled in for Mae, making sure the waiters had water to pour, clean glasses and dishes and every other niggling task needed to make things run smoothly. He could tell from the harried faces of the waiters he wasn’t particularly good at filling his mother’s shoes.

Customers lingered well past the noontime dinner hour. Finally, at two thirty, he ushered the last patrons out the front door and flipped the sign to ‘closed’. There would be two-and-one-half hours before the start of the supper trade. Gazing around the empty dining room, he couldn’t but admire it yet again. It was an elegant setting and perfect for drawing in Portland’s elite—exactly as intended. The opening of the kitchen’s swinging doors stopped his ruminating. Herman Eich stepped into the elegant room, an incongruous sight in his slouch hat, baggy britches and scuffed boots.

Sage strode toward him. “Herman, is something wrong?” At the ragpicker’s negative shake of the head, Sage asked, “Can I get you some lunch or coffee?”

“No, I just wanted to stop and talk with you while I am on this side of the river. Your mother is fine. I followed the two of them to work, and they’re both safe inside. I’ve spent a few days now, talking to folks. Seeing if I can find anyone who saw Rebecca Levy the day she was taken,” Eich said.

“Any luck?” Sage asked.

“Well, maybe. There’s a young fellow who sells pencils along the route. He’s a bit slow grasping things. But, it seems he might have been the last person to see her on Saturday. He says he saw her step into the alley that leads to her boarding house. So, I’m thinking she might have been jumped there and taken out the alley’s other end. You might want to talk to him. Maybe you can get more details. He’s a nice fellow, just a bit hard to get information from,” Eich said.

“Are you still spending most of your time on the eastside of the river?”

“Yes. Since Mae works such long hours, I have plenty of time to explore. I am ranging far and wide. There’s enough houses that I can fill my cart with usable discards. I even met an old fellow who remembers hunting cougar and bear on Mt. Tabor. Imagine that.”

Sage tried to imagine wild animals roaming the gently rounded dormant volcano but couldn’t. Not now, with most of its timber felled and new houses crawling up its sides. There was even a steam train and a trolley servicing the folks living there and in the farther town of Mt. Villa beyond its eastern slope.

“So, where do I find the pencil-selling fellow?”

“He’s there on Grand Avenue between Belmont and Morrison. He’s got a little blue flag flying above a wooden packing crate.”

Eich soon headed out, saying he had to check on his home base and retrieve more objects to sell. Sage thought about Eich’s one-room lean-to attached to a small house. It was a snug little place, one he and Mae visited often. Although Eich could have succeeded at anything he tried, he chose to write his poems and earn his living selling usable items foraged from dust bins and damaged ceramics he restored. Despite his hand to mouth existence, Eich was one of the most contented people Sage had ever known.

After Eich and his cart rolled away down the alley behind Mozart’s, Sage climbed to the third floor. There he carefully hung his hosting outfit and donned his John Miner disguise. As he changed his clothes he realized he was grumpy. A few minutes later, he finally figured out the reason. Usually, he drove the missions. This time he was somewhat sidelined. Everyone else was out doing.

Well, he’d change that. He’d go talk to the pencil seller and then maybe try to locate the two men Solomon’s man had followed from the Portland Hotel to the cafe. It was a good bet that these were Farley’s two operatives. Maybe he’d also wander past the U.S. Laundry. See if Cobb and his associates had delivered on Cobb’s threat. Now that he had purpose, Sage’s mood lightened a bit. But still, he felt a vague sense of worried anticipation, like the guy in the tenement bedroom waiting for the fellow overhead to drop his other shoe with a great big thud.

The hours lumbered through late afternoon and into the evening. The foreman made them stay late to finish up all the laundry. When the quit whistle shrilled, Mae was picturing herself sitting on the boarding house’s back balcony, her feet freed from her soggy torture and resting on a rattan ottoman. She quickly untied her apron strings, rolled down her sleeves, buttoned up her dress front and considered how the afternoon had gone.

Despite the lunchtime laughter, she’d watched as uneasiness spread among her co-workers. They had to be wondering how they would feed their kids, pay their rent—survive—if they were locked out. There were only so many jobs for women in Portland. Steam laundries, at six dollars a week, were still at least a dollar a week more than what women could make working as a sales clerk, housemaid, cook or cannery worker. According to the help wanted ads, those were the only jobs available to women. Even then, most ads requested a “girl.” Folks with money probably didn’t like bossing a mature woman around. Mae considered the faces around her, noting that few could be called a “girl.” These were women, hardworking women regardless of age, who were skilled at steam laundry work but little else.

Mid afternoon the phony foreman, Sinclair, stepped through the door from the office holding a sheaf of papers in his hand. He stood by the door, gazing around the room, scowling before his expression turned stony. He was a good looking man, she supposed. Neatly barbered brown hair topped an open face that made him look friendly. He had tidy eyebrows, a regular nose and long mouth above a slightly squared chin. The few times she’d heard him speak, he’d sounded educated. He looked more like a bank teller or finance clerk than a laundry foreman. Still, it was no wonder Chrissy succumbed. Good looks, a kind demeanor, intelligence and flattering attention—what country girl wet behind her ears could resist that devil’s mix? Mae hadn’t. A similar scoundrel had fooled her.

Sinclair left his post by the office door, making a show of meandering among the mangles while following a fairly straight path to Chrissy’s side. Chrissy flashed him no smile and kept her eyes on her work, obviously ignoring his presence. Sinclair quickly moved away.

After seeing that exchange, Mae turned her mind and hands to ironing. When she looked up, Sinclair was gone. At least, he’d spent little time parading about like a benevolent overseer. He’d abandoned that act right quick once he realized they were on to him. He had to know that, by now, everyone knew he was Cobb’s spy.

Mae had later spent some time wondering from whom, besides Chrissy, the Association might be getting its information. She narrowed her eyes in the direction of that Caroline girl just as she looked up and caught Mae staring. At first, the young woman’s face looked confused before being transformed by a tentative smile.

Keeping a poker face, Mae merely gazed back. It was time to make the girl uneasy. See which way she’d jump once she realized not everyone trusted her. That little tussle over, Mae had returned to her task, wielding the iron with a vigor driven by worry and frustration.

But she could finally set down her iron, the workday was done. Laying her apron across the ironing board, Mae sighed with relief. The weather had broken a bit cooler that morning. Probably never got past seventy-five degrees outside—making it over ninety degrees inside the washroom. Downright unbearable but still a sight better than when the heat wave raised it to at least one hundred and ten steamy degrees inside.

Done readying for the walk to Rachel’s boarding house, Mae headed for the outer door and heard raised voices coming from outside the building. Exiting behind another woman, who was one of the more vocal union members, Mae saw Sinclair waiting just outside—as though in ambush. He gave a sheet of paper to the woman just ahead of her. When Mae paused to receive her own paper, Sinclair shook his head and gestured for her to keep moving. Once outside, she saw that only a few of the women held one of Sinclair’s papers.

The others stood bunched around these women and their voices raised in anger. Whatever that paper said was riling them up. Mae hustled over to the group. Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw Sinclair nip inside and slam the door shut.