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 startled 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.

“Good morning to you, Mr. Adair,’ replied his mother. She hadn’t told Rachel of their relationship and she was reminding him and Eich of that fact. “Have you any news?”

He nodded, saying, “I spoke with Leo and they have put out a solicitation for funds in the Labor Press. Unions and union members can now buy shares in the cooperative laundry. Each union on the Federated Trades Council has contributed sufficient funds to make the down payment. They expect to buy it next week.

“What about Rebecca?” Rachel asked, leaning forward. Her eyes were entreating and bleak above the dark smudges of sleepless nights. On the table, her hands clenched each other so hard that it seemed they were preventing her body from flying apart.

Guilt twanged through Sage as he shook his head, saying, “Nothing yet. But, I am expecting to hear something soon.”

Rachel’s eyes filled with tears and Mae put a hand over those clenched fingers and squeezed. “What about Lucinda? Did she agree to help?” Mae asked.

This was it. Sage glanced sideways at Eich and saw compassion soften the other man’s bearded face. “I didn’t get a chance to talk to her,” he said, his voice dropping.

Mae’s lips tightened. Good thing they were in a public place and Rachel didn’t know Mae was his mother. That meant when she spoke, Mae’s mild tone lacked the bite he knew she was suppressing. “It seems to me, you had better talk to her soon because, given our lack of success, she’s now our best hope of finding Rebecca.”

Sage nodded his agreement. He couldn’t discuss Lucinda now. “I did get some news that sounds good,” he said. “It looks like you might be right, Mrs. Clemens. The fellow who took Rebecca could be working for the laundry association. Also, someone may have seen him meeting with Cobb’s henchman, James Farley. If it is him, he’s been in Portland pretty continuously which means he didn’t have time to take her out anywhere. That means she’s still probably in Portland.”

Rachel’s face showed no relief. Instead, she said, “It’s been thirteen days. How do you know he hasn’t killed her? Or, sold her to a white slaver who has taken her away?” In the painful silence that followed, her tears spilled over.

The morning air skimming across the river just a few blocks away sent a cooling relief from the building heat. The picketers steadfastly waved their signs while they paraded back and forth before the Sparta Laundry’s closed doors.

“Good morning ladies, how are things going?” Rachel asked, as she handed out fresh breakfast rolls.

“Fair to middling,” responded one of the women. Her tone was spritely but Mae noticed a tightness around her eyes. She presented a worrisome picture, picket sign in one hand, small toddler clinging to her other. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, with corn silk hair of pale yellow, tucked into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. Her dress was faded but clean and well-mended. The toddler at her knee was better dressed in jaunty red knee pants and a new-looking little white shirt.

“Maisie, are you keeping well? You have enough to eat, a roof over your head?” Rachel asked. She’d also picked up on the woman’s worry.

The woman nodded, saying, “Aye, I’m paid up on rent till the end of the month. Folks have been bringing us food from the union hall so we’re not going hungry. Davy here even got some new clothes from the donations.” She smiled down at the little boy, flicked a stray hair away from his face and added, “Though, if Cobb keeps us locked out past month’s end, I’m not sure what I’ll do. My brother says we can move in with him,” she reached down to stroke the towhead at her knee, “but his wife isn’t keen on the idea. Not that I blame her. They’ve only got two rooms and there’s already four of them living there.”

Mae thought about her own tough times in the miners’ shantytowns. Sometimes, they’d lived three to a room. And there’d been hunger whenever the mine closed down. Such shutdowns were frequent either because of methane explosions or because the owners thought the miners needed to be taught a lesson. Those lean times, full of worry, were hardest on the mothers.

Rachel put her arm across the woman’s shoulders. “Maisie, we’re trying to get us all back to work. Things are looking hopeful. Just hang on a bit longer.”

The woman smiled and said, “I will, Rachel. Like I said, our heads are still above water and the alligators ain’t nipped at us yet.”

A few more exchanges with the other women on the picket line and they’d left but not before Mae saw Rachel slipping folding money into Maisie’s hand. Rachel was silent as they walked up the long ramp onto the bridge, the steady thud of their boots on the wooden boards sounding in matched cadence. Mid-span, Rachel touched Mae’s forearm with just enough force to halt her steps. “Mae, I can’t do this anymore,” she said quietly, her eyes shiny with unshed tears.

Mae’s heart sank. She glanced quickly around. Eich strolled ahead of them, nearing the bridge’s end. Behind them, one of Fong’s cousins paused to gaze down into the marshland along the river channel. The walkway was crowded, so Mae tugged Rachel toward the railing. There, they both turned to face the river.

Rachel looked downriver, her face bleak and lifeless. How the young woman had aged these past few weeks. “Tell me,” Mae prodded.

“These poor women need someone who has hope, energy, who can give and not take. I can’t, I just can’t anymore. Rebecca . . . .” She didn’t go on. She didn’t need to. Sleeping in the same room with Rachel, Mae knew that most nights, Rachel tossed, turned, cried and slept little. When she did sleep, her body twitched and she whimpered in her throat. She knew what that kind of worry was like. She’d been in the same position too many times—her father first missing, found murdered, her son lost in a mine explosion, and too often, these days, it was Sage in danger. “We’ll find Rebecca, I promise,” Mae said with more confidence that she felt.

Rachel shook her head. “I know Mr. Miner is trying but I have to do something. I just don’t have it in me to try to keep people’s spirits up when my heart is so heavy with worry. I need to look for Rebecca. I’m going to start going to the whorehouses, asking questions. I have to.”

She turned to look at Mae, her dark eyes burning, “Mae, you have to take my place with the women. Encourage them. They like you. They trust you.”

Mae could only shake her head. “Rachel, I can’t.”

“But you can!” Rachel insisted, “You can do everything I do and probably better. I know you like to stay in the background but I need you to step forward, to take my place. Please.”

“Rachel. There’s a reason why I stay in the background. I can’t tell you what it is. Please believe me, if I could, I would take your place. But I just can’t do it. Surely, by now, you’ve figured out there’s more to my life than working in a steam laundry.” Mae nodded toward Eich and then toward the Chinese man at their rear both of whom were now feigning an interest in the river water far below.

Rachel sighed. “I figured there had to be something. You can’t tell me what it is?”

“It’s not mine to tell,” Mae said, letting the regret show in her face.

Rachel nodded, accepting what Mae said though her shoulders sagged as she turned to again gaze downriver. “Okay, then,” she said. “It will have to be Caroline. The women like her too. She’s smart and well-spoken, and strong in her belief that the women deserve better lives.”

Somehow, Mae wasn’t surprised at Rachel’s declaration. “Rachel, I know you don’t want to hear this, but something just doesn’t ring true where Caroline’s concerned.” Mae raised a hand to halt the protest that started from Rachel’s mouth. “Yes, I know. I like her too. I want to trust her.” She used a hand to turn the young woman away from the railing to face her. “You gave me three days to discover more about Caroline. I still have today and tomorrow left. Promise me you will wait two more days until you turn over the reins to her. If I haven’t found out the answer by then, I’ll stand behind you and behind her if you still want her to take over.”

Rachel studied Mae’s face, took a deep breath and nodded. “Okay then, you have until the day after tomorrow, then I am done until I find Rebecca.”