The Mangle Read online

  The Mangle

  Also by S.L. Stoner

  in the

  Sage Adair Historical Mystery Series of the Pacific Northwest

  Timber Beasts

  Land Sharks

  Dry Rot

  Black Drop

  Dead Line

  Slow Burn

  The Mangle

  A Sage Adair Historical Mystery

  of the Pacific Northwest

  __________________________

  S. L. Stoner

  Yamhill Press

  Portland, OR

  www.yamhillpress.net

  The Mangle published by Smashwords

  A Sage Adair Historical Mystery of the Pacific Northwest

  The Mangle is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental unless specifically noted otherwise.

  A Yamhill Press Book

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2016 by S. L. Stoner

  Cover Design by Alec Icky Dunn/Blackoutprint.com

  Printed in the United States. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by any means, without written permission. For information contact: Yamhill Press at www.yamhillpress.net.

  Edition ISBNs

  Softcover ISBN 978-0-9907509-2-5

  Ebook ISBN 978-0-9907509-3-2

  Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication (Provided by Quality Books, Inc.)

  The Mangle / S.L. Stoner.

  ____ pages cm – (A Sage Adair historical mystery of the Pacific Northwest) 1. Northwest, Pacific--History--20th century--Fiction. 2. Labor unions--Fiction. 3. Women--Northwest, Pacific--History--20th century--Fiction. 4. Laundry, Steam--Fiction. 5. Martial arts fiction. 6. Detective and mystery fiction. 7. Action and adventure fiction. 8. Historical fiction. I. Title. II. Series: Stoner, S. L. Sage Adair historical mystery.

  PS3619.T6857M36 2016 813'.6 QBI16-900019

  In memory of

  Helen Nickum

  And

  Sid White

  Two people whose unique, curious and kind spirits

  bettered the lives of all who knew them.

  Prologue

  He didn’t hear the scuff of boots nor the whispered conversation in the street outside. He was tired. A numbing ache pounded his shoulders, just as if they’d carried an oxen yoke all day. He smiled wryly. Truth be told, he’d rather carry a yoke than this weight upon his mind. When would it end? It wasn’t just the expense. It was the unknown outcome. That’s what kept him chained to this desk, locked inside this building, an hour past midnight. He should have been down at the beach, with Della and the kids. It would take months to recover the money they were losing every day. And, what did he gain? The women would hate him if he won. Even that win would be temporary. Any fool knew that the association was on the wrong side of history.

  Eyelids heavy, he didn’t notice the pen slipping from his fingers or the ink dribble landing too close to the white of his rolled up sleeve. The still warmth of late summer pressed around him, erasing the border between skin and air. Cheek on folded arms, his eyes settled on the framed photograph. They were worth it, worth all of it, he thought as peace rippled through him.

  Neither the breaking window nor the muted whoosh woke him. It was the bang and roar and the falling, legs tangled in his chair. He lay on his side, a roaring pain in his temple where he’d hit the desk. As he drifted into unconsciousness a flare lit up the office and heat began searing his face and arms. Before he registered the pain his befuddled mind realized what had happened. The damn gasoline cans in the front room had exploded. He should have moved them upon delivery, he groggily mused before his dimming eyes fixed on the framed picture clutched in his hand.

  It was all Sage could do not to run. Dawn was just hours away. They had so little time to find the two women. What inexplicable happenstance had drawn him into that saloon to stand next to those two sailors? Why had there been one of those lulls that let even a whisper be overheard?

  They were complaining. They were supposed to have sailed the day before. But, there’d been a delay. Still, they’d be leaving soon. Come morning, their ship would steam away with the outgoing tide, down the Willamette, then the Columbia and into the Pacific. The sailors cussed the man who’d been tardy delivering the two passengers. Fine little ladies. Secret cargo. Passage money going into the captain’s pocket instead of to the owners. These two would get some of it—enough to keep them quiet. And maybe there’d be fun with the women as well.

  Ears pricked, Sage moved closer, hoping they were too drunk to notice his fear. “Howdy, fellows. Can I buy you a beer?” Sage asked. And, of course, they’d readily accepted.

  “A coastal steamer,” they’d told him. “Not safe enough to cross the ocean, mind you. Barely seaworthy riddled as it was with punk and sea worms. Just praying it floats long enough to reach ‘Frisco. God willing, and no bad storm arises. Last time we’ll sail on her,” they’d both vowed. “Damn captain is a lying, thieving, drunk who can’t steer a rowboat across a pond.”

  “What cargo are you carrying?” Sage asked, signaling for refills. He kept his face averted to conceal his burning interest.

  “Mostly bits and pieces for those who want cheap and don’t mind slow. No regular freight. And two passengers, this time.” The two sailors exchanged exaggerated winks. “Ladies of the night,” explained one, responding to the look of polite curiosity on Sage’s face.

  “I would think they’d travel by train”, Sage prodded.

  “Aye, a train does make more sense,” agreed one. “But, it can be tricky keeping someone on a train from running off. Captain says a certain gentleman is paying to have them sent back. He has a prior claim. A matter of money owed,” they reckoned.

  Her dish dropped and shattered on the floor when the policemen stormed the hall soon after it opened. Alarmed shrieks and cries of “Mommy!” filled the room. Chairs crashed, tables upended as people rushed about. The police separated the women from the few men in the hall, herding them into separate corners.

  A policeman stepped forward, his brass buttons shining, gold badge glinting and black baton holstered. Standing tall and solid before his men, his blue eyes swept the room. His smooth German face was serious but unthreatening. His gaze stalled, snagging momentarily on her face, before he continued his survey.

  His attention returned to Caroline. “My name is Sergeant Hanke. We are here for your union president,” he said in an official voice. “Is he here?”

  There was stiffening in the women around her. Caroline needed to take charge, measure up to Mae’s faith in her. Stepping forward she swallowed and took a steadying breath so that she could say, calmly, “Why? What is the problem, Sergeant?” she asked, her steady eyes willing him to answer.

  His quick glance around carried unease. Though they numbered at least ten, the police were confronting thirty or more people in the hall. Hanke removed his beehive helmet, signaling courtesy as well as his intent to avoid confrontation. His words to Caroline were polite, matching her calm. “Well, ma’am, your president is needed for our inquiries.”

  “Your ‘inquiries’?” Caroline prompted, her fingers tightening on the dish towel she held.

  “We are investigating the death,” Hanke said, “of a steam laundry owner. He was murdered last night.”

  TWENTY ONE DAYS EARLIER

  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 t
he 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.