Friday harbor, p.11
Friday Harbor, page 11
The smell was twice as bad once they stepped through the front door, the fishy air thick and damp. The building was filled with men, machinery, and equipment—chutes, conveyer belts, can fabricators, vats, and steam kettles—humming, squeaking, clanking, and hissing in a symphony of industrial noise. At a steel table running the length of the far wall, a dozen Chinese laborers wearing bloody, slime-smeared aprons and holding long steel knives were gutting hundreds of salmon that had just been offloaded from a fishing boat tied up on the harbor side of the building. Many of the fish were still alive, their mouths opening and closing as they seemed to gasp for air even as the laborers sliced their bellies open from anus to gills, ripped out their living guts, and tossed them into a waste sluice that ran under the table and out of the building. The sluice, in turn, led to a crusty pipe that discharged a steady stream of guts, fins, heads, and bloody water out the back of the cannery and into the harbor below where half a dozen bald eagles perched on pilings waiting to scavenge the best bits.
"You alright?" Miles shouted at Floyd over the noise. "You look a bit pale."
"It's an ugly business."
"Just thank your lucky stars you're at the top of the food chain."
"Amen."
In the middle of the cannery floor, halfway down a conveyor belt-fed processing line, stood a monstrous, new-looking machine of moving gears, levers, and pistons. Whole salmon were going in one end of the machine and coming out the other end gutted with heads and fins removed.
"Impressive, isn't it?" a white man shouted over the noise from just behind them. It was the foreman, Clyde Crieff, one of only two non-Chinese in the building. "It's the Smith Butchering Machine, better known as the Iron Chink. Guts salmon as fast as my ten best Chinese put together. You're looking at the future, boys."
"Can we talk somewhere?" Miles shouted back.
"Office," Crieff said, pointing at a door in the south wall of the cannery. He led them across the busy floor. As they made their way, it struck Miles as odd that none of the Chinese men in the building made eye contact with him. But it was clear they were keeping tabs on the officers with their peripheral vision, because they invariably drew away whenever the white men approached.
"What can I do for you, Miles?" Crieff asked once the door was shut, cutting off most of the noise. Crieff had employed Miles as a part-time truck driver for a couple of seasons shortly before the war. They liked each other.
"Looking for a couple of Chinese," Miles said.
"You came to the right place."
"Cantonese men. Names of Wong Chun Ting and Kwan Ping. Arrived last weekend."
"Oh. I haven't brought on any new guys since June. In fact, with the Iron Chink up and running, I'm having to lay men off. They keep coming back each morning, asking, More work? More work? I’ve been telling them no more work. They just keep coming back. Probably hoping the machine breaks down. Feel kind of bad for them, truth be told. They're good workers."
"Can we ask your men if they've seen or heard of these guys?"
"Be my guest. Incidentally, have you fellas seen Angus Cooper around?"
"Cooper," Miles repeated. "Captain of a workboat, right? The Dahlia or the Daisy or whatever?"
"The Daisy. Yes. That's the fella. Widower. Lives out Bailer Hill Road. Has a young daughter who's a lunatic. He was supposed to bring me a shipment of tin blanks for the canning machine day before yesterday. I paid him in advance, and off he went to Bellingham. Now I can't find him anywhere. And I'm about to run out of tin."
"We'll ask around. In the meantime . . ."
"Of course, of course. Wu?" he shouted. A Chinese man in clean clothes appeared in the doorway to an adjoining room. "Mr. Wu here is my bookkeeper and liaison with the other Chinese employees. He can interpret for you if you like."
After explaining, in halting English, that he and all the cannery workers were Mandarin speakers, Wu led the officers through the cannery, going from man to man, asking the same series of questions. Did anyone know the mysterious Cantonese men? Had they seen them? Heard anything about them? Did they have any idea as to their whereabouts? Once again avoiding eye contact with Miles, even as they answered his questions, they all pled utter ignorance. But they also looked scared. Every last one of them.
*****
"So, what was going on there?" Floyd asked as they walked back to the station.
"You mean with the reticence over speaking with us?" Miles said.
"With the terror over speaking with us, I'd call it. Are they that afraid of the law? Of white men?"
"They shouldn't be. I don't think anyone messes with them up here. And they basically keep to themselves. Never cause any trouble. And come to think of it, they never seemed particularly fearful back when I drove a truck for the cannery."
"Maybe they fear retribution."
"Nobody likes a rat," Miles said.
"But retribution from their fellow laborers, or from someone else?"
"You mean our recent Cantonese arrivals?"
"Well, as I mentioned, the tongs are largely made up of Cantonese. And the tongs each have contingents of hard men they call boo how doy, or highbinders. They're the soldiers. The dreaded enforcers."
"Hatchet men."
"If you like. They've certainly been known to plant hatchets in their enemies' skulls now and then. Hatchets, ice axes, meat cleavers. You name it."
"Are you suggesting that the Cantonese men who arrived on the Bangor may be two of these tong highbinders, as you call them?" Miles asked.
"It would explain the uncharacteristic fear on the faces of the cannery workers."
"And it might substantiate the theory that a tong was involved in the hijacking of the Lucky Lena. Like maybe the highbinders were the perpetrators."
"Or maybe it was their tong's shipment that was hijacked, so they're here trying to figure out what happened. Trying to figure out who to exact their revenge on."
The men froze in their tracks as a black-tailed doe and her two downy, speckled fawns emerged from an alleyway and crossed the street a few dozen yards ahead of them before disappearing into a thicket of blackberry bushes.
"So, Floyd."
"So, Miles."
"There's a social event this evening."
"Social event?"
"A dance, strictly speaking," Miles said with a smirk. "At the Odd Fellows Hall. The annual summer knees-up."
"Sounds like the event of the season."
"It's a big thing for the islands. A lot of young people come in on the inter-island steamer."
"Like young people from Deer Harbor? Friends of Leif Jensen, maybe?"
"Exactly. Might be a good chance to find out if anyone has heard anything. It's a small county, in some ways. Insular and gossipy. Word travels quickly. Anyway, it's after work hours. But if you're interested, you're welcome to come along. We'll get you back to your hotel before bedtime. Your mother will never be the wiser."
"Ha-ha. What are you going to wear?"
"What am I going to wear? I'm pretty sure you're the first man to ever ask me a question like that."
"I mean what's the dress code?"
"Have you never been to a dance hall?"
"Sheriff," Bill shouted, trotting down the street from the opposite direction.
"What is it?" Miles asked as they converged.
"Jake Wolfram said he saw the two Chinks."
"Jake Wolfram?"
"Driver for the Roche Harbor lime works."
"Oh, right."
"Jake was waiting for a scheduled pickup down by the docks last Tuesday when he saw two unusually well-dressed Chinks come out of the terminal as the Bangor was unloading. Saw them hop into Rupert Hawkins's car, quick, and drive away."
"Rupert Hawkins, huh?"
"Yes, sir."
"Quick, like the Chinese wanted to keep a low profile? Like they didn't want to be seen?"
"That's how it sounded."
"Who's Rupert Hawkins?" Floyd asked.
"Remember my story of Reverend McCaskill horsewhipping a drunk in the street?"
"How could I forget?"
"Hawkins was the drunk. He's an on-again, off-again deckhand for any captain desperate or fool enough to hire him on for a day or two. And sometimes he makes a little extra hooch money by working as an unofficial taxi, picking people up from arriving steamships in his rusty old Crow-Elkhart."
"Let's go talk to him."
"Tomorrow. He'll be three sheets to the wind by this hour. Won't remember his own name."
*****
Miles and Floyd spent a tedious couple of hours examining duplicate sets of the fingerprints Floyd had lifted off the Lucky Lena, comparing them to samples they'd obtained from the various objects they'd seized. To Miles's disappointment, none of the prints taken off the boat matched any taken from Reverend McCaskill's chisel—though McCaskill would likely have been wearing gloves if he were the hijacker. And aside from the expected matches to the objects taken from the Jensens' homes, the one notable discovery was that a print Floyd took off of the severed finger matched the print of Hans Jensen's index finger taken off his wooden game board.
"Well," Miles said, sounding down, "if Hans Jensen is still alive, which I tend to doubt, then he's probably very unhappy."
Yearning to stretch their stiff legs, Miles and Floyd walked down to the docks to ask if anyone had seen Angus Cooper, his boat the Daisy, or two unusually well-dressed Chinese men. No one had. All Miles and Floyd got for their trouble were frantic questions from wide-eyed fishermen and deckhands. Had the police caught the killers yet? Had they at least found the Jensens' bodies? Did they have any promising leads? Did the sheriff think any of them were in danger? Nobody had anything helpful to say.
NINETEEN
The calm, warm air smelled of dry grass, and the sky was lit the deep blue-purple of dusk as Miles and Floyd made their way across town toward the Odd Fellows Hall. The de facto hub of island social life, it sat on a bluff a block up from the waterfront, commanding a stellar view of the expanse of Friday Harbor. Boats of all sorts bobbed in its sheltered waters, the reflection of their anchor lights seeming to create a second universe of stars below the town.
The façade of the hall itself was adorned with large amber lightbulbs that hung from strings of sagging wire. Groups of well-dressed young people were converging on the hall from all directions, including at least two dozen who were hiking up the hill from the just-arrived inter-island steamer. Even from nearly two blocks away, Miles could hear live music from within.
As they walked through the front door, Miles and Floyd were greeted with the cacophony of loud music and innumerable conversations, along with stuffy air that smelled of perfume, tobacco smoke, and sweat. Strings of multicolored lights spread outward across the ceiling from a point directly over the stage where a tuxedoed, fourteen-piece band from Seattle played away under red, white and blue bunting that had been left up since the 4th of July. There were rows of small tables flanking the walls—one of which held plates of tea cakes, a large punchbowl, and glasses. But most of the partygoers were either standing in groups toward the back of the hall or dancing up near the stage.
"You're a jazz aficionado, right?" Floyd half shouted. "This song. It's Paul Whiteman, isn't it?"
"The so-called King of Jazz. Yes."
"You sound dubious."
"Paul Whiteman is a white man."
"So?"
"If any man can be called the king of jazz, that man would have to be a negro."
"That right?"
"Hey—see her, over there," he said, pointing to a young woman in a yellow silk chiffon dress. "I'm pretty sure she's from Deer Harbor. Let's go see if she knows Leif Jensen."
She did know Leif Jensen. But not well enough to know anything useful to the investigation. It was the same story with two other Deer Harbor residents the young woman directed them to.
"Now what?" Floyd asked as they went out the back door to get some fresh air on the lawn.
"Let's linger for a bit. More folks may arrive yet."
"From Deer Harbor? Any who were going to come would have arrived on that last inter-island steamer, don't you think."
"Got somewhere else to be?"
"Well . . ."
"The music's good, isn't it?"
"I suppose."
"Alright then."
"Can I ask you something?" Floyd said as they leaned against the outside of the building. "How does a 24-year-old end up as sheriff of an entire county?"
"I was only a deputy until around six months ago. As McCaskill was so happy to point out, I'm only acting sheriff. Because Sheriff James isn't well."
"Back trouble, right?"
"Officially, yes. Unofficially, between you and me, he's going senile. The family doesn't want people to know."
"I see. Still, there must be other deputies with more experience. No offense."
"I was the only deputy on San Juan Island. The other two live on Orcas and Lopez islands. But Friday Harbor is the county seat, so it needs somebody, and nobody wanted to move here. So lucky me, I got to be acting sheriff."
"You don't sound terribly enthusiastic."
"I didn't even want to be a deputy. It was my mother's idea. Said I needed a respectable, steady job before any of the domesticated local hens would deign to marry me. Heaven forbid."
"So why not fish or farm or something?" Floyd asked. "Why be a copper if you don't like the work? Being a lawman isn't anyone's idea of lucrative, obviously."
"It's what I know. Because I'm big, they made me a military policeman when I was with the AEF," he said, referring to the American Expeditionary Forces.
"You were in the Great War?"
"Spent three months guarding supply yards and busting drunk doughboy heads in Neufchâteau, then had another few months in Verdun."
"See any combat?"
"Sure. In the bars."
"Well, what does your father do?"
"He died when I was overseas. 1918."
"I'm sorry. Spanish flu?"
"Yup," Miles said, his mind randomly flashing back to a happy memory of his father teaching him how to operate a Bull tractor they'd borrowed to plow one of their fields, then laughing himself to tears when Miles fell face-down in the mud while trying to hand-crank the engine.
"Since we're on the subject," Miles said, "how did you get to be a detective at such a young age?"
"Part ability, part luck."
"How's that?"
"As for ability, when I was a rookie, I latched onto a detective who was looking into a stabbing on my beat off Yesler Way in Downtown Seattle. He taught me the basics of crime scene analysis. I was hooked, so I took a couple of semi-related classes at the University of Washington. Turned out there was a need in the department for some of the new scientific techniques I'd learned about at UW."
"And the luck?"
"My father knew the chief of police through his Masonic Lodge. Chief did him a favor."
The allegedly crooked chief of police, William Severyns, Miles thought. Well, well. "And what does your father do?"
"Feeds daffodils."
"A gardener?"
"No, he's dead too."
"Oh. I'm sorry. Spanish flu?"
"Got hit by a truck after stepping off the trolley on 1st Avenue. Ironic, given that he ran a trucking company."
A trucking company, Miles thought, wondering whether it ran booze for the crooked chief of police. He eyeballed Floyd with resurgent suspicion. The guy seemed so sincere. But it just didn't add up—how he was already a detective at age 24, and, more importantly, how he suddenly appeared in Friday Harbor to help investigate a probable rumrunner hijacking.
As they stepped back inside, Miles noticed that a crowd had formed around two women who were stomping and twirling through dance moves as the band blasted out a fast-paced tune Miles hadn't heard before. As he maneuvered for a better look, he saw that one of the dancers was Marion. His face broke out in a smile.
She was stealing the show in a low-waisted, knee-length dress adorned with countless strings of tiny, jade-green glass beads, a cream-colored feather headband around her dark bobbed hair, and a pair of pearl necklaces that flew about as she danced. Her face was flushed with effort, but she smiled. Next to her, her friend Sylvia—striking in her own right with her short hair pomaded back and dressed in an understated blouse and tie, trousers with suspenders, and what looked like a men's hat. The women mirrored one another's dance moves in almost perfect synchronicity. But all eyes in the hall, male and female, were locked on Marion.
"Recognize anyone else from Deer Harbor?" Floyd shouted over the music. "Or can we finally get out of here?"
"Hold on. I need to talk to somebody."
As he said this, the band wound up the song and shared the crowd's uproarious applause with Marion and Sylvia. Shifting gears, the bandleader got his players started on a slower song. As the circle of spectators dispersed, Marion spotted Miles, grabbed Sylvia's hand, and led her right toward him.
TWENTY
"There you are," Marion said to Miles with a beaming smile and a long hug as they came together in the middle of the dance floor. "I was worried you weren't going to come."
"Here I am," he said with a huge smile of his own.
Marion gave him an expectant look, then gestured toward Floyd.
"Ah, oh," Miles said. "Mr. Ashton Floyd, may I introduce my very good friend, Miss Marion Forde, and her friend, Miss Sylvia, ah . . ."
"Rosen," Sylvia said, shaking Floyd's hand.
"Rosen. Yes. Forgive me."
Floyd stood ramrod straight, as if at attention in front of an Army drill sergeant. He didn't so much as mutter a greeting.
"Floyd?" Miles said. "You doing alright?"
"Yes. Fine. Thanks."
"Okay, then," Miles said before turning back to Marion. "Tell us, what was that dance you two were just burning up the floor with?"
"It's a new one they call the Black Bottom," Sylvia said. "We just learned it at a negro joint called Leroy's Harlem Cabaret."
