Soon, even I grew discouraged. Robert, who towered over the Chinese like Gulliver in the land of the Lilliputians, grumbled about all the time we’d wasted. Leaving him to grouse, I stopped a young Chinese boy carrying crates of produce from a delivery wagon into a grocery store.
“Excuse me,” I said, hoping the lad understood at least some English. “Do you know a shop called Wing Yo’s?”
The boy shifted his crate and subjected me to very grown-up scrutiny. “Why you want to know?” The boy directed his question to me, but he was craning his neck to stare curiously at Robert.
I understood the look; in the lad’s culture, it was men who asked questions, not mere women. The fact that the man was as tall as a giant must add to his confusion. I fought down the urge to educate the child on the injustice of such discrimination and kept silent. Robert, too, seemed to appreciate the significance of the boy’s attitude, because he said in an authoritative voice,
“Don’t keep us standing here all day, lad.” He held a coin out to the boy, who grabbed it with alacrity. “Another of these is yours if you can direct us to Wing Yo’s.”
The lad’s eyes lit with excitement. “One minute,” he said and he quickly carried his crate into the store.
He was back outside in less than a minute, motioning for us to follow him. His small size allowed him to weave through the crowd with ease. We found the going more difficult, especially Robert, who negotiated the congested street like an elephant trying to make its way through a glass shop.
After two blocks, the boy stopped before a building indistinguishable from its neighbors. “Wing’s up there,” he said, holding out his hand, palm up.
Robert pulled out another coin but didn’t immediately hand it over. “I don’t see any sign. How do I know Wing’s shop is really here?”
The boy muttered something in Chinese, then flung open the door to the building and took the stairs two at a time. Robert followed, while I hurried behind them. The narrow stairwell was dimly lit and smelled vilely of urine, garbage and strange cooking odors.
“Here,” the boy announced, pointing to the only door on the uppermost floor.
Attempting to catch my breath, I knocked. When no one answered, I slowly opened the door. Inside, a dozen men and women
bent over sewing machine, ironing, cutting and fabric marking tables. I turned and nodded to Robert. He barely had the coin out of his pocket when the boy snatched it and bounded down the stairs with even more speed than he’d ascended.
“Let’s hope this really is Wing Yo’s,” Robert said as we entered the sweatshop.
The room we found ourselves in did not seem large enough to accommodate the workers, who were equally divided between Chinese and Occidental. Though the day outside was cool and the room’s two windows were wide open, the shop felt hot and airless. The floor was piled with partially sewn garments, while completed articles filled two tables by the door, shirts on one side, trousers on the other.
With a little shock, I realized the room had but one door, and I could see no fire escapes. God help these poor workers if fire broke out in the stairwell; everything in this room would go up like a tinderbox. It was another disaster waiting to happen, one potentially more deadly than the fire that had killed Mrs. Mankin’s husband.
Two women glanced up as we entered the room, but at a warning look from a Chinese man who was teaching a young boy to iron, they hastily resumed their work. The man’s eyes narrowed, as if he was not accustomed to visitors.
“Good afternoon,” I said, smiling pleasantly. His expression remained noncommunicative. “We’re looking for a man called Paddy McGuire.”
My eyes scanned the room to see if anyone reacted to the name. Sure enough, a worker toward the back stared at me with a wary expression. Beneath a brownish-red beard, his face was thin and angular, his eyes intelligent and a bit cocky. A bold tilt to his narrow chin announced him to be a man not adverse to downing a friendly pint or engaging in a not so friendly fight.
“I’m Paddy,” he said almost defiantly, ignoring his overseer’s cautionary glare.
Hoping this dour Chinese understood English, I said, “May we please speak privately to Mr. McGuire? It won’t take long, I promise.”
The man seemed to understand well enough, or perhaps he just wanted us out of his shop. He nodded curtly toward the door we’d just entered. Paddy rose from his machine and, hitching up his pants, swaggered out into the hall.
“So?” he said, the instant we were out of the room. “Who the devil are ya, and whatcha want with me?”
“I’m Sarah Woolson and this is Robert Campbell. We’re attorneys working on behalf of Mrs. Lily Mankin, who lost her husband Jack in that sweatshop fire—”
“Sweet Jesus, a woman lawyer!” Paddy assessed me as if I belonged in a zoo. “Never seen one of them before.”
Ignoring his rude stare, I kept my voice professional. “We’re here for information, Mr. McGuire. I understand you used to work with Mr. Mankin?”
McGuire regarded me warily. “What if I did?”
“In order to help his widow, we need to know who nailed that sweatshop door closed.” I held up a hand before Paddy could explode. “Mr. McGuire, we’re not here to accuse you of wrongdoing. Please, just answer the question.”
Paddy raised an eyebrow. “What if it was me who nailed the bloody door shut? How’s that gonna help Jack’s wife?”
“If you boarded it up it on your own, it won’t,” I explained. “On the other hand, if someone told you to do it—the owner, perhaps—it will help her a great deal.”
“Hah!” he snorted. “That’s a good one. No one knows who owns these pigsties. Don’t give a damn if any of us live or die, long
as we keep the money pourin’ into their pockets. The worthless bastard who owned the shop what burned down sure as hell never dropped in for a visit.”
My heart felt heavy with disappointment. “So, you took it upon yourself to nail the door closed.”
“I never said that now, did I?” he bristled. At first I thought he was trying to deny responsibility for blocking the exit. Then I realized it was quite the opposite. The guilt I saw reflected in his eyes was imbedded with deep self-reproach. Whether deserved or not, Paddy McGuire held himself responsible for the deaths of his five coworkers.
“Killy’s the one told me to do it,” he admitted at last, his voice full of self-loathing.
“Killy?” I said excitedly. “You mean Killy Doyle?”
“One and the same. Claimed he’d get around to fixin’ the lock when he had time, the lazy slob.” He stopped, plainly fearing he’d revealed too much. “You tell Killy I said that, and I’ll be callin’ you liars,” he warned.
“If you’ve told us the truth,” Robert said, “there’s no need for your name to be mentioned.”
“You say Killy didn’t own the sweatshop?” I asked.
“Nah. Killy’s the muscle to bully people around, but he ain’t got the brains or gumption to be boss of anythin‘besides his own prick.” His face reddened. “Beggin’ yer pardon, ma‘am. No offense intended.”
Robert, whose own face had flushed, started to protest, but I cut him off before he could erupt.
“Mr. McGuire, do you know where we can find Killy?”
“Nope, never seen him outside the shop.” His eyes grew sharp. “I’m warnin’ you, though. If you do find him, you’d best watch yer backsides. And mind you keep me out of it. I only told you what
I did to help Jack’s wife. He and the others shouldn’t a been trapped in that hellhole.” With that, he turned and slammed back into the sweatshop.
Robert and I didn’t speak until we were once again on the street.
“Now I suppose you’ll insist on finding this Doyle fellow,” he muttered as we went in search of a cab.
I saw the ghost of a smile playing around that broad mouth. How like him, I thought. In spite of the brusque exterior he put on for public display, Robert would never turn his back on a woman in need, much less a widow with small children to care for and another on its way.
“Of course,” I answered matter-of-factly, happy enough to help him save face. “Under the circumstances, we can hardly do less.”
M
ama was waiting for me when I arrived home. For the past hour I’d longed for a hot bath and a hot cup of tea. One look at my mother’s face told me both comforts were going to be delayed.
“You have a message,” she teased, eyes alight as she waved a piece of white notepaper at me.
“A message from whom?” I asked, knowing from her delighted expression that it could only be from a man.
“Here, see for yourself.” She handed me the notepaper, then stood eagerly watching my reaction. It read:
Dear Miss Woolson,
I would be pleased if you would accompany me to Woodward Gardens next Sunday, March the 7
th
. I think I can promise an enjoyable afternoon.
Respectfully yours,
Pierce Godfrey, Esq.
I reread the short note then, without comment, placed it in my pocket and started upstairs.
“Well?” Mama called out. “What are you going to do?”
“I shall send Ina with my regrets. Right now I’m tired and would like to go to my room and have a bath.”
“Sarah, you’re hopeless. I could understand your reticence with the dentist, but Mr. Godfrey is a most attractive young man.”
“I agree. But I have no time right now for courting.”
Mama sighed in exasperation. “I thought you might say that. Which is why I took the liberty of accepting the invitation on your behalf.”
I stopped and stared down at her. “You did what?”
“You’re not getting any younger, Sarah. There may come a day when you’ll regret slamming the door in your suitors’ faces—especially a man like Mr. Godfrey.”
I started to argue, then realized it would serve no purpose. The damage was already done. I could hardly cancel the engagement now.
“All right, Mama, I’ll go,” I gave in ungracefully “But in the future, I’ll thank you not to read my private communications, much less take it upon yourself to accept or decline invitations on my behalf.”
As I finally sank into my bath, I forced thoughts of Pierce Godfrey from my mind and concentrated instead on Lily Mankin’s lawsuit. Granted, finding Paddy McGuire this afternoon was a vital first step, but without Doyle we had no case. And I feared he would not be easy to find.
If Paddy was right, and Doyle didn’t own the sweatshop, who was Doyle taking his orders from? How far did the chain of underlings extend before it reached the man who was ultimately responsible for dooming five men to their graves? I thought about
Bert Corrigan, the bully who threatened me outside the Kearney Street grocery store. Where did he fit into this? Who had sent him to warn me—and why? And what would he do when he learned I had no intention of giving in to his harassment?
Despite the hot water, I felt a sudden chill. I lay my head back and willed my body to relax, but it was no use. My lovely bath had lost its ability to calm my agitated mind.
S
unday dawned bright and clear. According to Mama, who’d gone out early to do some gardening, it was a perfect March morning, cool but not cold, and thankfully free of fog. Since I’d been hoping for rain, this news did not cheer me. I’ve been accused of possessing an overactive imagination, but Pierce Godfrey really did remind me of the buccaneers I’d read about as a child. In books, pirates were exciting and romantic. In real life, this particular brigand left me confused and unsure. He was a man I didn’t wholly understand.
I’d been in some indecision as to what to wear. I’ve long held the opinion that women’s clothes are designed to restrict natural movement. As far as I’m concerned, this is not only unhealthy but impractical. I’ve actually witnessed women playing tennis in dresses outfitted with a train! I may not meet the edicts of Paris couture—which is torture if I ever saw it!—but whenever possible I make my costume choices in favor of comfort rather than style.
In the end I chose a pale lavender dress of soft brushed cotton, with very little bustle, a straight skirt—with no added flounces to get in my way—and sleeves that allowed my arms to move freely. It was one of the least fussy gowns in my wardrobe. Moreover, at the risk of appearing immodest, I consider lavender to be one of my more becoming colors, complementing my black hair and violet
eyes. I added a simple straw boater decorated with a lavender ribbon, as well as a matching parasol to protect me from the sun, and my preparations were complete.
Pierce arrived precisely at one o’clock, impressing Mama with his punctuality—as if she required any further persuasion regarding his suitability!
“You look lovely,” he said approvingly as we left the house. “That gown is perfect for the Gardens. I never understand women who dress up for an outing as if they’re going to a formal ball.”
“Thank you,” I said, pleased that we shared similar views on this subject. “I couldn’t agree with you more.”
Woodward’s Gardens were located on Mission near Fourteenth Street. Instead of taking his carriage, Pierce thought it might be fun to make the trip in one of Henry Casebolt’s mule-drawn balloon cars. These odd-looking vehicles—commonly called “bandboxes on wheels”—were round, fatter than cable cars, and equipped with an overhanging oval roof. One of their main attractions was that they could change directions at the end of the line with a simple pull of a bolt, which turned the upper part of the car entirely around. Personally, I found the ride a bit jerky, wobbling as it did from side to side like a ship. But as a novelty it was amusing enough, and we joined the rest of the passengers in hearty laughter as we lumbered on our way.
While I waited for Pierce to purchase our admission tickets to the gardens, I noticed a crowd gathered to one side of the gate. You can imagine my surprise when I spied Reverend Josiah Halsey standing in the center of the throng, spouting his bizarre dogma to a mostly amused audience. Once again he was dressed entirely in black, and his fierce dark eyes blazed out from beneath flyaway brows. As he preached, he waved the same tattered brown Bible above his head.
“From all false doctrine, heresy and schism, good Lord, deliver
us,” he quoted loudly from the Book of Common Prayer. “Listen to me, my brothers and sisters, for I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven.”
This was met with scattered jeers and a few rude remarks, causing a raucous outbreak of laughter. Halsey’s lean, craggy face bore a look of frenzied ecstasy, and he seemed not to notice his audience’s mocking response.
“I tell you that the wicked shall be turned into the fiery depths of hell. Repent before it is too late!”
“Shut up, you crazy old coot!” a man’s voice yelled.
Another man cried out, “I’d just as soon go to hell than to that heaven of yours. Sounds damned boring!”
The crowd began to scatter amid giggles and little screams, as garbage from a nearby bin began flying at the minister. As I moved back out of the fray, I felt a hand on my arm, and found that Pierce had moved up behind me.
“It’s that so-called minister who broke into Leonard and Caroline’s house,” he said tightly. “What the blazes is he doing here?”
“At the moment, he seems to be inciting a riot.”
Even as I said this, a rotten orange came flying by my head. Women screamed and tried to draw their children away from the fracas, while men flailed their fists, more or less indiscriminately, as far as I could see.
Pierce took my arm and drew me away from the fight. As he did, I noticed Reverend Halsey slinking away from the brawl, Bible clutched tightly to his chest. A few moments later, a police wagon pulled up and several uniformed men jumped out and started to break up the fight. I looked around, but Revered Halsey was no longer in sight.
“Just like the night Caroline died,” Pierce said with quiet fury. “He sowed his seeds of hatred and bigotry, then when they bore
fruit, he was gone. Someone should stop that bastard before he causes serious trouble.”
I was surprised by this vulgarity, but I don’t think Pierce was even aware he’d used it. He continued to look down Mission Street where Halsey had vanished, his expression so malevolent I felt a chill go down my spine.
My happy mood was shattered. “Perhaps we should leave,” I said, breaking in upon his thoughts.
“No, that’s exactly what we mustn’t do. We’re not going to let that charlatan ruin our day.” He smiled and took my arm. “Shall we?”
I returned his smile with some of my earlier enthusiasm. Pierce was right; if we left, Halsey would have won. “Why not?”
Despite the poor beginning, the afternoon turned out to be perfect. Our first stop was the park’s splendid museum, where we spent a pleasant hour admiring the old masters, as well as laughing at some of the more avant-garde exhibits. After that we wandered about the grounds, feeding peanuts to the deer and bears, then taking a somewhat bumpy ride in a carriage pulled by two white goats.
We spread a blanket on the grass to eat our picnic dinner and listened to a band performing on a flower-laden platform. I don’t think fried chicken, Saratoga chips and apple dumpling ever tasted as good as they did that lovely afternoon, especially washed down with ice-cold lemonade bought from a nearby stand.
Remembering the rickety ride we’d endured earlier in the balloon car, Pierce hired a cab for the journey home. Sitting there in comfortable silence, I was surprised to realize I’d found the day thoroughly delightful.
“A penny for your thoughts.” Pierce sat across from me, his long legs crossed at the ankles. In the light filtering through the carriage windows, I could see his mouth curved in an enigmatic smile.
“What’s funny?” I asked, then was surprised when he said, “You didn’t expect to have a good time today, did you? No, don’t bother denying it. It was written all over your face when I picked you up at your house. In fact, if your mother hadn’t accepted the invitation for you, you would have found some excuse not to go.”
This was so close to the truth, I felt color creep into my cheeks and was grateful the light in the carriage was poor.
I made an effort to look affronted. “I don’t know why you’d say a thing like that. Woodward’s Gardens is a splendid way to spend a Sunday afternoon.”
“Woodward’s Gardens was never the question, though, was it? I’m the problem, although I doubt it’s anything personal. You probably would behave the same toward any man who showed you any interest.”
“Mr. Godfrey, really—” I started to object, but he cut me off.
“Unlike most of your sex, you aren’t looking for a man to take care of you.” He smiled at what must have been my shocked expression. “You’re intelligent, independent and know what you want from life. Most extraordinary, you’re not afraid to go after it. I’ve traveled the world, Sarah, yet I’ve never met another woman remotely like you.”
I found myself at an uncharacteristic loss for words.
“I apologize if I’ve embarrassed you. It’s just that I find you remarkably refreshing. I can’t remember when I’ve had a more enjoyable time.”
“I think—” I said hoarsely, annoyed when I had to stop to clear my throat. “I think most men would find the qualities you named intimidating rather than refreshing. At least that’s been my experience.
“Then we must broaden your horizons, Miss Woolson,” he said softly.
His words, though seemingly harmless, were spoken in a tone so laden with hidden meaning that I felt goose bumps rise on my arms. Evening was fast approaching, and Pierce sat cast in partial shadow, but enough light fell upon him to reflect his eyes gazing at me speculatively.
“So, have you decided whether or not to accept my business proposition?” he asked.
“Your what?” I said, caught off guard.
“Last week I asked if you would act as my attorney on some company business. You haven’t given me your decision.”
“Ah, yes. Actually, I think it would be best if you brought this up with Mr. Shepard,” I said, remembering the senior partner’s rage over Lily Mankin’s case. That incident would be nothing compared to my agreeing to represent a company as large as Godfrey Shipping!
He regarded me for a moment, then nodded. “As you wish. I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting your employer, but I’ll call upon him first thing tomorrow morning.”
“You realize it’s highly unlikely he’ll allow me to represent you.”
“Of course; that’s why I came to you first. Your employer’s chauvinism is no less than I expected.” Again, that unreadable smile. “Don’t worry, Sarah, I’m confident he can be made to see reason.”
I didn’t return his smile. I knew Joseph Shepard and, by his own admission, Pierce did not.
T
hat evening I attended a meeting of the hospital board at the Barlow home on the north slope of Russian Hill. This was an older, more established area than the summit—where the Godfreys’ home was situated—but it, too, commanded a spectacular view of the city.
Mama and Celia, who were members of the board, were excited that the group had successfully leased the Battery Street warehouse. Now everyone was eager to finalize plans for the necessary renovations.