The Mangle by S. L. Stoner

Author:S. L. Stoner
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: martial arts, action adventure, pacific northwest, portland oregon, history 1900s, mystery action, labor unions, women history, progressive history, steam laundry
Publisher: S. L. Stoner

Chapter Twenty

Sinclair rounded the corner and nearly crashed into the crowd gathered to watch the fire. He looked at the whorehouse but couldn’t see any flames, although smoke shrouded its faded clapboard front. “Where’s the fire, where’s the fire?” he shouted.

“Yeow, Mister. You just blasted my ear drum to smithereens,” came an Irish brogue next to him. “The fire’s in that yon corner house,” the man said, pointing at an equally run down building two doors away from where Rebecca was being held.

Though relief washed through Sinclair, he continued to push forward. If sparks settled on nearby roofs, the whole block might explode in flames. Most of the structures were dry wood. He struggled closer, just in case.

As Sinclair reached the front of the crowd, a fire wagon clanged up the block and halted, its two horses skittering sideways on the cobblestones. Hoses were unfurled and soon water gushed out. One of the firemen climbed an outside staircase, lugging the hose nozzle. Sinclair shivered despite the warmth in the air. He’d seen more than one tenement fire in Chicago. In his opinion, they didn’t pay firemen enough to risk their lives like they did. He’d seen more than one fireman vanish beneath a building’s fiery collapse. And more than one electrocuted by dangling wires.

Above the noise from the fire fighters, he heard the screech of two angry women. They stood on the boardwalk, on the fire side of the street. Both slovenly dressed in tattered satin fancy dresses that were too tight to be flattering and too old to impress. Sinclair saw that Rebecca’s keeper was one of them. What the heck is this about? The last thing he needed was for her to draw attention to that house. He crossed the street and sidled closer to hear their words.

“You Devil’s bitch, I know you set the fire.”

“Don’t you be calling me a bitch, you Satan’s whore,” screeched Rebecca’s imprisoning madam, Stella Block. “I didn’t have nothing to do with the damn fire.”

“I don’t believe you! Just this morning you were a screaming at me about stealing your customers. I can’t help it that your old flea bag of a pig sty drove them to my place.”

“My house don’t have fleas and you better stop shouting that or I’ll smack you silly!” Stella yelled, stepping closer to the other woman. “It ain’t my fault you don’t tend to your fires. Hell, I betcha you was brewing up some of that piss-beer you force on your customers. Probably set the fire your own damn self.”

“Why, you slutty, filth monger, don’t you be talking about my beer. Your rotgut is famous in these parts for sending men to the toilet.”

At that point, both women charged each other, their hands curved into claws. The ruckus drew the crowd’s attention away from the fire, which looked like it was coming under control. Soon there were cries in the nature of, “Get her, Martha!” or “Punch out her lights, Stella.” Sinclair could tell both women

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