Haskell beamed. “No problem! Always happy to provide information on the labor activities of our fair city. ‘Organize, agitate, educate, must be our war cry.’” He turned to his compatriots. “Any of you know who said that?”
“Henry George? Sounds like something out of his book Progress and Poverty,” ventured one.
Haskell shook his head. “Susan B. Anthony. Goes to show, gentlemen, never underestimate the ladies.” He balanced his half-smoked cigar on the edge of his desk, perilously close to a pile of what looked like trade circulars. “Shall we continue later? Give me some time to talk with Mrs. Stannert here and to digest the news, eh?”
The men, who, in absence of introduction, Inez surmised were reporters or scribblers of some stripe or other, filed out of the office, with one tossing over his shoulder, “See ya at the Parker House, Rog.”
“You dined at the Parker House, Mrs. Stannert?” Haskell cleared off a chair for her, the process consisting of shifting a stack of newspapers off the seat and onto the floor. “Beans baked with green pepper, the best in the city. Highly recommended.”
“I have not had the pleasure, but shall make an effort to try it some time.” Inez sat, or rather perched, on the edge of the rickety chair. One of its legs was shorter than the others. Looking around, Inez realized her chair was in better shape than the others that she could see. She wondered if the state of Haskell’s furniture was one reason all of the pressmen had been standing, then reined in her mind from idle speculation.
“I understand you have a vast knowledge of the labor activities and trade unions in town,” she began.
He nodded. “I’ve been here a long time. Was a newsman on The Call, back when. Reported on the fight for a ten-hour day. Was there in March 1870, the day when a thousand men showed up for a hundred jobs to clear Yerba Buena Park. Listened to Henry George jawbone about the plight of the laboring man and the vanishing frontier, and proofed his Progress and Poverty back in 1875. That book ended up selling like hotcakes, too. The depression of 1877 was tough on workers here. I watched the Workingmen’s Party of California rise and fall, the pick-handle brigade face off against the sandlot rioters. Now, we got Frank Roney, his Seamen’s Protective Union, and the Trades Assembly. Gotta say, it’s never dull.” He raised his tangled eyebrows. “But I’m guessing you didn’t come all this way to hear me pontificate. What can I do for you?”
“It has to do with the musicians union.”
He laughed. “What union? The one that stuttered and collapsed back in ’74? Or the one in young Monroe’s imagination?”
“Ah.” Inez realized Haskell didn’t yet know about Jamie’s fate.
After she explained, he sobered. “Apologies. I didn’t mean to speak ill of the dead. A real shame about Monroe.” He stared down at his desk blotter, his face sagging. “He had a lot of passion. Conviction. I actually thought he might pull it off, once he hit his stride. He reminded me of Roney.” He blinked, then refocused on Inez. “At least the young fella is going home. Glad they found his family.”
There it was. A natural opening for what she wanted to discuss.
“Otto brought Mr. Monroe’s effects to me for safekeeping, just until they can be delivered to the family. I wanted to ask you about some papers that were in his possession.” She pulled out the pages from her satchel and held them out to him. “Welles thought they might be from those union days.”
He took the papers from her. “Oh, yeah. Monroe came and asked me all about the most recent go-round. D’you know, the musicians have been trying to organize for a long time around here. In 1850, when California became a state, they demanded a wage increase, saying they wouldn’t play at the celebration unless they got one. Well, guess what? No music got played and I don’t think anyone missed it. After that there were two attempts at unionizing. First one was in ’69 and didn’t get far. The second time was, like I said, in ’74. They had better luck then, but it still didn’t last.”
“I understand you knew the treasurer from the most recent union? Welles told me his name was Greer.”
“Yeah. I knew Eli Greer pretty well, or thought I did. A strange business, him disappearing when the union dissolved, taking off with the union funds. He sure didn’t seem the type. I guess you never really know what a fellow’s made of until he’s faced with temptation.”
“I wondered about that when you mentioned it the other night. Didn’t anyone try to find him? Report him to the police?”
“Oh, sure. Not that our efforts amounted to anything. In fact, I spent some time trying to work out what happened to Eli myself. Talked to his wife, and some of his associates and friends. Even bought a drink or two for the detective looking into the matter. Nothing. It was like he’d vanished into thin air.”
“Mr. Welles also said you ‘inherited’ some of the organization’s records. Did Jamie look through them on one of his visits here? Could these papers be from them? ” She surveyed the office, noting the stacks and boxes lining the walls and spilling out onto the floor. It was as if a paper army was gathering, preparing to launch itself upon the last vestiges of empty space.
“He did. He was curious as to why the union failed. I told him what I could. I also suggested he talk to some of the members from that time who are still around. Fellows like Welles, Donato, some of the others. He wanted to look through the records, and I
