“Thank you, Mrs. Nolan,” Inez said before Antonia could demur. At least this way she will not get into any trouble and will arrive home safely.
Grateful to have one less person to worry about, Inez walked to where the new city hall was being built. It was a bit of a trudge down Market Street, but she didn’t trust public transportation to get her there by six o’clock. By the time she reached the sandlots, the sun had set in earnest. Gas streetlamps shed pools of bright, hissing light. Out of breath and hat askew, Inez spotted a knot of men just beyond reach of the lamplight. The dome of the new city hall loomed behind them. Eleven years after breaking ground, the city center buildings were still under construction. Their skeletal columns and ribs rose like ghostly ruins of a bygone empire.
Inez picked up her pace, reaching the men just as they started to move purposefully away from their meeting site. “Mr. Roney?” she called plaintively. “May I speak with you?”
A figure detached itself from the group and approached her—a man of middling height, dark hair, full and lengthy beard, and solemn eyes. “Ma’am? Have we met?”
“No, we haven’t. I am Mrs. Stannert. It’s about Jamie Monroe, a pianist. I have been told he was a comrade of yours or perhaps a follower.”
He frowned. For a moment Inez was afraid he would say he knew of no such person, but then his brow cleared. “Monroe, yes. Working to resurrect the musicians union.” She caught the Irish intonation, an uplift at the end of his statement, which made it sound almost a question.
“Roney?” one of the men called. “Are you coming?”
“May I walk with you?” Inez interjected. “I don’t want to keep you from your evening’s activities. I understand you are heading to the waterfront. I am going that direction myself. At least partway.”
He waved at the huddle of men. “Go ahead,” he called to them. “I’ll be following, while I answer the lady’s questions.” The group began walking up Market with Inez and Roney trailing behind.
“I haven’t seen Monroe this week,” said Roney. “I hope he isn’t ill. Working, perhaps?”
Inez braced herself. “I’m sorry to tell you he’s passed. Was murdered down by the Mission Creek wharves.”
Roney stopped on the walkway. “A tragedy! Murdered, you say?”
“Sadly, yes. The family, to whom I am close, believes his union involvements may have led to his death. I am trying to find out if there is any truth to this.” She hoped the vague explanation would suffice for her presence and her questions. “I was told by Mr. Haskell and others you might know more. You might know whether he was in any danger.”
“The poor lad. And his family.” He shook his head.
They started walking again. Inez waited for him to say something more. He finally said, “D’you know, organizing and agitating for workers’ rights is not a safe occupation, and on occasion turns violent. However, I have yet to see musicians throwing brickbats or taking up pick-handles. Monroe’s desire for his comrades to join him and form a trade union was not met with much success or interest.”
They passed under a streetlamp and the yellow light splashed across his face, making him look jaundiced. He continued, “Those who own and run the music halls, theaters, restaurants, and so on who hire musicians may be ‘thieving capitalists,’ but I have not seen the players of trumpets and keyboards rising up in concert against them.” He smiled briefly at his own wordplay. “And I don’t see those who do the hiring turning violent against Monroe. There would be no reason.”
“But wasn’t he also trying to organize the Chinese musicians, build bridges to those who provide musical entertainment? Perhaps his efforts in that direction drew the ire of those who view the Chinese as, ah, a class beneath.”
Roney had started shaking his head at the first mention of “Chinese.” He said, “Ah, Mrs. Stannert, t’was such a notion of his, no one took it seriously when he spoke of it. We all know, the Celestials live in a world apart. Not beneath, but apart. They take care of their own and have no wish to join our efforts. We have common goals, we are all men trying to make a living, put a roof over our heads, and bring food to the table. But our common goals end there. Young Monroe was perhaps ahead of his time in this regard. But no one took him seriously, and I cannot see anyone taking his life for his foolishness.”
“So, you don’t know of any reasons, any possible persons, who might have wished him harm as a result of his desire to organize those of his profession?” Inez saw the list of suspects shrinking before her eyes.
“I assure you, Mrs. Stannert, no one of my acquaintance nor anything he confided to me indicated danger from such quarters. I know he was trying to determine what brought the previous efforts to unionize to failure, but beyond mutterings of past misdoings of a fiduciary sort, he didn’t say much.”
The hidden list of names flared up in her consciousness. “Along those lines, do the names Eli Greer, Stephen Abbott, Thomas Welles, or Nico Donato mean anything? Did he talk about any of them in connection with the past union efforts?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Stannert. Those names mean nothing to me.”
They had reached Kearney Street. “Thank you, Mr. Roney, but this is where we part ways. I appreciate your time and your patience in answering my questions.”
“Please pass along my condolences to young Monroe’s family, if you think the sentiments of a trade unionist would be welcome. I’ll add, I believe you are chasing ghosts, Mrs. Stannert. The city can be a dangerous place; he ran afoul of the fates. His family should mourn him and be proud for him
