Murdoch in the Jungle_Chapter 1_Strike While the Iron is Hot: July 1904
Note to reader: Much of this story will be related to Upton Sinclair's novel, "The Jungle." I will use names he uses, but take liberties with their stories as he had written them to better fit my own story. It has been reported that Sinclair based one of his characters in his novel on J. Ogden Armour, a Chicago Meatpacking Magnate, but he had changed the names. I will be using his real name, but I am basing Armour's part of my story on fictional ideas from Sinclair's meatpacking bosses and my own imaginations. Facts consist of there being a man named "Jonathan Ogden Armour" who ran a high-powered meat-packing establishment in Chicago in 1904, and his mother's maiden name was "Malvina Ogden."
July, 1904
The Windsor House Hotel
Julia sat brushing her hair at her vanity in their bedroom in the Windsor House Hotel. She heard William in the other room talking with Albert who had just brought up their breakfast. She dropped her eyes down to her left forearm, focusing her attention on the swollen, red, insect bite that had once again started to scream at her with its itching. Failing in convincing herself to ignore it, she suddenly scraped the irritating welt with the teeth of her brush. Her mind flashed an image of recently "playing" with William, her dressed in her spicy, red, leather outfit, him tied to the chair at his birthday-present desk in what would eventually be his workroom in their new home. The look on his face as she "interrogated" him about his interest in some revealing pictures of young women still brought a big smile to her face. "Yes," she congratulated herself, "He thoroughly enjoyed his birthday present." Unfortunately, they had each gotten quite a few insect bites during the delightful "sex play," as much of the house still lacked proper walls, doors or windows.
"Some plants repel insects," she thought, "Perhaps extracts from such plants could be placed on a person's skin… certainly their clothing, without serious harm… And the extracts would keep the insects away. No bites!" She figured she could use the citronella plant. The Club, the one where her family has a membership, had citronella plants on its porch. She planned to make a stop at the Club during her lunch break to collect some leaves.
Over breakfast, the couple discussed their upcoming trip to the beach. "Will you be packing your black woolen stockings along with your bathing suit milady?" William asked, teasingly.
Julia raised an eyebrow at him, "Trying to avoid scandal, husband?" she asked.
William smiled and put his fork down. He stood from his chair and stepped behind her to lean down and whisper in her ear, "Now that depends on whether you are talking to the little devil on my left shoulder or the little angel on my right one."
Julia melted backward into him, turning her head to bring his lips into contact with her ear, and said, her voice breathless and somewhat dreamy, "Oh, I do so enjoy the little devil."
Her invitation irresistible, William fondled her ear with his lips. His breath flooded over her as he said, "The angel told me to warn you not to encourage the devil," and then his lips torturously kissed and nibbled and sucked down her neck while his hands slid around her from behind, evoking a slow spin in her brain.
"William Murdoch," she teased, turning to him and then standing, reveling in the feeling of his hands capturing her waist while she toured the route up his jacket collars to wrap her arms around his neck. Her lips tickled and tingled his ear, and her fingers tangled into his hair as she said, "Tell your angel he knows me better than that." She pulled back ever so slightly to tilt her head and entice him further, placing her lips within range. So delightful, the feelings of her swimming dizziness and twisting insides… His hands so strong, firm, moving up her back, imprisoning her as his lips grew closer… Then the touch, heavenly, making her promise him by opening to him, wanting his taste, and her moan pulled him in.
Their kiss deepened, and their hot breaths mingled around them. William slid his fingers into her chignon, his fingers locking and holding her head tight, and he pushed further and further into her, starting a mesmerizing rhythm, known to each of them down deep in their bones. She was glad he held her so tightly, for she dropped, her knees weakening.
William so loved to affect her this way, but being an expert at tormenting her, now was when he would step back, abandon her when she had completely yielded. His mouth pulled away – hers leaning, chasing. Her eyes opened to meet his. "My God, she is beautiful," his heart, his groin remarked.
Reality dawning, she thought, "Breakfast … Work," and then said, "My hair!" with a little panic.
William chuckled at her and took a free curl in his fingers. "It looks beautiful," he calmed. "You've never looked lovelier," he added with a bow, reminding them both of their wedding dance. She knew it once again, she couldn't possibly love him more.
They returned to eating. Julia finished her breakfast, and then mischievously stole a piece of William's bacon. His shocked look made her giggle and she explained, "I'm famished…Don't forget husband, I'm eating for two."
William's angel advised that he acquiesce. He handed her his last piece of bacon as well. Their eyes met, each relishing a smile. His eyes said it all. She took the offer; she really was very hungry.
As they walked out the door of their hotel, discussing their contentment with their decision to continue her pregnancy rather than abort the child, sharing their marveling at the opportunities science had given them, William stated, "Yes, it is best to strike while the iron is hot."
Julia was now three months pregnant, having reached a point when most women would have been comfortable accepting the fact that they would become a mother – but Julia's situation was much more precarious than that of most women. She replied, "Agreed … but let's hold off on telling anyone about it for a little while longer…" She paused and looked for his response…
William wrinkled up the corner of his mouth. He so wanted to relax and let himself jump for joy, and tell the world about their miracle … but he had to admit she was right – not yet. "Good," he said, giving her a quick kiss. They went their separate ways, her to get a cab, him to retrieve his bicycle. They both headed for work with a smile.
In the morgue, Julia crushed the citronella leaves with water and made a small bottle of liquid, which could be sprayed on their skin and bathing suits using an aspirator nozzle. She took a moment to thank Dr. DeVilbiss for inventing the clever method of dispersing the liquid. She would bring the insect repellant along on their trip to the beach this weekend.
Back of the Yards, Chicago: Union meeting before strike
The meatpackers, many of them dressed in clothing soaked in dried blood, met in a pub. One of the men stood up. "Jurgis had a good point! We want to stop them from "speeding up!" he decreed. A large man, Jurgis, groaned as he stood, drawing attention to his battered and disabled state. Speaking in Lithuanian, an older man, Jokubas stood next to him and translated, "It's killing us all. Their methods are cruel and devious, hiring and paying a very few select men well, requiring of them only a few hours of work rather than the usual 12 hours. These men are fresh… They do the more difficult jobs that tend to be the ones that set the speed on the line. That speeds up the whole line, so for a man working a full shift, there is never a moment to catch your breath, to correct a mistake. This must be one of our requirements – no more "speeding up" the lines." His speech was met with cheers, as men turned to each other citing examples of men who sped up the lines, performing the most stressful jobs while being paid more and working less hours, and everyone knew someone who had broken down or been injured as a result of the rapid running of the line.
Often the jobs that were given to men to speed up the lines were in the killing beds – as was the case with Jurgis before his injury. Now he worked sweeping up the very final remnants of the meatpacking process which were dried and used as fertilizer, explaining the white-chalky dust all over his clothing and his putrid smell – an odor worse than that of death itself that flooded into the nostrils of all those present. He knew about speeding up the line first hand, having swept the blood and guts that hit the floor into traps as pigs were hung up to the ceiling live and screaming, then had their throats slit, their bodies sliced open, and their guts cut out and dropped to the floor.
The man running the meeting stood and thanked Jurgis, acknowledging his agreement with him. He concluded, "That along with the higher wages, then."
Boarding House: The Junction, Toronto – near the William Davies Stockyards and Meatpacking Plant
Adomas sat in the dimly lit room in his boarding house, his six roommates snoring and sleeping on the floor, writing a letter to his wife Ieva. She had remained in Winnipeg with their three-year old son, Matis. He tucked money into the envelope with his note. He would send it tomorrow.
J. Ogden Armour Townhouse, Prairie Avenue, Chicago: July 12th
The three powerful men, Jonathan Ogden Armour, Nelson Brown and Gustavus Durham, sat alone in the study, occasionally being served brandy, discussing ways to deal with the Amalgamated Meat Cutters and Butcher Workmen's (AMC) strike. Armour flicked the ashes off of the end of his cigar as he explained, "They are poor, and they are immigrants – most unable to utter more than ten words in English, but they are white men… They won't even consider including Negroes in their union…"
Durham asked, "But do you truly think that we can get thousands of Negro men to show up, cross the picket lines, and then actually do the jobs?"
"I do," Armour replied. Brown nodded. "I have already had my man start printing out hiring notices to distribute in Negro neighborhoods. You should do the same…"
"And get our copper friends to spread the word as well," Brown added.
"And those soft-skinned managers are going to have to fill in wherever the Negroes can't…" Durham said. The other two men concurred, nodding.
"We need lists – the men who take part in this strike must be blacklisted – there need to be consequences for their insolence," Armour stated, now extinguishing his cigar.
"Agreed!" Durham declared. Brown nodded as well. "We can't let them get the upper hand, we must stay in production, and they must feel significant pain for their defiant behavior," Durham stated as he stood to take his leave.
Armour and Brown stood and joined him at the door.
"Fortunately, there is plenty of ice, and the railroads are still happy to keep the refrigerated cars running. They won't expect us to work together… Needless to say, the union surely won't be able to keep all those different ethnic types together. That's an advantage for us," Brown concluded.
Hanlan's Point Beach
William and Julia had quickly headed for the tree-line along the beach, knowing they wanted to set up their blanket in the shade if possible. It was a very hot day, and the beach was already crowded. They found a spot that was currently not in shade, but by William's calculations, the Sun would move to the west and their blanket would be in the shade within the hour. Deciding it would be best to swim while they were forced to remain in the blazing sunlight until their world rotated into more pleasant coolness, they each changed into their bathing suits.
Julia reminded herself, before she opened the door to reveal her more-exposed body to her husband, as well as the rest of the world, that she was barely showing at this stage. No one would be able to tell that she was pregnant. As she stood at the top of the stairs of the little hut, she watched William's eyes. They dropped immediately down to her belly. "What do you think?" she asked.
Truth be told, he wanted nothing more than to have her in his arms at that moment. He offered her his hand and she stepped down to him.
"William?" she asked again, now feeling self-conscious. She leaned her lips to his ear, intending to ask him if it was apparent that she was pregnant, but his lips found her ear first.
He kissed the tender skin, and then said, as he pulled her body closer, "You are stunning – and that's with the stockings on." They each giggled. He knew his wife; those stockings would be off soon. He had already come up with a plan – he would drag her as quickly as possible into the water, whether her stockings were still on or she had taken them off. He would keep her there, waist deep or higher, for as long as possible… Then, he would make sure they were directly lined up with their blanket before they left the water so they were out in the open on the beach for as little time as possible. Once out, he only hoped they could cross the beach quickly, and that as few people as possible would notice his wife's scandalous behavior. Unfortunately, he now had to take his turn changing into his bathing suit, leaving her free to …
William sighed, admitting to himself that he really had no control over this situation. "I'll be quick," he said as he hurried up the stairs and into the hut.
Julia already knew that her husband would look wonderful in his bathing suit. He had stayed in shape, mostly with his bicycling, but he also insisted on finding time to exercise, lifting weights, making for such lovely muscles. While she waited, she viewed the area. It was crowded. There were plenty of women around to notice her handsome husband. She noted that there were already a few men eyeing her as well. One of them did not even look away when she noticed his peering.
She so wanted to remove her stockings, both to make a statement about the lack of logic of women's swimming fashion, and because they were so very uncomfortable and hot… And they turned into stinky, soggy, drenched clumps of wool once one got out of the water. She decided not to do so, as the peering man might take the gesture as a signal that she was trying to entice him.
She imagined William opening the door to see, not only that she had removed her stockings, but also that as a result, she was being propositioned by a strange man. Her rebellious side laughed as she imagined William's face – reminding her of when she had dressed as a man along with the other women on the basketball team. So quickly the next image flooded through her – of William punching the man. And her mind traveled in parallel flickers, one to remember that he had punched Darcy – and the huge fight between them his doing so had triggered – and then she heard Emily's voice, "It is highly romantic …" while at the same time she remembered the way William pummeled the man from the Black Hand. Yes, she would definitely keep the stockings on for now.
Hearing the doorknob turn, Julia's mind flashed to a memory of when William had dressed in only his "dream tie" and then stumbled to slam the bedroom door before not only Julia, but her friend, Ellie, spotted him in his very sexy outfit. My God she loved him so. The door opened and he stepped out, as expected, looking gorgeous. She noticed his eyes checking to see if she still wore her stockings and she teased, "Well, my little devil is quite intrigued by the look of you in your bathing suit, husband. Is yours disappointed to see your wife's stockings are still on?"
He laughed as he came down the steps, "It's hard to hear him over the little angel, who honestly is quite ecstatic," he answered.
"I do like to keep you on your toes," she replied, taking his arm.
Nearing the water, William asked, "So, Mrs. Murdoch, do you prefer the bathing suit or the knickerbockers?"
"Oh my, that is a tough choice… I guess the bathing suit; it reveals a bit more. Of course, my favorite ensemble of yours would have to be the dream tie – for the same reason," she answered with a giggle, picking up the pace, feeling the pull of the sea that she loved so much.
Toes in the water, which was remarkably cold, Julia insisted that the only way to deal with the frigid shock to the skin – even to the bones it seemed, was to dive in. She did so, running forward and then diving head first, leaving William to fight with himself about following suit or not.
When she surfaced, quite far away, she turned and wiped her escaped curls out of her face. "William," she called with a chuckle, "Just do it!"
Making himself lean forward, eliminating his choice, William took the plunge. When he surfaced, his wife was nowhere to be found. He knew she was very adept in the water, having saved his life in the sinking boat. He suspected she … He felt it – something against his leg!
"Oh, she is looking for trouble," he thought, reaching down to grab her as she mermaided by.
Julia put up a struggle, but not much of one, for every cell in her body wanted to be caught by him. She found herself in his arms, and then her lips in a kiss. She rode the waves of pleasure that kissing William Murdoch brought. Too quickly he broke off the kiss. "William," she said mischievously with an eyebrow lifted at him, "There are people everywhere. You are being very scandalous."
Before he could answer, she kissed him – a hungry, passionate kiss that got their heads spinning and their insides burning. Julia moved, swayed, and then pumped up into him with such an evocative rhythm. "Remember where you are," he advised himself, feeling his self-control drifting away and his groin mounting. She lifted her legs up, wrapped them around his hips. He couldn't help himself, releasing a slow moan that drowned and muffled so heavenly in her mouth. He wanted her. Oh, and she wanted him. Her pelvis rocked, hidden under the water, massaging him, tempting him, drawing him to her. He softly stopped their kiss. He needed to slow this down. They were in public. "Julia," he said, his tone bordering on pleading.
She whispered in his ear – their secret, "Take me deeper." Instantly she felt air surge out of him, hot, demanding air.
"You are tempting the devil again, milady," his voice, now dry and rugged, sucked her womb into a knot.
"Yes. I am, aren't I?" she giggled.
Only about four steps – four steps until the only parts of them that felt the air and the sun was their heads. With Julia still wrapped around him, his hands traveled lower, his fingers taking a hold of her, hidden underwater, round, plump, cheeks. He had grown large, and hard. And as he slid his hands down her backside to widen her, pulling her thighs further apart, she felt him, he felt her, through the suits.
"Oh my God, William, I want you … So much," she whispered through a moan.
"Mmm," he responded, kissing her.
But his angel won. He could not, would not, let this go any further. Not here. He let go of her, stepped back, gave her legs a gentle push, tilting them towards the sand below his feet. "Back at the hotel, hmm?" he said, out of breath.
Now standing, on her toes, she replied, "So many years ago, you whispered to me that you wished we were skinny-dipping… Perhaps we can come back tonight…"
She saw his smile, more importantly, she saw his beautiful eyes dance and sparkle. "Intriguing," he said.
Later, on their blanket in the shade, Julia lie on her stomach, relaxing and enjoying the peaceful sounds, smells, and an occasional breeze. William, however, was restless, switching positions constantly, even sighing. She smiled to herself. "He's so productive," she thought. "But he has trouble shutting it off, hmm?" she asked herself.
"William," she said, "Just relax." Julia rolled over onto her side to face him and reached up to tenderly grasp his shoulder. She pulled him, guided him, down, to lie on his back beside her. "Close your eyes," she instructed. He did. "Take a deep breath… Smell the sea…" He did. Her fingers slipped into his hair, so delicious. "Feel the warmth on your face…" Then fingers gliding over his cheek, her thumb stroking his lips. He took a calmer, deeper breath. A soft wind flowed over them. "Feel the kiss of the breeze William," she said. He felt her breath ripple across his ear, sinking into him. "Listen, listen to the waves touch the sand," she said as her hand cupped behind his other ear, her thumb slid along his jaw, then her fingers slipped onto his neck. "Everything is as it should be… You don't have to do anything. Just be, just be here with me, breathing, feeling," she said, then laid her head down on his chest.
Julia took a deep breath. She was happy, almost euphoric, but serenely, serenely euphoric.
He heard her speak to him, her voice, her breath, caressing his chest as she did. "Doesn't this feel heavenly … The last time I remember such a sensation was when we experimented with opium, remember detective?"
William found it a struggle just to answer her, he was so cozy, "Mmm," he managed to reply.
"It invoked a similar sensation," she added. Her hand slid up the curve of his chest, and she gave him the softest pinch of his nipple through his bathing suit, before she pressed into the muscle more firmly, soaking in the luscious feel of his flesh that she knew so well. "You said you wouldn't want to use opium again – that you didn't want to alter your reality…"
He breathed in, taking to heart the warmth and the scent of the salty, humid air, and the gift of having her with him. "Mmm, I did," he answered.
"You said nothing could make your reality any better than it already was. Do you still feel that way? Are you still content … Are you happy William?" she asked.
His arms embraced her, his body staying soft, making it so easy for her to melt into him. "I cherish you Julia. I cherish every moment with you. God, life, destiny…" he said, shaking his head, "Brought me a singular, remarkable woman… And I have loved her completely, with everything I have. I have loved her through and through, thoroughly," he answered, holding her. Then he rolled her over onto her back and propped himself up on an elbow to look her in the eye – in her magnetic blue eyes, and he said, as his hand covered her womb, "I guess there was one thing that could make my reality even better after all." He took a deep breath and then kissed her.
(They were still madly in love with each other – and they had the miracle of a baby on the way. Their hardest struggle was to trust that such happiness was safe, that the other shoe wouldn't drop. Of course, they knew life had its ups and downs, but if only they could ride those ups and downs together – as a family, nothing could be better, nothing. But, it took such courage to allow themselves to hope).
The moonlight was bright when they returned. They had not bothered to bring their bathing suits; that was never part of the plan. However, they did have a blanket, and some towels, and a picnic basket. Julia had placed a few surprises in the basket, in case her husband lost his nerve. William scanned the area, feeling relieved to find that there was no one in sight. Thankfully, they seemed to be alone. He was having doubts, but every time he pictured the sight of Julia, naked in the luminous moonlight, the delectable curves of her and her soft skin, her supple flesh jiggling as she moved, he felt a jolt to the groin, and his heart would start to race, motivating him to swallow back the concern.
She waited for him, watching him worry, while he searched the area for anyone who might catch them in the act. When their eyes met, he quickly ducked his chin, dropping his eyes away. "Why did I ever think she wouldn't know?" he thought. A mosquito buzzed near her ear, prompting her to slap her neck in the hopes of stopping its feeding on her. She remembered the insect repellant and prepared to show off her invention to her husband, but…
"Perhaps this is not such a good idea, Julia," William said. "We will get eaten alive," he argued.
She leaned close to him and said, "Not a good excuse I'm afraid. I made a potion of sorts, William – to repel the insects."
Her husband raised an eyebrow at her, prompting her to giggle. "He won't get out of this as easily as he thinks," she thought. Feigning anger, she stepped back, placed her hands on her hips and scolded, "So, you think the only one who can come up with inventions is the great Detective Murdoch?"
Now it was his turn to lean in closer. "Not at all," he said, "I am well aware that my wife is quite brilliant, and she has a vast knowledge of chemistry, and biology. It does not surprise me at all that Dr. Julia Ogden would be able to create a concoction that deters insects." He stepped away and exhaled, giving his anxiety away by reaching up and rubbing his forehead. "How does it work?" he asked.
Julia walked a few steps closer to where the waves lapped at the shore and tossed the blanket into a broad sail that drifted to the ground. "Delaying tactics," she thought to herself. She sat on the blanket and began to take off her shoes. Refusing to look up at him, she moved on to her stockings. "Come on William," she thought. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that he had not moved.
"It seems that there are some plants that secrete chemicals that protect it from various insects…" she said, intentionally lifting her leg in the air, pointing her toes in such a way as to enhance the sumptuous curve of her calf in the moonlight as she flirtatiously slid the stocking down. Oh, she knew she had caught him. He was beyond still, breathless. "Did he just swallow?" she thought with a wicked smile creeping onto her face. She moved on to the other stocking. "Of course, many plants also attract insects, like bees and such, so it is important…" Once again a long, glowing leg pierced the air, slowly revealing more and more of her rounded, delicious flesh as she removed the stocking and continued, "… to choose the right plant."
Still not looking at him, her brain pleaded inside of her head, "Please. Please. Give in to the little devil, William." She pulled out the bottle of citronella and sprayed it on her legs. Her voice teased him some more, "In the interest of science, I thought you would at least come and see if it works."
Somewhat recovered, "All in the name of science," he responded. That particular utterance, and the picnic basket, riled a memory of their first picnic, and how incredibly aroused they had each become that first time. He approached.
"Would you care to join me in a drink, detective?" she asked, pulling a bottle of absinthe out of the basket. "We are on vacation, you know," she enticed.
William perused the area one more time before he sat next to her. She sprayed his shirt with the insect repellant, despite knowing it would likely come off soon. William took off his shoes and socks while Julia prepared their drinks.
After a few sips from his drink, he moved closer to her and unbuttoned the top of her blouse. "It seems to work quite well, doctor," he said with a nod.
Julia reached up and undid more of her buttons for him. She watched his eyes, and thanked the moonlight, for she could see them grow hungry. She felt her inside twisting tight. "The insect repellant or the absinthe?" she asked, devilishly.
His head had started to swim with lustful stirrings, slowing his ability to respond. He took another sip of the absinthe, his eyes still on her bosom, lured by the deep cleavage and malleable, milky-white orbs along its edge.
Julia took another sip and then placed her glass down on the basket. She took his from him, nestled it next to hers. She reached over to the buttons on his shirt, managed to undo a few before he pushed into her, pushed her down onto her back, to lie on top of her and …
He kissed her, passionately, wildly, urgently. She felt his hand reach down, and slowly, inch by inch, he lifted her skirt, then his hand on the inside of her thigh. She moaned. He responded with racing breaths. He was so excited, she was so excited; she wasn't sure they would make it to the water. He was pulling at her bloomers. She pushed against his chest.
"Not so fast," she whispered, or more purred, then returned to kissing him. She pushed him away again, "We were going to go skinny-dipping," then pulled his lips back to hers. Once again, she pushed him away, "Remember?" she asked, straining to hold back.
Images swam through his mind – his beautiful wife, her creamy skin in the pale, ominous light of the moon. It was a sight he had never seen. "Yes," he said, seemingly hurried. William rose up on his knees and explored their environs, checking for privacy. His eyes returned to hers, nearly stunning her with their intensity – his expression bordering on anger. His fingers found his remaining shirt buttons while his eyes stayed locked to hers.
Her insides wound and coiled, wrenching with lust. She felt her heart rush, her breathing surge. "Oh my God," she thought as the world around them dropped and spun, offering oblivion. With each button, he revealed more and more of his chest. Oh, how she wanted to touch it, stroke it, ride the waves of it – and, the lure of it, the thought of feeling his chest against her swollen breasts… She was driven, compelled, to join him in the stripping.
Memory would fail to provide who undid which piece of clothing, for the hunger, the rapidity, the darkening, swirling intoxication of the mind, combined with the swelling urgency, the wild demand from deeper and lower, stole all attention.
They stood before each other, as Adam and Eve, in awe of their match, their harmony, their fit. It was beyond beauty, even destiny – it felt like pure perfection. Maintaining the tortuous teasing, denying actual touch of their skin to skin, Julia took his hand. Playfully running for the cover of the water, she led him. William leaned back, wanting to see, to memorize, her graceful, mesmerizing jiggling, stumbling with the challenge of crossing the uneven, cool sand while so entranced by … her.
Oddly, he thought for the briefest second, the water seemed warmer than earlier, so inviting, like a cocoon or haven. They did not dive this time, gradually being swallowed by the salty, shimmering sea. With gentle waves licking at their shoulders, they stopped and steadied themselves against the shifting currents that ran and flowed around them, through them. William turned her, face to face, struggling with conflicting urges – to grab, to seduce. He grit his teeth, forcing control. It would be slow… It would be smooth. His hands, the tips of fingers first, then increasing pressure, growing on her, large and encompassing, his hands slid along her hips, across the indent of her waist, up the rippling ribs of her back. He heard it, felt it – air rushed out of her as she weakened, her throat betraying with the tiniest squeak.
Helpless, her arms dangled at her sides, her knees buckling, she floated, waiting for the pull she knew would come, she prayed would come. A gasp escaped her; gravity shifted. How could she fall backwards and fly forward at the same time? Heaven, as she felt his body, his skin caress, shape, warm hers. "William," her lips moved, calling his name, just before they were smothered and devoured by his kiss. Oh my God – his kiss. A tunnel, a carousel, a kaleidoscope, deeper and deeper he moved into her. She wanted him so badly that tears formed in her eyes. She slipped her arms around his neck, tilted her head, opened even more to him.
Something against her thigh, accompanied by a tingle of a memory – Her own voice, "Something is touching me!" Followed by his lovely chuckle, and then he had said, his tone playful and doubting, "Julia." In a corner of her mind, she giggled, finding it funny that William Murdoch would ever tease HER, of all people, about not knowing about male arousal.
Oh, but he was aroused now – very, very aroused. Feeling him strong, powerful against her flipped her. She could tolerate her needs no more. She had to have him. She had to have him inside, deep, deep, deep inside. Pushing, and moving, and pounding into her. Her slippery, slim thighs glided up the outsides of his legs. She tilted her pelvis back, moaned with their perfect alignment, feeling the spark, the widening, the slide of him rupturing her. Her legs seized him, her arms held tight, and she pulled herself around him…
William nearly collapsed with the pleasure of it. He moaned, so devastatingly it called to her like lightning calls to thunder. "Please William," she cried, "Please." She could barely taste her tears mingling with the salt of the sea.
He thrust up into her, unsteadying their balance, straining his strength to keep them upright. Rewarded by her moan, he thrust urgently again. So warm, so tight around him, "Delicious, absolutely delicious," the thought twirled in his head. Again he pounded, and again. She took hold of his neck with her rigid teeth surrounding her hot, silky tongue… My God, he lost control, powering into her with all his might.
Sand between his toes as he worked to steady them, William knew he needed to take her, but deeper, more completely than he could here, better aided by the forces of friction and gravity. His heart ripped and thundered in his chest. He fought to gain control against the swirling, pounding, strangling in the center of his head. He turned against the cyclone of it, mustered the power needed in his legs. He carried her, quickly, out of the water, focusing on his footsteps through the whirlwind of her kisses and nibbles and love-bites.
She heard his desperate breathing, felt the cool air of the night embrace her back, then her legs, as they sailed up the beach. She held him tightly, ensuring they stayed connected. With a thump, she felt her feet touch the ground as he dropped to his knees. She sat straddling him, seated high on his thighs, still intimately linked, their wet, naked bodies sliding past each other as they kissed. His hand cupped her head, protecting it from the fall. First upward, and then flying down with a pound, her shoulders reached the blanket, under it the ripples of the cool sand. Then the weight, the heavenly crush of his body on top of hers, into hers, stealing her breath, swirling her brain, wrung her womb into a taught knot of ravenous want.
His first thrust up, forward, deeper, through her – all of the way through her – undid her, his effortful grunt seeming to surge into her from above, squishing her to implosion. "William," she pleaded, feeling explosion imminent as he pulled back, preparing to surge into her again. Oh my God, he plunged forward again, harder, and then harder again. He filled her, pounded into her foundation, rocked her deeply to her core, reaching into their one, perfect spot, over and over again.
Oh, she fell, from an abysmal height, the highness of it breathtaking, dizzying. The warmth starting at her deepest nucleus, magnificently flowing outward, luscious, luscious pleasure besieging her every atom. Yet still, she needed him closer. She sucked him in with all her might, this wonderful, wonderful man. He was hers, she was his. She lost herself, erupted into the stars with William's eruption into her, his delightful, raptured moan somehow completing the circuit, blending them together, they soaked up each last, long, deep, arduous thrust, each scrumptious ripple, only to marvel in the savory spinning of the world after they collapsed, melted and limp together, with exhaustion.
Oh, how their hearts pounded together, symphonious and promising. Nowhere else – there was nowhere else but here, so drowned in blissful love. William's powerful breaths rattled into her ear, steamed over her neck, labored as a bull after a battle. Total fatigue entwined with joy inside of her, forcing her into gentle sobs. She knew he would soothe her, her longing for his scooping, treasuring, reassuring touch seeped out of her every pore.
William found his heart expand even more with her weeping, for he knew such defenseless collapse was the result of being loved, and loving back, so entirely that it seemed to devastate the soul. Pressing his hands into the blanket, it giving way, bending with the force as the sand took on his weight, he lifted his body, lightening her load, yet, his breath, his kiss, grew nearer. She was not alone – she would never, never be alone. His words echoed and plummeted into her, blanketing her, solidifying their union, "I love you, Julia," he said, just above a whisper.
He slipped out of her as he turned onto his back, cuddling her tight, bringing her with him. Protectively, he cupped her head, her beautiful golden-red curls still wet and puffed into a messy knot. His lips tenderly kissed her locks, "I love you so very, very much," he said. It felt like healing, being in his arms, in his strong, compassionate care.
In just a few moments her tears had passed. Their breaths, their heartbeats had returned to their usual cadence. Feeling the world settle back in around them, she became aware of her fingertips gliding back-and-forth over the long scar on his right forearm. She took a deep breath, letting the memory, along with its pain, sink in. He was not with her then – had fled to the arms of another, Mrs. Jones, in the wake of learning of her abortion – when the ladder had broken and fallen out from under him. "He could have died… So many times he could have died," her thoughts reminded. It was always part of her tears, wasn't it? – losing him, as though it somehow seemed inevitable, unavoidable, foretold. A chill ran through her. Instinctively her hand covered their baby inside of her.
Concerned, he asked, "You don't think we hurt the baby?"
"No. No, William. Isaac said we would be fine until the fifth month," she assured, calming him. Julia shifted, resting her elbow into the blanket and placing her chin in her hand. The moonbeams kissed his skin so beautifully. He truly was gorgeous. She took a deep breath, reveling in being with him. Her fingers found the wound just below his heart, where an arrow had punctured him so many years before.
He knew now, that she was reviewing her inescapable worry about him dying, about surviving without him. He knew the fear deeply, for he felt it too, frightened to ever have to go on without her, yet also terrified of abandoning her. The angst had only grown stronger with her becoming pregnant. He brought his fingers to her jaw, turned her to reach for her eyes, melting her with his customary wrinkle at the corner of his mouth. She sighed, admitting to him that he was right. Her hand grazed his cheek with a thank you before she lay her head back down on his chest.
She couldn't help but picture it though; just under her ear there was another scar, this one from a bullet. She thanked the medicine woman of the tribe who had healed him then, when he was so far away from her. She thanked Eagle Flight for being the type of man to save him, firing on William's assailant, then bringing him into his home, risking being arrested, jeopardizing betraying his own people.
And, although the scar now seemed tiny, the deltoid muscle of his shoulder also just under her now, it too reminded of his potential demise – this one from when he dove into the shallow river from the train bridge, after Gillies. His protective urges demanding he chase their nemesis to the ends of the earth to guarantee their safety in this world.
She sighed again, remembering another mark, also from a bullet, on his right deltoid muscle. This one carried with it a sting, an intense burning of panic, for when he had incurred that bullet she had feared him already dead. He had been gone for so very long. At that time reality had twisted into the impossible, had stolen his memory, had carried him to Bristol, where he had encountered one other that may have been his love. And yet, she knew she was grateful to Anna Fulford, for she too had saved his life.
Her fingers moved, centering on a scar across his ribs, underneath it the bones had been injured, dented away slightly from her fingers.
William's voice, kind and supportive, joined her thoughts, "That one was from before I knew you – from when I was a lumberjack." The weight of her head on his chest lessened; she was listening. His arms wrapped more firmly around her and he explained, "I guess such injuries are to be expected, falling out of a tree. I was working in the type of tree that brings with it peril, for its wood is brittle, and it tends to crack and break underneath you. They sent me up, young, gullible…" She knew he lifted an eyebrow evaluating and scolding himself, "…cocky," he continued. "A branch broke away under my feet – no warning – just "crack" and then the fall. As I had been trained to do, I remembered there was another branch a bit lower. I knew it would catch me. My chest hit it… It would be a bruise. The wind had been knocked out of me. Not so bad, but … it didn't hold. Out from under me it snapped and I slid over the piercing point of the stub left extending out from the trunk. The distance down to the next branch – a bigger, thicker, stronger branch – was quite far. They say when I hit it they heard a gasp of air escape my lungs. From there I don't remember, but I eventually ended up on the ground after bouncing from branch to branch the twenty or so more feet until I hit the bottom."
Avoiding her awareness that he could have died even before she met him too, Julia asked, "How about from when you worked as a ranch hand?"
He felt her nestle in against him, enjoying his stories. "Oh, there were plenty of falls, kicks, even a few bites, but none that really stuck with me," he answered.
Such talk, of William's rugged and rough past, stirred a twitch of infatuation in side of her. She giggled, drunk with the feeling of having a little crush on her husband. She lifted her head, her eyes big and playful, "William!?" she said, "Shall we explore more than the beach, and the water…"
She loved it, his look of confusion mixed with being enchanted with her.
"The trees William! Let's climb a tree…" she pitched herself up on her elbow again and whispered in his ear, "Naked as jaybirds," she teased and taunted.
Before he could offer even a hint of an answer, she had swooped away, her hurried feet sprinkling his skin with a peppering of sand. Excitement, thrill, pumped through him. As he took up chase, he marveled at the beauty, even sexy grace, of her body as she ran in the moonlight. Oh – he so wanted to catch her…
Back of the Yards, Chicago: Tenement home of Jurgis
Jurgis returned home to the house for which they had spent every cent of their savings from Lithuania, every blood-earned penny of their wages, to keep, despite the fact that they had been tricked by the bank into paying rent and interest rather than the mortgage they had been told of. He had expected his wife Ona to be home from her job by now. He put his sign for the picket line down against the wall – he would go back again tomorrow. His anger at the Negro men walking on past their line of strikers, being protected by the cops and by Brown's goons, tingled furiously under his skin. No money in his pockets and no food in their pantry, he was useless – a failure – unable to care for his family, and now Ona was pregnant again.
He wondered why his boy, Antanas, had not found him to say hello. Ona's father told him the boy was next door. Jurgis found their toddler son playing on the neighbor, Aniele's, floor. For a moment he thought to ask her if she had fed the boy, but shame stifled his tongue. Like all of the families in Packingtown, their men were on strike as well.
When Ona finally arrived, she had three chickens and a bushel of carrots. The seven household members, a now tightknit group from Lithuania, would eat for days, stretching the treasures into soup. Jurgis felt such shame that it was his wife who provided for them, for him. He was only willing to eat because she forced him, claiming Antanas and the new baby, just beginning in her womb, would need a father, so he had to eat. "The strike won't last forever," she had encouraged.
He held back on one of his worst fears, keeping it from her, for it disgusted him. Some of the men were planning to raid and attack the Negro neighborhoods to warn back the men who had stepped up and taken their jobs, enabling Brown, and Durham, and Armour to stay in production. The actions of these Negroes weakened the strike. Perhaps it was necessary – to take action to stop these Negroes – to force the bosses to treat their loyal workers, men like Jurgis himself, with an ounce, even an iota, of respect and decency, to treat them as men rather than animals. Jurgis' blood boiled.
In bed, he awakened to hear Ona crying. She would not tell him what was wrong. He suspected that it had to do with how she had managed to get the money to buy the chickens. When he asked her she cried even harder. He became furious, his shame and inadequacy flanked by his suspicion that she had done something unthinkable… the thought inflaming jealousy. "How could she?" he screamed in his head. He decided he would go to the canning factory where she worked tomorrow and ask around. He never liked that manager there – Connor, eyeing all the women, except for the snooty woman in charge… That woman had always had it in for Ona. She probably set the whole thing up – probably made some money from the whole thing too. Just like everybody else in this hell of a place, full of greed, out to get a little higher up above anybody else.
He couldn't sleep. He had to get out of there, so he went out for a walk. In the cooler night air, he marveled at the fact that even at that hour, the lights glared from the buildings, and the trains ran, taking out the meat from the day in their refrigerated cars to the world. The strike had accomplished nothing – the endless march from animal to meat continued, unstoppable and disgusting, using-up everything it touched on its way.
Davis Slaughterhouse: Stockyards, Toronto east end
Adomas checked the back alley once more, finding it secure. Before he went back into the stench of the slaughterhouse, he paused. The alleyway didn't smell good, but the air was fresher than inside. He noticed the light was on up in Mr. Davies' office. "Odd," he thought. "The boss doesn't usually stay this late." Adomas was the night-watchman, so he knew much about the comings and goings here. He took a deep breath, deciding he had a moment. The trains delivering the fresh load of pigs wouldn't arrive for another hour or so. From his pocket he pulled out a picture of Ieva. My God, he missed her. He had to get more money, simply had to.
He overheard the boss getting loud with the manager. Quickly, he tucked the photo back in his pocket and hurried inside.
Mulligan, the manager, worked to appease, "I'm sure Chicago won't be able to keep it go'in. They got Negroes do'in the work now."
Well-dressed and red-faced, whether it was from drink or from anger, Mr. Davies ranted at his manager, "We need to strike while the iron is hot!"
For years Davies had been trying to find a way to stop the infiltration of meatpacking. He had built the biggest hog-slaughtering facility in all of Canada, here in the east end of Toronto. Trains delivered the live hogs, he slaughtered and butchered them and then sold the meat right there in Toronto. Sure, there was some preserving, with salt and by canning, curing meat to be shipped overseas, but the invention of the refrigerated train car had upended his whole operation. Now, not only the big bosses in Chicago, but his Canadian competitor from Winnipeg, the cattleman Burns, too, was able to slaughter the livestock right where they were and then butcher and pack the meat, keep it chilled and ship it out from right there where they had slaughtered the beasts. There was no longer much use for slaughterhouses like his near the metropolises. They were putting him out of business.
"Chicago meatpacking production needs to fail!" Davies bellowed, slamming his hand down on the desk, "There will be no better time." Davies marched up to Mulligan, wiggled his finger in the man's face and said, "You need to get this done. That meat better not make it to market, at least not as edible meat, you hear me Mulligan! I don't care how, but you get it done, now."
Mulligan left Davies' office, chewing on his fingernails nervously. He needed this job. He had come to far, sacrificed too much to lose it all now. He spotted Adomas down by the hog hoist. "Baltavesky!" he hollered, "Get over here…"
J. Ogden Armour Townhouse, Prairie Avenue, Chicago: July 20th
The three meatpacking magnates sat in the study discussing the meatpacker's strike. Brown was telling a terrible story. As all three owners had done, he had filled as many of the line jobs with Negroes as possible, and then he had his managers take on whatever jobs were unfilled. "I have to tell you, the managers are more useless than the Negroes," Brown said, "I am going to have to fire one of them when this is all said and done. The darn idiot went and let a man get killed on the floor… Something about a loose steer. Hopefully nobody will notice a missing Negro." He sighed and added, "We got rid of the body in the usual way. Disgusting, but for the best – no trace of the man now…"
Armour finished his thought, "Just went down the line. He won't be the last man to have that fate."
Durham leaned in closer and asked, "Did any others see?"
"Manager claims not, but the next day there were two other workers didn't show up. My copper, Bodkin, tells me they were found dead, just on the outskirts of their own Negro neighborhood," Brown explained.
"Guess your man did what he had to do… Maybe it's best not to fire him?" Armour suggested.
"Perhaps," Brown considered. "We have been keeping production up," he changed the subject, "Been shipping out about 75% of what we usually pack."
The other two men nodded. Armour agreed, "It has been going pretty well, considering everything. There seems to be plenty of ice for the reefers (refrigerated cars). The trains have been running on the same schedule, just the cars aren't quite as full is all."
Durham said, "The strikers have got to be feeling the pain by now. They have been getting pretty fired up at the Negroes … Could get violent."
Armour concluded, "As long as our coppers keep it in check it shouldn't be a problem." The other men agreed. "We just need to keep it up longer than the strikers can handle starving. We will win in the end," he said confidently. He escorted his visitors to the door of the study and called for the butler to bring them their hats and umbrellas – it was raining and the men would have to walk the ten feet or so to their carriages that waited for them outside.
Stationhouse #4, Toronto; End of July
William sat at his desk reading the Toronto Gazette. His back was to the door, the paper opened wide in front of him. She could see most of the headline from the doorway. It was intriguing, but still, she so treasured the moments when she could study him, love him, watch him, and he did not know she was doing so. Even just the back of him – noticing his dark hair, and his shoulders, the way they pressed against his jacket, hinting at the hunky muscles tucked under the fabric. Pangs of excitement pumped through her as she smiled to herself, remembering, checking, at the rim of his collar for the mark she had made biting him, tasting him, while they had made love at the beach. Now barely visible, the mark lingered, mostly tucked out of view from those in his buttoned-up world. Having let the warmth bubble in her insides sufficiently to satisfy, she stepped into his office, "5 Dead, Many More Sickened by Bad Meat?" she read over his shoulder.
He turned, rewarding her with his happy face, wide eyed, truly bushy-tailed with joy to see her. "Julia!" he called, his beautiful smile making her glad to be alive. Spreading the paper out on his desk, she walked to his side, allowing herself the pleasure of slipping her fingers into the hair at the back of his neck as she focused her eyes on the print.
"Where?" she asked. She so wished he would slide his arm around her and tug her closer – he would have if they were at home…
He answered, "One in Toronto, three in New York and one in Buffalo. Both the United States and the Canadian governments are investigating."
Concern, worry, sadness grew inside of her. "I'll have to call Ruby," she said, sounding a little dazed. Her mind followed a track, one that gurgled a bit with guilt that connected to her wealthy status, and her family, and triggered some childhood memories.
"Mmm," he nodded, and continued, "The spoiled meat was from Chicago… Seems it was sold chilled but had gone bad – they say most likely during shipment." William went on to tell her about the brilliant inventions and innovations used to make refrigerated train cars, how the designer, Edwin Earl, had used the knowledge of density to bring cold down from ice stored at the top of the car to the pre-frozen meat stored at the bottom. William's professorial lecture included the economics of the ordeal, explaining that the railroads wouldn't buy the patent, so one of the meatpacking owners, Armour he believed, had purchased Earl's refrigerated train cars and then leased them to railroads, making double the money in the end. The system depended on re-icing stations every 250 miles or so. It was all calculated out so the meat would remain sufficiently chilled before it arrived at the distributors… William paused, wondering if she was listening.
"I see," she responded.
He smiled to himself – though she would have caught it if she were paying attention – he knew she was not. "Julia," he said drawing her out of her thoughts, "My point is that even if something went wrong, and the re-icing stations did not keep the meat cold enough for it to stay safe, then it is unlikely that the meat would have been cold enough when it was delivered…" He checked her eyes, received a nod; she seemed to have caught up. "So they must have put thawed, warm meat into the ice houses at the distributors… What I'm trying to say is I'm surprised the governments have found Armour, and the other two…"
"Brown and Durham," Julia filled in.
"Yes," he smiled, impressed, but not totally surprised, by his wife's savvy knowledge of the American meatpacking industry, adding, "Although the Canadian government had to also consider Davies from here in Toronto, and Burns from Winnipeg and Western Canada too."
Julia considered telling him then, about her relatives in Chicago. But their disagreements about taking on servants, William's struggles with feeling comfortable about moving up into her world of the upper-class and the wealthy, still threatened, and further, stirred discord, anxiety, and a troubled feeling in her gut. She decided he need not know, but she was all too familiar with her cousin, knew him all too well. And she certainly didn't trust him. No, the man she knew, the one she had played with as a young girl, such a man would knowingly sell bad meat, she was sure of it.
William finished, "It would seem to me that it would have to be the distributors at fault, certainly as much so as the owners."
Julia's worries shifted closer. "Perhaps we should be concerned – take heed… about the meat we buy," she suggested. Motherly instincts shot to her womb, prompting her to protectively cloak their baby with her hand. "How can we be sure William, that the meat we buy is safe?"
Her husband lifted an eyebrow. His brain was working on the problem, now aware of it. "We could be sure to buy only meat that was slaughtered here in Toronto," he proposed.
"Yes," she agreed, "I'll call Eloise."
Julia changed the subject, her face taking on that playful, teasing expression that fluttered his heart. "Now, Miss James tells me you had quite the adventure while I was away at my conference. It seems that, once again, you faced death, this time at the hands of a whirling rotary saw in Riley's Sawmill," she asked, raising her eyebrow at him.
The corner of William's mouth rose into a wrinkle and she knew he was admitting to the claim being the truth. Just under his surface, hoping he was pulling off not giving away his inner thoughts, William wondered if somehow she had also learned about his being selected while working undercover as a laborer to do, "odd jobs and handyman work," for Mrs. Candace Riley. Feeling his face grow hot with embarrassment, he hid it as best as possible, dropping his eyes back down to the newspaper on his desk. "Julia," he said, "It is my job."
She leaned down, placing her mouth close to his ear and said, "I know William. It's alright." Her quick kiss was meant to seal the issue, at least for now. With that, she told him she had something to show the detective in the morgue. William grabbed his hat, and they headed out together.
Back of the Yards, Chicago: Bar
Jurgis sat with two other men at a table drinking a beer. He had some money left, despite the strike, and even after paying their part of the room, a single room to house seven people. "Could it get any worse?" he wondered. They had all been evicted, forced out into the street, their belongings strewn all over the sidewalk, for not being able to pay their rent. Of course, it was not only rent. It was "rent" – something they never thought they were signing on to pay at all – AND interest, for eight years of a twenty year mortgage! They had been conned, not speaking English and unable to decipher the "fine print," and now the bank had won, had collected their rent and interest for two years, and now the bank had the same house to resell. Jurgis was amazed at the sheer amount of anger and helplessness that simmered inside of him. It felt as if he had nothing to lose, but of course he did. He had a wife, a son, and a baby on the way. The strike could end soon – they could win, no more "speeding up," higher wages, better working hours, less chances of injury. "How would they make it till then?" he thought. Images of Ona coming home with the chickens and with money infused the circuits of his brain.
With his last swallow of his beer, he decided. Jurgis decided that he would confront the weasel, the bastard, who had solicited his Ona, prostituted her, had blackmailed her with all of their jobs, had left her no real choice but to allow him to… Oh my God how his head pounded with fury! That bastard had had his way with his wife, his Ona, and then he had used her to gain influence over, power over, and money from, other disgusting, repugnant men. Inside him there was such a battle between weeping and punching. He slammed the empty glass down on the table and rushed out into the night.
Winnipeg Canada: Ettie Weston's Coffee House
Ieva pulled out the envelope with Adomas' note and what was left of the money he had sent. Their sickly three-year-old son clung to her leg, occasionally coughing and sniffling. She looked pleadingly at one of the young women with her in the parlor. Ieva felt intimidation surge through her. She could never look so … sexy. Perhaps Madame Weston would turn her away, find her lacking in what it would take to entice men. She hugged her boy closer and thought about what waited for them outside the door – nothing. The money she had left from Adomas would not cover the price of their tiny boarding house room and the cost of food, not to mention any kind of care for Matis. She needed to stretch, to find a way to make it until Adomas' next letter came.
Pushing herself past the shame, she asked the young woman, "Do you think you could watch him… once Madam Weston gets here?"
The young woman had a big heart, under her voluptuous bosom and risqué clothing. A smile shown on her face as she nodded. She approached and took a seat on a nearby settee, inviting Matis to sit with her. The boy clutched harder to his mother.
"Be a good boy Matis," Ieva encouraged, "Look how pretty she is." She pushed him softly off of her leg and took his hand. Ieva kneeled down in front of her son, wiped his nose with her very-soiled handkerchief, and guided him to the young woman's side.
"Hello," the beauty said.
Matis' mother patted the seat next to the woman. She was relieved when her boy climbed up. He even looked the other woman in the eye. "Say hello, Matis," Ieva urged. From behind her she heard the madam speak…
"Lalka," Ettie Weston's voice slipped into the room, "How very kind of you." The young woman sitting next to Matis bowed her head. "How may I help you Miss…" the madam asked.
Ieva turned to face her, hoping she would see recognition cross her face. Thank goodness she did. "I do hope you remember me, Miss Weston," she said, offering the madam a soft curtsey.
"Of course dear. Your English has gotten much better," Ettie reassured. "Come, let us talk in here," she said, gesturing to the next room.
"Thank you," Ieva replied. She gave her little son a quick kiss and told him in Lithuanian to be good. Then she quickly followed the madam.
Ettie offered a cup of tea and both women sat at a small table. "I am afraid I don't remember your name," she asked.
"Oh, of course. I am Ieva … Ieva Gagas," Ieva answered.
Ettie recognized her, and remembered her well enough to know that she had a new surname. "Married," she thought to herself, "Too bad." She had suspected, because of the child. But so many women she knew had children but no husband. "Perhaps the husband has died, or abandoned her?" she thought. Ettie was a practical woman, but her heart was kind. She saw no reason to put the poor woman in a position where she would ask for a place in her brothel only to be rejected.
She cleared her throat, drawing the woman's attention. "Ieva, do you have a husband?" she asked.
It shined instantly on Ieva's face – love, and pride. She nodded, "Yes. His name is Adomas. He is in Toronto. He has a good job, but …" The twinkle went out of her eyes, leaving a clear view of her despair and worry.
Ettie felt her heart thump in her chest. But she already knew; she would not be able to help this woman. Women with husbands, husbands who can show up angry and jealous, they spell nothing but trouble. Ieva saw the look in her eyes even before Ettie explained, "Ieva, I am so sorry, but I cannot take a girl who has a husband."
Tears instantly filled Ieva's eyes. My God, she couldn't even make money prostituting herself. What could she possibly do? She had to save her son! Ettie stood and walked over to a desk in the corner of the room. She opened a drawer and she took out some money. Ieva's shame threatened to stop her, but she imagined walking out the door – with Matis. She heard her own voice before she decided what to do, "Oh, thank you Miss Weston. Thank you."
"Take this now," Ettie said handing her the money. She regretted what she would say next, for the life the woman would have to go to was dark, dingy, and offered nothing but survival, or at least a chance at it. "Ieva, there are men, over by the train station… at night. They will find you a way to make some money and offer you some protection. I'm so sorry, but it's the best I can do." Ettie steeled herself and guided Ieva back into the parlor. Embarrassed at her own selfishness, she was glad that no men had arrived before she could usher the poor woman and her son out.
Chicago: Gentleman's Club
The sign outside the posh building read, "Everleigh Gentlemen's Club." Barely-dressed, extremely beautiful women paraded around, serving mostly older, well-dressed men drinks and giving them various attentions. Armour, Brown and Durham sat off at a table away from the rest of the room. Their conversation was intense, and the women knew to stay away. Each man had his drink, and his cigar. Two or three voluptuous women hovered in the distance, out of earshot, waiting for any sign that they should approach.
"Of course it is sabotage," Brown agreed, flicking cigar ashes into the elegant, if not a bit gaudy, ashtray. "There is no other way the meat could have arrived in Toronto, and Buffalo, and New York, already spoiled AND still chilled. Someone had to remove the ice, or make sure it didn't get loaded up, somewhere early on the route, so the meat temperature would go back down after the ice was loaded near the end of the line," he added.
Durham reiterated, "Our coppers insist it had to be Canadian. Maybe Burns or Davies?"
All eyes turned to Armour. "We need to make sure it wasn't the Canadian government," he said. Shaking his head he went on, "That would be a big problem."
"Should we call in Clegg?" Durham asked.
"Perhaps," Armour answered. "But there is someone else first…"
