Our Man in the Dark (17 page)

She keeps talking. The liquor's starting to sink in, and in my head, I start working on an apology for not being able to fuck her good and proper. As I start to speak, the hotel band begins a mediocre version of “Lover Come Back to Me,” and then Lester arrives in a tight, short-sleeved shirt that makes all the men question whether they've successfully completed puberty.

“Mr. Estem?” asks Lester, his thick neck fighting to be free of its collar.

“Lester, please call me John,” I say, still looking into my drink. “After all we've been through together, I think we're on a first-name basis.”

He leans in close to me and whispers over my shoulder, “'Bout that money . . . remember?”

He has my full attention now. I never mentioned the money to him; I'd forgotten. Yet he knows. Would Candy bring it up during pillow talk?

“Lester, the fight was declared invalid. Nothing came of it,” I tell him.

I look at Candice to corroborate, but she remains silent. Lester's presence has cornered her attention. She gives him
that
look: the look of longing. The look I've offered her countless times.

I turn back to Lester, and he's reciprocating. They are having a moment. A moment so big the room strains to confine it and Lester's frame. Once again, I am on the outside.

“Lester, let me talk to you in private.” He follows me to an area just outside the bar, where the hotel lobby ends in a small set of steps.

“John,” he says, “is everything gonna be okay?”

I feel compelled to be brutally honest with him. “For your own sake, Lester, get out of LA. At least for a while.”

“Where I'm gonna head to? I don't know too many people.”

I dislike him more with every simple word. “Go to a bus station. Look for someone with a friendly face. Ask him where he's from, and buy a ticket that takes you there. You'll get to know people.”

The sad truth of what I'm saying starts to seep in. He looks at people as they pass, hoping they might offer an alternative.

“I know you're right,” he says, looking down at the carpeted floor and its endless sea of fleur-de-lis.

“Of course I am. You can ask Candy—she'll tell you the same thing.”

“I always took my advice from Mike. It's strange not havin' him here.”

Even with all of his strength, outside of the ring, he's powerless. I would have never imagined that I could feel sorry for someone like him. I reach into my wallet and pull out a few hundreds. I put the money into his hand, big and weathered, like an old gravestone.

“Just take it and go,” I tell him.

He looks at what I've given him. “Thank you, sir. Thank you. That's mighty kind of you. But I don't know when I'm gonna be able to pay you back.”

“Don't worry about it, Lester. Just be sure to stay out of trouble.”

He slowly lifts his head and stares at me. His eyes are surprisingly sharp and lucid for a boxer. “That lady, Candice . . . she yours?”

His glare has the effect of a polygraph.

“No,” I answer quickly.

“So it won't bother you none if . . .”

His sudden honorable display irritates me, and I decide to tell him so.

“Don't you think you should have asked me that
before
you spent the night with her?”

“I didn't spend the night with her, Mr. Estem.” He looks genuinely surprised. “I mean I ain't gonna pretend I didn't try—but she didn't feel like she was ready. I didn't want to ruin what could happen with us. Plus she said she had to get back to the hotel for somethin'.”

I'm not sure what to make of what he's said, but it doesn't really matter; it's pointless for me to be angry. “It's not me you have to worry about, Lester. It's Count.”

“Yeah, I figured that. I remember seein' her a couple of times when I was back in Atlanta.”

He looks over my shoulder and watches Candy as she delicately
strokes the stem of a martini glass. “Guess I'll be seein' ya. Thanks again, Mr. Estem.” He makes his way back into the bar to view her technique up close.

“Yeah, Lester,” I say to myself. “See you.”

I replay the recent events in my head, trying to understand where things went so horribly wrong. But this isn't a matter for the mind, now, is it? This is about instincts, a twang in the gut, this is about flesh, about blood . . . and that mysterious, untrustworthy thing that makes it flow.

Bitterness, resentment, and envy have arrived. Yes, they are here in full force, warming my eye sockets and throbbing at my temples. But part of me, the small part that has grown weary of abuse, is grateful to Lester for freeing me from the routine that Candice and I have prolonged. Our little seesaw game is no longer fun. Lester has added his weight to the other end.

Lester and Candice slow-dancing. Scotch on the rocks. My fourth cigarette. Gant's unwanted hand on my shoulder.

“Elusive creatures, aren't they?” Gant says, while adjusting his pocket square.

“What's that?” I ask.

“Women,” he says, nodding toward the misshapen four-legged mammal that is Lestercandice.

“Yes. I guess they are.”

“You know the problem with women?” he asks.

I smile into my drink. I'm genuinely interested in hearing his observations on the fairer sex. “No, but please tell me.”

He gives me an eager smile. “The problem with women is that when a man gets a lot of women, he's fooled. He fools himself into believing that he's successful. The reason is . . .” He takes a long and deliberate sip from his drink.

“The reason?” I ask.

“The reason is that women, like money, are elusive. For most men, there are never enough women, and there is
never
enough money.”

“Is that really a problem with women—or a problem with men?”

“Women
are
the problem with men.”

For the first time, Gant makes sense to me.

“Remember why we came here, John. Some of us have forgotten. We came here for the money, not for the women. Keep your priorities in order and you'll be fine.”

Thankfully, he leaves.

Regretfully, Lester stays.

I've grown tired of watching Candice and Lester while nursing my drink, so I ask the bartender to send a bottle of scotch up to my room. He nods and looks at me sympathetically. He's watched me watch them: the way I would stir my drink with my finger, wait for the ice cubes to stop circling the glass, then take a sip while watching them over its rim. He's seen it all. He hands me a bottle. Macallan. “Take it,” he says. “This one's on the house.”

The good stuff; that's what the bartender gave me. I'm tilted, but I only feel tipsy, in a sophisticated sort of way. I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling while thoughts drift languidly through my mind.

There's no sign of Candy when I check out of the hotel. As we head to the airport, I have that nagging feeling that I've left something behind. I'm leaving a mess in Los Angeles, but it won't have a problem finding its way to Atlanta. There's no hope for anything between Candy and me, but I feel obligated to Count. I think he'll notice a few things missing. I was flush when I got on that plane to LA, but now I'm coming back minus two grand and one gorgeous girl.

I walk past the throng of reporters tossing questions at Martin and Abernathy and crawl into the plane that waits on the noisy tarmac. Soon, the deafening churn of plane engines forces me to retreat into myself. Before long, my thoughts are all I hear. What will I do about Count? When will the patience of Mathis and Strobe finally be exhausted? And where the hell is Candy?

I don't remember much of the landing or the ride home. It's as if the plane landed in front of my apartment and let me out at my doorstep. I look around my place. It seems even smaller than when I left. I notice Candy's record still on my nightstand. She doesn't seem to fit in here any longer. I need to redecorate.

I haven't had the chance to unpack my suitcase when the phone rings. Mathis tells me to meet him at the office on Peachtree in half an hour. I'm tired. There wasn't much rest in LA. “I really don't have much to report,” I tell him. “Nothing happened out there, Mathis.”

There's a long silence on his end. “Are you finished?” asks Mathis.

I offer nothing from my end.

“Good,” he says. “Half an hour.”

I meet the agents at their office and begin the business of lowering their
expectations. “I hate to disappoint you, but Gant did not put on his Red shirt while we were in Los Angeles. I didn't see any behavior that could be interpreted as dangerous, or a threat to the stability of our nation, or however you boys like to put it.”

Mathis sits reverse in a chair while Strobe stands. He points to a chair a few feet from his, and I sit down. Neither agent seems very talkative, but they stare at me with indifference. I know they're expecting more. I feel guilty about that. My obligation to them is just one more on a long list I have yet to fulfill. Before I know it, I'm offering up every detail—
almost
every detail—of my trip.

“Some members from the LA chapter of the SCLC were there. I'd never met them before. Ferguson and Robinson were their names if I remember correctly.” The agents don't reveal any interest, so I move on. “There were a few celebrities there, many wealthy people . . .” Mathis taps Strobe on the knee and motions him toward a large reel-to-reel tape machine in the corner. My eyes follow Strobe and I keep talking. “The fundraising was successful. I estimate we brought in close to fifty thousand.”

Mathis holds up his hand for me to stop. “We know all that,” he says.

“Of course,” I say.

“All set,” says Strobe from the tape machine.

“Did you happen to notice any other type of behavior?” Mathis asks me.

“Such as?”

“Behavior that was . . . improper.”

“From Gant? Listen, don't ask to me recite those kind of details. You know what kind of man he is. Haven't you boys had enough fun with those photos?”

Mathis smiles dryly. “Not just Gant. What about the others? Abernathy? Young? What about King?”

He's toying with me, testing my loyalty. For him to ask that question shows that he already knows the answer.

“Martin?”

“What can you tell us about his . . . sexual appetite? Does he share your proclivities?”

I'm taken aback by his directness. I never thought I'd ever hear the phrase “sexual appetite” uttered from that rigid slit he calls a mouth.

“I'm not sure I know how to answer that question.”

“Just answer it,” Strobe belts from the other side of the room as he pours himself some coffee.

Mathis stands and walks over to the tape machine that Strobe has set up.

“Listen to this,” Strobe whispers to me. Mathis flips a switch and the reels start a slow spin.

Over the tape's hiss, I hear what sounds like Martin's voice, telling someone how good they make him feel, and to take what they deserve. After this, a female voice offers him encouragement, followed by a second woman who joins in as well.

I feel ashamed finding comfort in knowing that he struggles as I do. A leader of men and a follower of urges, but Martin is above the puritan and the scoundrel. Mathis should know as well as I do that great men deserve a reprieve.

I look down at my clasped hands. “Stop it,” I say so softly it gets lost among the whispers of the tape. The recording continues and with each intimacy played, I feel increasingly exposed.

I look Mathis in the eye. “Turn it off,” I tell him.

Strobe receives a look from Mathis and stops the machine. “That's from a hotel room in Florida last month. It's hard stuff to listen to, I know,” says Strobe. “But you're missing the good part, John. At one point, he's really giving it to her and he screams, ‘I'm not a nigger tonight!' Amazing. Those were white girls on that tape,” he says with a laugh.

“Okay, Strobe,” says Mathis.

“White girls,” Strobe says again, looking at me, daring me to challenge his disgust.

“Enough,” Mathis demands.

Strobe holds up his hands in concession.

“Listen,” says Mathis turning his focus back to me. “We are redirecting our attention solely to King's behavior—his personal behavior. We think he is beginning to act carelessly. This is a problem for a public figure, possibly a problem for the country. While he's supposedly marching for the freedom of the Negro people, he's held captive by his own libidinous nature.”

I give Mathis an expressionless look to show that I am not persuaded.
“Okay,” I tell him, “you have your tape. What does this have to do with me?”

“You can relate to him, can't you?” Strobe interjects. “Don't you have the same weaknesses in common?”

I let out an exasperated sigh.

“Think about it, John,” Mathis says. “Women are the source of many problems for men. What if someone uses a woman to manipulate King? Someone who means us harm. Someone like . . .”