Our Man in the Dark (28 page)

For a moment, the creases of his brow disappear and I see acquiescence in his eyes, but then he goes over to that tape machine of his. “There's another one, you know,” he says. “He's at it again.” I know he's not talking about one of the Kennedys.

I think about playing indignant, but then I see how this validates all of my actions. I was foolish to show him sympathy. The tape plays and I sit back and enjoy my drink.

My confidence soon fades after listening to Mathis's third tape of Martin. I have been exposed to many threats during my involvement with the agents, but never have I felt more vulnerable than I do now. This tape had an ominous quality—they all did, but this one especially so. Martin rarely spoke on this tape. So little, in fact, that it's startling when he does speak. But it's the woman on this tape that is so troubling. He engages her with familiarity and in an almost apologetic tone. She does sound forgiving, but she seems to see through him. Even though she is alone with him, I feel that she is aware of her audience, and—more disturbingly—that I am her audience. I know this woman. I feel crazy even thinking it, but this is the same woman from the second tape Mathis played. Beyond identifying her voice, I know this woman. The quality of this recording is poor, that's the only thing keeping me from lunging at Mathis and beating him with that bottle of whiskey.

Immediately, reality presents itself and starts to coalesce. I think of everything I've done and the madness of those actions nauseates me. I tell Mathis that I am leaving. I practically fall, stumbling down most of the steps and out onto the street. I find a cab, and it takes me home.

For the first time fear sets in. I have left a dangerous trail behind me, and it didn't matter before, as long as I didn't care about the outcome. Agents, gangsters, and preachers—my volatile mixture of associations begins to sink in.

I park across the street from the
Atlanta Gazette
and look at the small but powerful passenger riding next to me: an envelope with the pictures of the files I took at the agents' office. It's enough to expose everyone—including me—but maybe it will put a stop to this madness.

Sitting here, lost in a labyrinth of possible outcomes, I wonder how I will be perceived—as a hero or a villain? A tap on my window snaps me out of it.

I look out at Strobe and see myself reflected in his sunglasses, as he points at my rear door. I unlock it and he gets in, making himself comfortable in the roomy backseat.

“Looking to change careers, Estem?”

The lack of menace in his voice throws me off.

“What?”

“The newspaper. Why the sudden interest in journalism?”

“About to buy a classified.” The lie comes to me easily. “Trying to unload the Cadillac.” I watch him in the rearview mirror as he looks out of the window. I give a look at the envelope and push it down into the cavernous floor of the Caddy.

“So . . . you and Mathis have been meeting one-on-one a lot lately,” he says.

Is this about jealousy? I almost laugh, but I keep quiet.

“What did you discuss?” asks Strobe.

“Mathis didn't tell you?”

The mirror cools from his icy stare.

“I'm asking you, Estem.”

“Actually, Strobe, it was the usual stuff—Martin, segregation, communism, illicit sex. The rest was personal.”

“Personal?”

“Personal.”

Strobe removes his sunglasses and leans over the seat, close to my ear. “This is where you should be careful, Estem.”

I feel his breath on the side of my face.

“Careful? You pay me to talk. So I talk. What's the problem?”

“The problem is that his relationship with you should remain professional.”

“He's the boss, Strobe. Are you warning me or him?”

“Hoover's the boss, but it seems that you and I both have bosses that need to be reined in.”

“What do you mean ‘reined in'?”

“Look, John,” he says relaxing back into the seat. “Mathis has a
history of using his cases as a way to escape. Maybe it's something in his own life, but sometimes he can become too personally involved. There was a situation in New York. A Russian immigrant and grand-scale con man agreed to work with us and bring down the outfit he worked for. It was a big operation too. Both coasts
and
Europe. Mathis and the guy got pretty friendly. Fine. But then Mathis gets pretty friendly with the man's wife as well. A real sexy blond number, with more curves than the road to Ronda. Next thing you know, the Russian decides to keep his trap shut and disappears into the fog. Just like that, two years of work down the drain. And when the higher-ups gave Mathis a temporary suspension, he didn't even take responsibility. He saw it as retribution for the botched job he did on one of Hoover's special cases. After that, they assigned me to him—to keep an eye on him.”

“Why are you telling me this? I'm not Russian, and I damn sure ain't blond. How would Mathis feel if I told him you were putting his business out in the street?”

“You won't, because you like his attention. You're flattered by it.” He says it as if there is no way I could disagree. “And you're smart enough to know that his interest in you is a double-edged sword. He could turn on you with the same intensity. How would he feel if you embarrassed him with what I told you? What do you think he'd do? How would he react?”

I stay quiet for a moment and try to weigh what Strobe has said. A behavioral pattern is forming. Could it be true that Mathis is so lost? I don't say it out loud, but Strobe nods subtly as if reading my thoughts.

“Thanks for the chat, Strobe, but I'd better get going.” I start the car to signal my desire for his departure.

“Your ad,” he says, still anchored.

“What?”

“Your ad for the car.”

I look at the envelope, regarding it as a covered cage with a snarling animal inside.

“Thanks,” I say, looking in the mirror, and then turning off the car.

He's silent for a moment—obviously contemplating knocking me out and taking a look inside the envelope. But Strobe stays civil. He opens the rear door and gets out, then comes over to my window.

“The next time you call or Mathis sets up a meeting, you make sure
to ask if I'll be there. Got it?”

“Like the measles . . .”

He leaves and I follow through with my lie and list the Caddy in the classifieds. I'll hold on to the envelope for now. Strobe's already gone, but I know he'll be watching from somewhere.

I went to the Royal after placing the ad, but I didn't see a movie. No, I took an unlikely journey to one of the viaducts behind the theater. Early in the century, when the automobile was becoming popular, there was a struggle for space between cars and trains. So they built viaducts that would allow trains to travel underneath and cars to travel above. But to create these passages they merely built a new city on top of the old one. The railways were abandoned long ago, but they have just rediscovered intact and forgotten buildings inside the tunnels of the viaduct. Tanneries, blacksmiths, barbershops, and saloons—there's an entire city underneath the one we occupy. I am not a historian, I only recently became aware of it, but to me the thought of an underground city is compelling. Two worlds coexisting—one hidden, one seen. Despite the progress and might of the living world, the buried one remains, waiting like lava to reemerge.

The next day, Count requests my presence at court. I've been avoiding the place intentionally. I did all I could with Gant, but I don't want the blame if Count's crude attempt at blackmail doesn't pay off.

Claudel and Otis show their usual level of warmth. “Count's in a meeting,” Claudel says. “You need to wait out here.”

They stare at me, silent. Otis sits hunched over the bar while Claudel sucks his teeth at me. His wounds are beginning to heal. Spots of black are starting to show in the pink webs on his cheeks.

I wait with them for a while, saying nothing, only measuring their
gazes for a hint of harm. Finally, the door to Count's office opens and a paunchy middle-aged white man with receding hair walks out. A teenage Negro girl follows him in her long floral-pattern dress, probably her Sunday best, and a white shawl-cape that clasps in the front. They both wear the same defeated expression, and the reason becomes clear as Count comes out right behind them.

“I wish you two the best of luck,” he says slapping his palm with a thick piece of paper folded in half. “Lord knows you're gonna need it.”

The man and the girl walk past Claudel, Otis, and me, trying not to make eye contact. The girl does look up as she walks out. I realize she is the one from room 21—the girl that I was with the night I was arrested. I feel a bit exposed seeing her in this context. She looks lovely—excited, and scared, like someone just released from prison, anxious for a fresh start. It's strange, I don't know the details yet, but as they leave, I have a nagging suspicion that she may be better off on the inside.

“C'mon in the office,” Count says once they've gone.

“What's going on with those two?” I ask as we go inside.

“Love, little man. Can't you tell?”

“What do you mean?”

“Ol' Bob fell in love with our little Clarice after spending a lot of money on her these past months. Said he wanted to be with her, so he agreed to sell me his house for a trade. The house for the girl. I felt it was an easy choice. He gave me a good price.”

“Where will they live?”

“Well, he couldn't live in that house with her, now could he? These crackers would kill them both. They'll probably head out west to California. But they'd better be careful out there too.”

I give a soft nod.

“Ain't it strange what a man will do for a woman,” says Count, smiling. “I mean look at that fool Lester. This ain't the first time he lost what little sense he's got over a woman. There was this girl used to work for me, Etta . . . that boy was crazy for her. But she was hooked on that stuff. Hero'n. When she OD'd, the motherfucker tried to blame me for it. Can you believe that?”

I don't respond. Instead, I think of a girl that used to be around Count's. A while back, she offered me a good time when I was low on
cash. I was grateful for the offer. I never saw her again after that. I hope it wasn't her. I don't push the topic further. Count looks like he wants to change the subject. His jaw angles and his cheeks narrow, like he has just tasted something foul and can't wait to spit it out.

“Look, most of this is my fault,” he says. “Getting you involved in this fight-fixing shit was too much to ask. That was a mistake. Sometimes this kind of thing comes easy to people, sometimes it doesn't. Everybody isn't like me—I need to remember that. I didn't use your talents in the right areas. I fucked up. I admit it. But now I'm about to correct that.”

I'm relieved to hear Count take responsibility for his actions, but that pleasure is short-lived. Now I know that the stakes will soon be raised. Whatever he has in mind will make me long for the smoky boxing venues and their smelly locker rooms. Negotiations with shady underworld figures will seem like a cakewalk.

“What I got planned is even bigger than fixing fights. Hell, I was just trying to prove a point to Lester, but I'm getting too old to be doing shit for bragging rights. You see what I mean?”

Not quite, but I nod anyway.

“I can sense that things are changing, and they're changing fast—and I need to be on the right side of it. I need to take advantage of it.”

I nod again and look at Count above the rims of my glasses, hands clasped in front of me, as if I were listening to Gant relay the details of the budget.

“Remember that Bozley Park thing? It's ready to roll,” he says. “I just got some property over there.”

“How did you get a house in Bozley Park? It's still very segregated.”

“I know,” he says holding up the folded piece of paper. “But ol' Bob sure does love Clarice . . . so says the deed to his house. But I've already stopped wanting the house. Yeah, I just ate, but I'm hungry again. Now I want the whole neighborhood.”