Our Man in the Dark (5 page)

Thank God, there are no stairs. The directory leads me through a maze of doors with frosted glass and freckled beige linoleum until I find
the right place. The office is appointed with file cabinets, venetian blinds, and dust. Their caretaker is a large woman with bifocals that seem attached to her unconvincing wig. She hears me rattle in and looks at me. “What do you need?” she asks.

“I'm here to pay a tax bill.”

“The girl will be back in fifteen minutes. She deals with the delinquencies.”

“I didn't mention that it was delinquent.”

I stand at the counter and she stays at her desk.

“Well, is it?”

I don't answer.

“Fifteen minutes,” she says again.

I take a seat on the hard bench next to the entrance and watch the back of her wig move subtly to the rhythm of her typing.

Fifteen minutes pass and I tap on the counter again. She only blinks lazily at me. “Can't we take care of this now? I'm sort of in a hurry.” That makes her neck stiffen and the wig shift. “Excuse me, ma'am. . . . I don't mean to be rude. I'm just in a hurry.”

She calms down but still offers more of the same: “The girl isn't here yet.”

I wait another fifteen minutes and a young, skinny colored girl enters from the back holding a brown paper bag that presumably contains her half-eaten lunch. “You're late,” the woman says to her.

“Sorry, ma'am,” the colored girl says. She looks at me as if she's surprised to see me. “How are you?”

“Fine. . . . And you?”

“Oh, I've been fine.” She looks back at her wigged supervisor who has now decided to focus all of her attention on the two of us.

“Well, I'm here to pay a bill that's a bit past due.”

“Okay. I can help you with that.”

“The name is Estem.”

“Of course it is,” she says smiling. She shuffles through some papers looking for my parents' house. “Oh,” she says when she sees how much they owe. “You're going to be taking care of this . . . all at once?”

“Yes.” I pull out a roll of twenties, and the scratch of the currency narrows the eyes of the fat woman. I keep my eyes on her wig and ask the girl
for my receipt. She gives it to me and I thank her for her time.

Once outside, I look to see if those two men are around. They're not. I must be getting paranoid. Maybe it showed back in the assessor's office. I start the car and turn the corner—and pass the two men in a parked car. It's strange, but now I realize that I know the girl. We went to school together. Samantha DePlush.

I drive for a long time, frequently glancing at the side mirrors. Eventually, I pass the Royal Theatre, and its faux-Egyptian columns offer me an immediate sense of security. This seems appropriate, given the relationship I had with movies during my early years with polio. Even then, they were a sort of safe haven and appealed to my innate sense of adventure and romance. They were amusing friends that did not taunt or tease, only solicited my approval. Maybe the child inside me still watches all those montages of seductions, cracked cases, double crosses, and car chases. Maybe he watches from the darkened theater of my mind.

It seems like a good place to spend some time. It'll give me an opportunity to lose those men on my tail and clear my head.

Although movie theaters have been desegregated for two years, the Royal Theatre is still the theater of choice for Negroes of respectability and a discriminating nature. There are gilded murals depicting the raising of the pyramids, and balconies embossed with violet scarabs. Above the screen hangs a large curtain with the bird-headed image of the sun god Ra. Quite the spectacle. I take one last look around as the theater lights start to dim.

The movie was about some international spy, a resourceful fellow who always managed to light a cigarette whenever his life was in danger. I wonder if such a thing would work in reality. It seems to buy you crucial thinking time.

As I leave, I notice two white men seated at the rear of the theater. The Royal is nice, but it's still quite strange for a white person to choose to patronize a Negro theater. I'm not sure if these are the same men from earlier, but I begin to fear the worst.
The money?
Maybe they're just two
light-skinned Negroes and I'm imagining things. I walk along the purple runner that leads to the exit, peering out of the corner of my eye. As I get closer, they don't seem so interested. Their heads do not turn to follow me. I'm relieved, but not convinced. The money. Was I being too flashy? Police? Whoever they are, they give off a vibe that is neither cop nor criminal, but something in between.

I make it to my car. They aren't behind me, but I hear that voice again—the one telling me I can't go home. So I don't. I drive, floating through the city, just trying to keep the strangers and the sun off my tail, waiting for the night to come and hide me safely so I don't have to run anymore.

As night approaches, it dawns on me that all this may be ending, yet Candy has never seen the new and improved version of me. Wasn't she the reason why I did this? The fear of regrets, not knowing what could have been, offsets my paranoia. I'll go to her and face the consequences. Right now, I have the detached acceptance of an inmate before execution. If only she would be kind enough to honor my last request.

The place is crowded. Immediately, I feel the press of flesh. Some local rhythm and blues man yelps and strums at his guitar as I look for Candy through the dancing crowd, over bobbing heads and through the narrow spaces between swaying bodies. I find her in Count's arms on the other side of the bar. I take a seat at the bar and order a drink, keeping an eye on them both. At first, her body is rigid in his embrace, but then she relents. He nuzzles her neck with his wide mouth. She does not move. He lifts his head and looks at her. She sees me. I lift my drink and nod to her. Then, and only then, does she smile.

Why is she smiling?
he must be wondering. He follows Candy's gaze. He sees me, but I don't avert my glare. He makes a motion toward his two men in a far corner. They seem to be practically identical: both are large and Negro and dressed in brightly colored zoot suits, one purple, the other yellow. They walk over to Count. He seems agitated, and then he points in my direction. As his men walk toward me, a path slices effortlessly through the crowd. Suddenly, I feel compelled to light a cigarette.

“Hey, little man. You buyin' or just window shoppin'?” questions the yellow suit.

I sip my drink and then puff my cigarette.

“'Cause if you ain't buyin', and you just window shoppin', you need to do that shit outside.”

“Yeah. Count don't like you starin' him in the face,” says the other.

I feel a surge of reassurance, power, if you will. I have my drink, my cigarette, and a pocket stuffed with cash. These are the only weapons I need. I pull out a fistful of money and place it on the bar. “You tell Count that as long as I'm spending money in this dive, I'll look wherever I see fit. Now why don't you fellows take a few dollars and buy yourselves some real clothes.” I wad some cash and toss it at them.

They look at each other and laugh. “Oh, we'll take the money, chump. But it's gonna be a
lot
more than a few dollars!”

I think I see his yellow shoulder twitch. My instincts take over. Before I realize, I've thrown my drink in the man's face, followed by my lit cigarette. He does not burst into flames. Movies have misled me. The cigarette extinguishes itself with an uneventful
sssst.

They carry me out into the alley behind Count's.

Almost instantly, I receive a punch to the stomach. I feel my intestines forcing their way into my scrotum. I double over and fall to my knees, gasping for air and looking at their cheap shoes: faux alligator, worn and creased. I vomit all over their shoes. One of them boxes my left ear, the other kicks my intestines back into place. My glasses fall from my face and land in the vomit. I'm dazed; I see stars . . . then I see headlights.

I hear car doors open at the end of the alley. Two figures step in front of the headlights and cast what seem to be pistol-wielding shadows along the sides of the building. I can't discern their features. I'm still stunned from the attack and somewhat blinded by the brightness of the lights. I look up at my assailants. They too are looking in the direction of the two figures. I know it is not an apparition.

“What the fuck you crackers want?” demands one of the goons.

They cock their pistols in response.

“Okay, okay, we get the picture.” My assailants raise their hands and back away from me.

The unknown men approach me and help me to my feet. They walk me over to their car, not saying a word, with guns still pointed at those violent Negroes.

One of them opens the car door and quickly pushes me into the
backseat. The car starts and slowly backs out of the alley.

“Don't worry, Mr. Estem. We're not going to hurt you,” says the man in the passenger seat.

I wipe bile from my glasses with my handkerchief. “I know,” I say calmly. “That's easy to see, given your display in the alley. I mean, you're obviously not policemen. If you were, then you would have made yourselves known back there.”

The passenger turns to me. I can't distinguish his features. The brim of his hat shadows his face, and he is only briefly illuminated by the passing streetlights.

“I don't know who you are,” I continue, “but I'm sure this has something to do with the money.”

Simultaneously, the two men look at each other. The eyes of the driver appear in the rearview mirror.

“I see . . . you didn't know about the money. I guess I've let the cat out of the bag, and she's gone and scratched me.” I think of the mouse at the bank and who she may have called.

“No, Mr. Estem,” the driver says, “We're well aware of the money. But it represents only a small portion of the matter.”

“You see, Mr. Estem,” continues the passenger, “we need your help.”

“My help?”

“Do you consider yourself a patriot, Mr. Estem?” the driver asks. “I mean, despite the race problem—is there any other country more deserving of your allegiance than the United States?”

“No. But—”

“Of course not. Mr. Estem, this country is under attack. You may not see it on the surface—our enemy is cowardly and attacks from the shadows—but every day, foreign interests threaten to unravel the very fabric of American society. This is a matter of national security. Our agents can't do it alone. We need help from the public, good Americans, men like
you.
We are at war, Mr. Estem, and the FBI—America—needs your help.”

A few days ago, apathy and anonymity defined me, and now the FBI is asking for my help. I have remorse about the money, but maybe taking it has set into motion something bigger than I could realize. I'd be a fool not to hear what they have to offer.

They drive me to an office on Peachtree Street. It's narrow and easy to miss, as if its sole purpose is to fill in an alley—one of those places where the address number ends in “½.” Inside, the place is practically empty. We climb the stairs to the second floor; the agents are patient with me. We pass dark doors of textured glass and stop at one at the end of the long, narrow walkway. It has the word “Insurance” painted on it, but the
I
has faded away.

There's a chair in the middle of the room, a file cabinet in the corner, and a foldout table with a coffeepot and a hot plate resting on top of it. A badly worn corkboard stands at one of the walls. Whatever was on it has been removed, but the tack holes remain.

The agents offer me the seat, and introduce themselves as Mathis and Strobe. Their names surprise me. The physical features of these two men suggest something more exotic. Mathis, the older of the two, has very dark, sun-beaten skin, and though his hair is short and anchored with Brylcreem, there's still a suspicious curliness that is apparent. I suspect his real name may have a considerable number of vowels. The same with Strobe—maybe “Strobinsky” or “Stroberg”? He's younger, maybe close to my age, fresh-faced, with a broad athletic build. I suspect that he is only second-generation American.

“Communism,” says Mathis. “The Soviet Union is using America's race problem to further its evil agenda.”

“Members of the Communist Party,” says Strobe, “are aligning themselves with groups and leaders of the Negro movement in order to influence and manipulate them.”

“I'm listening,” I say.

“Mr. Estem,” Mathis says, “we believe that the SCLC is one of these groups and that Martin Luther King is one of these leaders being corrupted with communist ideology.”

“We know that King and the SCLC are being corrupted,” says Strobe.

Mathis walks over to the file cabinet and pulls out a folder. “Our sources have confirmed that, in a previous life, Aaron Gant was a high-profile member of the Communist Party.”