The Strivers' Row Spy (11 page)

She turned to look and we all laughed under our breaths. He was a very big, round-faced white man in a tight brown suit and suspenders. Looked to be in his mid fifties. He was sitting by himself, looking down at his plate, and eating some fried pork chops about as fast as humanly possible.

“Look like he 'bout to pop!” said Eason. “Better get that big ol' man a bucket of Epsom salt, or better yet, get yourself ready to call them ol' stiff-collectors down at the morgue. Fidna have to roll him up on outta here. God bless that man!”

Our entire table broke into muffled giggling.

“All right,” she said, smiling. “You better quit.”

McKay was clapping his hands and grinning from ear to ear, trying to hold down the volume of his laughter. Luckily the café was filled with the sounds of chatter and clanking dishes.

“We call him Mr. Regular,” she said. “He be here every day. That's the special he's eatin'. It comes with green beans and mashed potatoes and gravy, too. And you, sir?” she asked, turning to me, still smiling from Eason's comment.

“Is the special as good as it looks?” I said, still eyeballing the fat man as he licked his lips.

“Sure is,” she said. “About the best thing you can get.”

“Then I'll have the pork chops too,” I said.

“Yeah,” said William, “me too.”

“Uh-huh,” said Hubert.

“Make it seven,” said a still-giggling McKay.

“All right then,” she said, walking away.

“You ain't right, Reverend!” said Oliver, still laughing.

“Back to your earlier point, Hubert,” said McKay. “Is it possible that you and I and our West Indian compatriots—Garvey included—simply haven't acknowledged that the American Negro truly sees himself as part of America's disparate tapestry? Maybe they're conditioned to seek the justice that was never afforded their American ancestors—however long that may take.”

“Perhaps,” said Hubert. “All I know is the battle line has been drawn between this West Indian and Dr. Du Bois. Besides, those of us from the West Indies seek the same justice.”

“But we haven't always sought it from the American white man,” said McKay.

“Speak for yourself, you Jamaican,” said Hubert. “My homeland of Saint Croix was sold by Denmark to these United States two years ago.”

“My point exactly,” said McKay. “Two years ago! Any grumblings you and your ancestors had were directed at the Danish—mine at the British.”

“Well, things have changed in the last two years,” said Hubert.

“But we weren't born into this tangled culture,” said McKay. “You know my beliefs, Hubert, especially about the war. But I'm just playing devil's advocate. One can argue that whether we want to accept it or not, many Negroes in this country desperately wanted to fight in the war and defend what they believe is their nation. They didn't need Du Bois's permission. They must believe there is something to fight for and defend.”

“What?” asked Hubert.

“The very thing that made you and me want to leave the Caribbean and come here. Whatever that ethereal quality about this place is.”

We all paused to think about what McKay had just said. I knew that slavery also had deep roots in Hubert and Claude's West Indies, but it could be argued that, by 1919, race relations had become more fluid there than they had in the United States. It made me wonder why they ever desired to leave home and come to a place that was perhaps less accepting of Negroes. I figured it was indeed that intangible thing McKay had referred to—that which colored soldiers were willing to fight for.

“I just wish Du Bois would act like his old self, that's all,” said Hubert.

“It sounds like the battle line has been drawn in your mind, too, Reverend,” said McKay.

“You doggone right. And it ain't drawn in no sand neitha! Du Bois may be my fellow American, but I'm with Hubert on this one.”

“Ain't it supposed to be in your thinking ways to always have forgiveness on the mind, Reverend?” said William. “Like I said, Willy Du Bois has fallen out of favor with me a little too, but it doesn't run so deep. I just have a preference for Garvey, not a disdain for Willy.”

“You feel the same way, Sidney?” asked McKay.

“Well, I don't know much about Du Bois,” I replied. “I think I'll hold off on offerin' anything up 'til I learn some more. I'm sure Reverend Eason will teach me all I need to know.”

“Yes,” said Eason, “I got a lot to teach you, young brother. And when I'm done with you, I'll get to work on William here, 'cause he done forgot some things.”

“I most certainly have not,” said William. “It's just that I've known Willy Du Bois for years. During the Niagara Movement, we would read . . .”

“Stop,” said Eason. “Don't make me mad up in here now, William. I don't care how many books you done read. I know some things from livin'. I got one of them done-lived-a-lot educations. Done learned some things ain't in them books.”

McKay laughed as Eason and William stared at each other with a playful seriousness—as if they'd argued about similar things a thousand times before.

“Boy I tell ya,” said McKay. “It's being in the company of good-natured gents like you that makes me think twice about going to London.”

“How long will you be abroad?” I asked.

“Well, I'm not certain at this point. Unless London has good hog food like Harlem, it'll probably be a short visit. You know, all this talk about colored and white and I forgot to mention, I owe a big debt of gratitude to a white friend of mine over at the
Liberator
named Max Eastman. If he hadn't published my poem I'd still be unknown.”

The name Eastman drew my attention as I continued listening to the table talk. We sat there for another hour and discussed politics as if it were all there was in the world. And McKay expressed his desire to go it alone rather than join up with Garvey, despite their recruitment. McKay wasn't all that pleased with Garvey's seeming rejection of socialism. I was just hoping Garvey wouldn't reject me.

B
Y THE TIME
I
GOT HOME AFTER DROPPING
EASON AND
F
ERRIS OFF
at UNIA headquarters, it was late. Hoover would certainly want to know that I had met the man whose poem had been published by Max Eastman, but the last thing I wanted was for McKay to have agents following his every move. Still, now that Jones had the list of names, I had no control of it.

I was hoping Hoover would lose interest in Eastman the more entrenched I became with Garvey. I liked McKay very much. Perhaps I was already falling victim to item number one on any spy's don't-do list—letting friendship get in the way of the mission.

But the folks at the
Liberator
were harmless and in no way a threat to what was important to me. However, when it came to those connected to Garvey, I had to follow through. My loyalty was to Du Bois, and I could let nothing get in the way of that—not even the charisma, charm, and persuasiveness of Reverend Eason.

When I opened the front door, Loretta greeted me with glasses of wine. We sat in the living room drinking and listening to the blues music emanating from the Columbia Grafonola that had been her father's. It played the vinyl so smoothly. The two of us took in the soulful sound of Marion Harris's “A Good Man Is Hard to Find.” Loretta's father had been a savant when it came to music. He was a collector of jazz and blues records, so we inherited some wonderful vinyl.

Loretta had been here less than three weeks, but already the town house had a warm, cozy feel to it. She had such a touch. Her paintbrushes, palettes, and canvases filled a section of the living room. Several large cloths, used to rid her hands of excess paint, hung from a beautiful wooden easel and displayed a rainbow of colors, adding to the room's décor. Art books lined the shelves.

Professor Gold had given us an endless supply of old literature from his massive library. Most of the classics were included. Many of the books were stacked on the floor, as we lacked the proper shelf space. Our living room reminded me of a cross between Picasso's studio and Walt Whitman's writing and research nook.

Several crates sat against the wall by the front door, as Professor Gold had also shipped cases of red wine to us. He had been storing wine in his cellar for years. With Prohibition looming, I suppose he wanted to make sure Loretta and I could properly entertain guests. Besides, he and Mary no longer drank much.

As we sat on the brown Chesterfield sofa, with its high arms and deep-buttoned leather upholstery, I rested my feet on the cherry wood coffee table. Loretta had lit four candles, setting a dark and romantic tone.

“A gentleman came by the house today,” she said, sipping her Sangiovese. “I wrote his name down.”

She reached for a slip of paper on the coffee table. “Here it is. His name is Dale Meeks. He said he was visiting on behalf of the Black Star Line. He asked me several questions.”

“Like?”

“He wanted a few reference telephone numbers for some of the jobs you listed on your résumé. He also asked if I knew about any volunteer work you may have done for the government.”

“That's odd. What did you say? Did he actually have you look at my résumé?”

“No. Before he could even pull it out I made it clear that I hadn't a clue about any telephone numbers or job details. I told him to come back when you were home.”

“I don't know what made him think you could answer such questions,” I said.

“Did you list the Washington training session you attended on your résumé?”

“Not for this particular job,” I said. “Did you happen to mention it to him?”

“I already told you I said nothing, Love. But maybe someone from the Black Star Line was also at the training session. And because you didn't list it, they simply wanted to double check.”

She was sounding a little tipsy from the wine and trying to connect some nonexistent dots.

“You think so, dear?” she asked, resting her head on my chest.

“No. Pretty sure no one from there was in attendance. Whatever the case, it's probably best to avoid even mentioning the word
government
around these people.”

“Why?”

“Because . . . being a new business . . . perhaps the Black Star Line folks are a little distrusting of the government. Maybe they're worried about them prying into their affairs.”

“They shouldn't be so worried if their
affairs
are in order,” she said, sipping.

“True. But still, it's probably best we keep my training session between the two of us for the time being.”

“Okay,” she said, “but just so we're clear, I didn't mention the training session because I didn't know if you were okay with them believing you had any job interests outside of Harlem. I figured you wanted them to think that the
Yarmouth
job was the only one you were focused on. You want this job, right? Did I do the right thing, Love?”

“Of course. You always do.”

If she had so much as stuttered when Mr. Meeks asked about government work, I was certain Garvey would reject my application. Eason had probably ordered the visit, knowing I'd be with him all day. It was clever of Meeks to visit my wife while I wasn't home and use the arbitrary “government volunteer” phrase to see if she'd slip up.

I experienced an overwhelming urge to tell her about my being an agent. I briefly entertained the thought that she would be able to keep the secret. She had always shown an ability to keep our business private. But then the truth hit me. If I told her, she would demand that I get out, and there was no doubt about it. She would never, in a million years, accept being part of some double life.

The song ended and Loretta walked over to change the record—obviously enjoying Marion Harris, because she put on her other hit song, “After You've Gone,” which was a much slower and more intimate tune. Many people thought that Marion Harris was colored when they heard her bluesy voice, but she was a white woman.

“Why can't we have a telephone installed?” Loretta asked, returning to the couch. “I'm not comfortable having strange people visit me here at the house.”

“I don't want a telephone because folks from every consulting job I take will be calling the house around the clock. This way they can only reach me during the day at the office.”

“But what about me? What if I want to call family or friends?”

“Sweetheart, it's just better this way. Trust me. You can always use the telephone down the street. Most folks don't have a telephone in their house anyway. They can't afford it.”

“Will you dance with me?” she asked in a sexy voice, standing and pulling me up, which I allowed.

“Oh—you're feeling that music—and the wine. I'd love to.”

We held each other and danced slowly, falling deeper in rhythm with every step.

“How much do you love me?” I asked.

“More than you can imagine.”

“I can imagine a lot.”

“Then beyond the universe,” she said. “It can't be quantified.”

* * *

I rose early as usual and did my Kodokan before heading to the office. My phone conversation with Agent Speed was brief. He wanted to follow up on the list of names Agent Jones, code name 800, had given him.

“800 is just following you around until you pop your cherry, Q,” he said.

“Well I don't like being followed,” I replied. “And it's not Q, it's Q3Z.”

“Look, you'll be Q to me. Thanks for the list.”

After he hung up, I read several newspapers, scouring for info. I was interrupted around noon when Eason phoned and said he wanted to stop by and see me before he left for Chicago. “I've got someone else I want you to meet,” he said.

“Come on by,” I replied. “I'll be here 'til five.”

A few hours later Eason and his friend Reverend Adam Clayton Powell, Sr. were sitting in my office.

“Reverend Powell's the man who's gonna keep your little firm in business,” said Eason. “'Cause no matter how much Brother Garvey agrees to pay you, it won't be enough.”

“I can use all the business I can get,” I said.

“Brother Powell is raising money to build the new Abyssinian Baptist Church. It'll be the biggest church in New York.”

“Is that right?”

“Indeed,” said Powell. “We've actually already purchased the land. But seeing the project through will require some expertise in several areas. Right now I'm dealing with the city, and I have to obtain certain building permits before we can even break ground. Now, I understand you're an engineer, but what services does your office provide?”

“Well, engineering is such a wide field. My strengths are in the areas of electrical, mechanical, and structural engineering. But I mainly assess and advise.”

“Assess and advise?”

“Yes. For instance, I do land assessments, and it sounds like that's what you need right now. I can also consult with the architect during the planning phase and then work in cooperation with the construction manager throughout the building phase. I'll make sure the building is strong enough and stable enough to resist structural loads like gravity, wind, snow, rain, earthquakes, earth pressure, and temperature. Wait. I'm getting ahead of myself. Before we begin building, we'll have to excavate the land. Do a lot of digging. And I can operate a steam shovel with the best of 'em, Reverend Powell.”

“Those big ol' machines that move tons of earth?”

“Mm-hmm. Learned to operate 'em during college.”

“Ain't but a handful of Negroes in America with them kinda technical skills,” said Eason. “Praise God for that education.”

Sitting in my chair, I felt proud for a second, almost sticking my chest out before continuing. “What is the city's main concern, Reverend Powell?”

“We've been told we can't build but so high and that the ground in certain areas is unstable. The land needs to be surveyed. I need someone who can assist a team in getting it ready for the city to give us the go-ahead. Matter of fact, I just need a right-hand man who understands measurements, zoning, land cultivation, and numbers.”

“Amen,” said Eason. “You, Brother Powell, are a man of the Word, not numbers. Ain't that right?”

“Right. And most of all, I would like to have my go-to man be colored. So far, all of the individuals involved are white folks, from the city licensing officials to the real estate agents and so on.”

Looking at Powell, I could have sworn he was white himself. But he wasn't. He was colored, and looked to be in his fifties. His dark-rimmed eyeglasses, buttoned-up almond-colored suit, and wavy hair gave him the look of an aristocrat. His burgundy waistcoat was more distinguished-looking, and perhaps of a thicker cloth, than the vests the average Harlem man was sporting—more British perhaps. And though I wanted it for myself, it was certainly more appropriate for a man his age.

“Brother Powell gonna need someone involved he can trust,” said Eason. “Lotta money being invested. And though God is watching over him and his congregation, the devil also has a vested interest.”

“Amen,” said Powell. “The congregation has given generously with their tithing, and I don't want to let them down. They're willing to be patient as long as the end result is a marvelous place of worship. I've told them that this is at least a three-year project. I've had visions of building a church since my Yale Divinity School days.”

Reverend Powell was beaming with pride. He crossed his legs and I noticed one of his freshly polished patent-leather shoes. The man was refined, both in dress and demeanor.

“I've always marveled at beautiful architecture,” he added. “My intention is to have the church built in a new Gothic and Tudor style. The architect I'm hoping to hire shares my taste. He's the renowned Charles Bolton, but he doesn't come cheap. If all goes well I want stained glass windows and Italian marble furnishings. It will be a grand undertaking.”

“Where will it be?” I asked.

“On West 138th. Right next to Liberty Hall.”

“Look, Brother Temple,” said Eason, “splitting your time between the Black Star Line and the Abyssinian will be good for your health. Besides, even I can only handle small doses of Brother Garvey at a time.”

“Hold on now,” said Powell. “I'd like to see what the young man knows before we get too far ahead of ourselves.”

“I'll offer my services on a trial basis for the next month,” I said. “We'll see where it goes from there. How does that sound?”

“You are a God-fearing man, correct?” asked Powell.

“Both me and my wife.”

Eason jumped in. “I done told you 'bout his wife, Brother Powell. She from Philadelphia—the late Reverend Cunningham's daughter.”

“That's right. You did tell me that. Very well then, Sidney. I'm meeting with a representative from the Buildings Department on Friday. His name is Henry Burns. He can better explain the obstacles that are standing in our way. And it'll give you a chance to see the property. Can you be there?”

“Count on it.”

“Good. Maybe once you and Burns get better acquainted, I won't have to deal with him anymore. That will be your job.”

“That's what my business is here for.”

“I need to spend more time preparing my sermons anyway.”

“What is the story behind the church's name?” I asked.

“Oh, it's a story we're proud of. Back in 1808 some Ethiopian sea merchants had moved here and were attending the First Baptist Church in Manhattan. They were asked to sit in a different section from the whites. But they refused to. They weren't accustomed to segregation. They left and started their own church where folks were free to worship openly. Abyssinia is simply another word for Ethiopia.”