The Strivers' Row Spy (15 page)

The police department had gotten used to such inconveniences. They'd grown tired of the UNIA leader and his outrageous processions that covered the streets whenever he made a simple trip to a department store or museum. Anytime Garvey went for so much as a walk to a fruit stand, he was sandwiched between an army of men. Anyone attempting to take a shot at him, as Tyler had, would at best only be able to hit one of his officers.

On top of this, ever since the shooting, UNIA headquarters had been surrounded with African Legionnaires. It would have been difficult for the president of the United States himself to get into the building. Garvey was easily the most protected Negro in America—from sunup to sundown.

“I wish you had seen the parade,” shouted Eason. “I can't imagine there will ever be a more spectacular scene. Thousands lined the streets—many of them white—just to take a look at the spectacle. White folks ain't never seen that many Negroes in one place. We done scared 'em to death! I bet it's the biggest parade in New York history. Had to be over four hundred automobiles took part, and I ain't lyin' to ya, brother.”

“Where was Garvey's automobile positioned?”

“Near the front, just behind several policemen and their horses. But listen. It was our marching band, the choir, and uniformed Legionnaires that made it special—made it a truly colorful event. There was such harmony, and everyone marched with amazing unity. And the Black Cross nurses, dressed in their white robes, looked beautiful. I'm tellin' ya! You needed to see it, Sidney.”

“I caught a glimpse of it,” I yelled.

“What?” he screamed.

“I said I caught a glimpse of it—the very end of it.”

“Well, it was true history. And there were so many banners and flags representing UNIA members from different states and countries. If it's true that there are four hundred million Negroes in the world, it felt like every last one was there today lining the streets. All in all it was as if royalty were parading through New York. But what we're seeing right here is just as spectacular. Ain't no doubt. This here rally is a monster.”

Again we surveyed the crowd of about twenty-five thousand. The energy in the building was more ferocious than anything I'd ever witnessed. It was at that very moment that I truly recognized the power of Marcus Garvey.

“Time for me to take the stage,” shouted Eason.

I remained standing near the tunnel entryway as he joined the other UNIA dignitaries—many of them from other parts of the world. There had to be a few hundred of them—some dressed in regular suits, others in traditional African and Caribbean apparel.

All of them took their seats on the huge stage that had been built for the special event. It was a high platform surrounded by uniformed African Legionnaires. I knew that Madison Square Garden wasn't built to hold that many people. Not only were all of the stadium seats occupied, thousands sat in chairs on the massive stadium floor. Many others stood in any available spot they could find. Garvey's organizing committee had spent months preparing for the parade and rally, and boy had they delivered.

I found myself studying certain individuals in the crowd. One man seated directly in front of the stage about twenty rows back kept reaching into his coat pocket. I walked toward the side of the stage to get a better look. Again, the man reached into his pocket.

I nudged one of the Legionnaires and pointed at the shifty man. Two Legionnaires began to make their way toward the twentieth row. But the man removed his hand and simply pulled out a five-inch wooden stick with some fabric wrapped around it. He unrolled it and revealed a tiny red, black, and green flag. Those were the official UNIA colors, and the man had made the flag himself. Still, the Legionnaires took his jacket, searched it, but found nothing. These kinds of false alarms had become the norm for those of us surrounding Garvey. But it was better to be safe than sorry.

T
HE STAGE WAS NOW COMPLETELY FULL AND A BAND BEGAN TO PLAY
. I stared at Garvey in his academic cap and gown of purple, green, and gold. I figured he wore such a gown because of the insecurity he felt when comparing himself to the more academically accomplished Dr. Du Bois.

I wondered why a man without any degree to speak of would have the audacity to dress as such. I continued staring at him, wondering how insane he actually was and what wild exhibitions of his I'd have to endure in the future. His act was far too ostentatious for my taste.

The band continued and my mind began to wander. I recalled sitting in a meeting that past June that Hoover had called—the only one I'd been summoned to attend that year. Agent James Wormley Jones was also ordered to be at the New York gathering. There I learned that he'd been training Garvey's African Legion soldiers in Newport News, Virginia.

Also present at the meeting had been my old training buddy Bobby Ellington along with Taylor Knox, the racist agent from training. He was sitting between Agent Speed and Paul Mann, who gave reports on Du Bois and James Weldon Johnson. We were told that Agent Mann was now exclusively assigned to Du Bois and Johnson. Of course, through my talks with Daley, I knew the facts about Du Bois. Mann only knew what lies Du Bois had fed him. But that didn't stop him from spouting platitudes to Hoover at the meeting, the same ones he'd already told me about at Snappy's. The two of us had met several more times over the year, but now he had the boss's ear.

“Mr. Hoover, Du Bois is likely more dangerous than any Negro in America,” said Mann. “He's as familiar with the intricacies of our government as any man I've ever met. You'd think he'd worked within the president's cabinet. Given enough time, he's more than capable of building his NAACP into the most powerful communist organization in the world.”

“I'm mainly concerned about his ability to raise money via the Bolsheviks,” said Hoover, still not looking a day older than twenty-one. “Follow the money, Agent Mann.”

“Of the two, Garvey's attracting a more dangerous element,” said Speed. “According to Jones's reports, it's only a matter of time before blood is shed on a grand scale.”

“He's broken no laws,” I said.

“Yet,” Speed countered.

“They're one and the same—Garvey and Du Bois,” said Hoover. “One's more calculating and diplomatic; the other more arrogant and grandstanding. But they're both on the same team. They're both communists trying to build organizations powerful enough to overthrow the government. God help us if they join forces. And the Bolsheviks have enough money to bankroll them for a century.”

“Garvey's no fool,” said Jones, “but some of his Legionnaires are foolishly searching for a fight—a physical one—and Garvey will ultimately have to be held accountable for their actions.”

“Again, as we sit here today, he has broken no laws,” I said. “I'll be the first to report it when he does. That's what I think I've been assigned to do.”

I was knowingly speaking boldly—telling them what I really thought—because I knew they needed me. I'd gotten so close to Garvey, and the odds of any future agent doing so were bad.

“As long as you're not covering anything up, Temple,” said Speed, standing to confront me—pointing his finger.

“How dare you question me!” I replied, also standing.

“There's shit all around him,” said Speed. “All you have to do is help him step in it.”

“Easy, you two,” Ellington interjected, rising and positioning himself between us.

“We want him sitting in a courtroom with shit on his shoes,” said Speed. “Shit we can use to send his ass to jail. There's no way in hell he's building that empire on the up-and-up.”

“I'll do my job; you do yours,” I said. “It's not my fault Garvey would never let the likes of you within a mile of him.”

Speed just stood there huffing and puffing, his bald head getting redder by the second, the veins on his temples pulsating. I stared directly at him.

Taylor Knox, with his racist behind, hadn't said a word, but he patted Speed on the shoulder as if congratulating him for scolding me. I think he was simply Speed's assistant at this point and Ellington was Hoover's.

“Are his sales documents in order, Agent Temple?” asked Hoover. “Those proving his ownership of the ship?”

“I have never been able to gain access to those documents,” I answered, calmly sitting again, regaining my composure. “But he's been negotiating the sale of two more ships. One is a steam-paddle ship called the SS
Shadyside
, and the other is a yacht—the SS
Kanawha.
He may even officially own them at this point.”

” I've recently been added to Garvey's publicity committee,” said Jones. “The odds are long, but it may afford me an opportunity to look at the books—at least a better opportunity than Temple.”

“Jones might be right,” I added, “but I don't think those books are ever leaving Garvey's office.”

“Where does he keep them?” Hoover asked.

“He keeps them locked in his office. I've purchased equipment for the
Yarmouth
before and had to turn all receipts in to his secretary, Miss Jacques. She logs everything in a large book then places the receipts in separate envelopes. I saw where she stored all of the items—in a padlocked file cabinet behind his desk.”

“Question,” said Speed. “Where does she log the thousands of dollars being given to Garvey by all of those foolish followers of his? Huh, Temple?”

“In a separate book.”

“What would it take for you to gain access?” asked Hoover.

“It'd be next to impossible. But he's asked me to upgrade the entire electrical system throughout UNIA headquarters soon. I'll have access at that point, but he'll have to be out of the office and have no one manning the door. What are the odds?”

“Make it work, Temple,” said Hoover, “even if it's months from now.”

“I'll do my best, but he has two men in particular that split time overseeing security detail. If one is at Garvey's side while he's out and about, the other is heading up security at the offices.”

“Tell me about them,” Hoover ordered.

“The first is William Grant who just might be the meanest son of a bitch I've ever met. The other is Marcellus Strong. Both are more than willing to give their lives for Garvey and are highly trained strongmen. I've seen Grant beat one man to within an inch of his life. He's a war veteran from the West Indies who heads up the Tiger Division of Garvey's African Legion. He trains his Legionnaires military style.”

“Yeah, we've had words about my training tactics on more than one occasion,” added Jones. “He's a monster of a man. I'll vouch for that.”

“Again,” said Hoover, “make it work. You've been trained to handle such men, Temple. I know it may take some time, but we need to see those sales documents.”

“I can also confirm what Temple is saying about the
Shadyside
and
Kanawha
,” said Jones. “From what I've heard, he's raised thousands by recently mailing out adverts, boasting about these specific boats—getting folks to invest in them.”

“The question is,” said Hoover, “did he officially own the ships when he began soliciting funds for them? Does he even own them as we sit here today? What we need is to compare these adverts with the official bills of sale for these two ships.”

“I'm not sure the adverts had dates on them,” I said.

“Well if they did, and that date precedes the date of the official sale, Mr. Garvey has a major problem. We must get access to those documents.”

“Garvey is sloppy,” said Speed. “We knew that before you two came on board. It's just a matter of time before his ambition forces him to slip up. And when he does, don't try to catch him.”

“Why should we believe Garvey will continue to trust you, Agent Temple?” asked Hoover.

“Because the first successful voyage of the
Yarmouth
was a feather in my cap. He credited my mechanical work for its safe return. And that first voyage was vital in Garvey's eyes.”

“Why?”

“He wanted his followers to actually see something tangible—something grand—to make them believe in him like never before. He wanted to make the first launch a big to-do. And it worked. There were thousands of folks gathered at the pier, cheering and crying when they saw the
Yarmouth
for the first time. As Garvey stood there with them and watched the boat sail off into the distance, the cheering and crying turned to silence and almost worship. The crowd saw Garvey as the man who was going to take them from hell to heaven. I was standing there. His power was real.”

“But the second voyage was a disaster,” said Speed. “According to your own report, Temple, Garvey had a cargo full of whiskey aboard when it began to capsize a hundred miles from New York. You reported that he had to call the coast guard to help him save it from sinking. And this was in the middle of Prohibition laws going into effect. He didn't blame you for that mess?”

“No. He blamed Captain Cockburn, who ignored my advice and refused my consultation. The whiskey trip was to be the
Yarmouth's
second official voyage. I had adamantly advised against it from the beginning, telling Garvey the ship was in terrible condition. And at first, Cockburn agreed with me. But I think he cut a side deal with the distillery and suddenly changed his mind, telling Garvey the ship's condition had miraculously been improved. Again, I told Garvey not to ship out. But he did. And when the voyage failed, Garvey knew I was one of the only advisors he could trust. My good standing was sealed. Garvey had me attend to the ship afterward and a third voyage was a success. The ship has since returned from the Caribbean. In fact, Cockburn has been fired and a new man, Hugh Mulzac, is now the first officer of the
Yarmouth
.”

“What was Garvey doing with all that whiskey anyway?” asked Speed. “Tell Mr. Hoover what you told me on the phone.”

“Trying to get it out of the country before the Prohibition laws went into effect,” I said. “He'd made a deal with a distillery to ship it to Havana for them.”

“He seems to be involving himself in more business than he can ultimately handle,” said Hoover. “He's getting in over his head, and that's a good thing for us. Stay on top of it. Thanks to the telephone numbers Agent Jones has been able to wire to us, we now have both his office and home phones tapped.”

“That won't bear any fruit,” I said. “Garvey never discusses business over the telephone. Ever! He always assumes the authorities are listening.”

“Well then,” Hoover replied, “that makes it doubly important that you gain access. Now, Agent Mann, Du Bois is clearly more involved in international affairs than you can handle alone, with his attending these Pan-African conferences in Europe and all. We want you to stay put, but you'll soon have company. We intend to place another agent within his NAACP as soon as possible, perhaps one with some foreign relations experience. We need to know what's being discussed at these conferences—what his detailed plans are and perhaps the names of those helping to fund him.”

“Any names of potential Du Bois funders we can gather will serve us well,” said Speed. “If those Reds get wind that the United States government is aware of them funding a communist sympathizer, we can put the fear of God in them. They may be proud foreign communists, but they don't want us to know their names. They'll close their checkbooks faster than you can say boo, and perhaps that will help dry up Du Bois's funds.”

Upon hearing those words I knew why I had to stay in the mix. Listening to Hoover and Speed talk about Garvey made it clear that they feared him for the wrong reasons. They thought he was a communist. He wasn't. They thought he wanted to overthrow the government. He didn't. He simply wanted to be solely responsible for the plight of the Negro and part of that meant crushing Du Bois. So what I'd already known was being reaffirmed—both the Bureau and Garvey were Du Bois's enemies.

I continued listening as Hoover told me that the government's interest had cooled on Max Eastman. I was to focus exclusively on Garvey, which was good news because I didn't have to shadow Claude McKay, who'd just returned from overseas and been hired by Eastman to edit his
Liberator.
Hubert Harrison, Eason, and I were spending quite a bit of time with the poet down in Greenwich Village talking politics, and I would have hated having to share any of it with Hoover.

* * *

A roar came over the crowd and my attention was drawn back to the present, back to the Madison Square Garden stage. Garvey had finally been called to the platform and was accompanied by several aides.

They walked him to the podium and, before heading back to their seats, referred to him as “Your Majesty,” something that made me sick to my stomach. He had to wait at least five minutes before the screaming crowd quieted down. That gave him time to take out a perfumed handkerchief, breathe into it for a while, and gather his thoughts. According to Eason, he'd been doing this for years.

“I have sent a telegram of greeting to Eamon de Valera,” Garvey began. “He is the president of the Irish Republic. The message said, ‘Please accept sympathy of Negroes of the world for your cause. We believe Ireland should be free even as Africa shall be free for the Negroes of the world. Keep up the fight for a free Ireland. Signed, Marcus Garvey, President-General of the Universal Negro Improvement Association.' ”