The Strivers' Row Spy (19 page)

“You won't believe this,” I said with a pressing tone.

“What?” Knox frowned.

“This could bring Garvey down tonight. Come with me. Now!”

As we made our way back toward the dining room, I glanced over at Claude and James who were fully engaged with Peavine. “What's the news?” Knox asked, following me through the kitchen toward the back door.

“I'll tell you outside,” I said. “This is too sensitive.”

Outside, we approached the rear end of my vehicle and stopped. I looked up and down the dark, quiet alleyway. There wasn't a soul in sight.

“You know which major law Garvey has finally broken?” I asked.

“Of course not. Tell me.”

“Neither do I, you stupid sonofabitch! That's why I'm still undercover and putting my life on the line every single day. Unlike you.”

“What the fuck are you—”

“Shut your damn mouth!” I said, pointing my finger into his chest. “You're putting my entire mission in jeopardy because you're playing damn games. And if Hoover indeed doesn't know about this little solo act, you probably don't want me telling him. I know he wouldn't approve of this. He wants Garvey far too bad and I'm his ticket, not your country ass.”

“Look, nigger,” he said, slapping my finger away, “I'll do what the—”

Before he could finish I slapped him across his face. He stumbled but fisted up and swung real big, missing by a foot, as I ducked. I grabbed him by the knot of his tie and pulled him into three heavy, right slugs, the last of which put him on the ground.

“Get your ass outta Harlem!” I said, as he squirmed around.

He spit some blood. I knew he was hurt.

“Those people in there,” I said, pointing to my house, “are my wife's friends. Except for a few. Do you understand me? This is
her
night!”

He rolled up into a seated position and tried to right himself.

“I'm a man, just like you. And this is my house, not some playground you can just show up to whenever you'd like. Now sit there as long as you need to. And when you can manage, walk your ugly behind over to the gate and Ivan will let you out. But do not come back inside my house. If you do, so help me God I'll break every bone in your body.”

He nodded.

“The boys back in D.C. don't need to know you got your ass whipped by that nigger named Sidney tonight. That would be quite the embarrassment for you. Just go on back and tell them that all is well with Q3Z.”

I stood there a bit longer, then made my way back inside, rejoining James and Claude, who were now conversing with Loretta, Ginger, and Max Eastman. The music seemed a bit louder—the house a bit fuller.

“The world will change when the artists take over,” said Ginger, who was obviously a bit tipsy at this point.

“I agree,” said Mr. Eastman.

Ginger was stunning in her blue dress, pearl earrings, and pearl necklace. Her hair was in a bun and she was also wearing a clear beaded necklace around the top of her forehead with a blue gemstone hanging from the middle of it—practically reaching the middle of her eyes.

“It's nice to finally meet you, Mr. Eastman,” I interjected. “Sidney.”

“Call me Max.” We shook. “The pleasure's mine, Sidney.”

“Wonderful,” said Ginger. “Now we've all met. So! All of you! Come! Let me show you the birthday girl's contribution to changing this crazy world we speak of.
Ce monde de fous
!”

We all followed her from the dining room to the studio down the hall.

“Ta-dah!” said Ginger, walking through the doorway and pointing at the pieces along the floor as we all filed into the studio. “Only peace can come from taking in such beauty.”

“Indeed,” said Eastman. “This is the beautiful thing about art. A painting cares not about the color of the hands which grip the brush that paints it.”

“
Oui
,” said Ginger. “It cares not about the color of the man who stands before it, staring with appreciation.”

Ginger and Eastman stood arm in arm as if they'd been a couple for years. In fact, one would have found it hard to believe they'd just met, considering the difficulty they were having keeping their hands off one another. Their unfettered behavior made me laugh on the inside.

“Each piece tells a different story,” added Claude. “I see abstracts and realism. Many painters choose one form and stick with it. You're truly talented, Mrs. Temple.”

“Thank you,” said Loretta, beaming with pride as I held her hand. “If only my paintings were as rich as your poetry. Sidney has told me all about you, Claude.”

“Don't go tellin' no lies 'bout me, Sidney. I'm just a simple poet.”

“Simple you are not,” said Max, gulping down the rest of his wine. “You're one of the greatest!”

Max's charm and confidence were serving him well in the case of Ginger. She released his arm, walked over, and picked up one of the paintings.

“This is my favorite.
Magnifique
!”

It was a painting of a nude man and woman interlocked like a pretzel. Their skin was olive-colored and the backdrop powder blue.

“Why your favorite?” asked Claude.

“Because it says no inhibition,” said Ginger. “It says two in love is one. It says you can have all of me because I surrender.
Je me rends
!”

Ginger smiled and looked directly at the blushing Mr. Eastman whose face was growing more pinkish by the second. Claude discreetly patted his boss on the back, and the two raised their eyebrows at each other. Without speaking it, Claude seemed to be jokingly saying,
Aren't you lucky, boss!

Eastman took the painting, studied it, and then passed it along to Claude. Claude handed it to Reverend Eason who had a puzzled look on his face.

“Lord have mercy!” he said.

The entire room laughed as James turned the painting from side to side, looking at the bodies from different angles.

“You like it, James?” asked Loretta.

“Boy, I mean to tell ya! Hope you done asked for your forgiveness, girl.”

There was more laughter as James handed it back to Ginger.

“There is no sin,” she said, “in admiring the beauty of the naked body, Reverend. An artist must be free of the hindrances that plague greater society.”

“I ain't mad at ya!” he responded in a high-pitched voice—raising his hands to suggest his innocence.

“Good, Reverend.
Bonne
. I am happy.
Je suis heureux
.”

“Call me James, sister. And in the case of Sister Loretta's painting, God never created anything more beautiful.”

Loretta walked over and gave him a hug. “You're far too kind, James. I know it's not your taste.”

James took out a handkerchief and began dabbing the moisture on his forehead, raising his eyebrows. He was still slightly taken aback by the painting but was also trying to be a bit funny.

“I just wanted you all to see the beautiful work the birthday girl is creating,” said Ginger, walking over and returning the painting.

“Well, Mrs. Temple,” said Max, “you certainly have enough work on display here to do a showing. When and if you decide to do so, maybe we could give you some coverage. Readers of the
Liberator
would certainly be interested in learning more about you. We can send Claude here to do a write-up. What ya say, Claude?”

“I'd love to. I'd actually like us to start covering some of the Negro theater and jazz also. There seems to be something rooting up here in Harlem—a colored renaissance of art and music, you might say. I'd like the
Liberator
to be on the forefront of featuring burgeoning artists such as yourself, Loretta.”

“I'd be more than honored. Whenever Ginger thinks I'm ready for a public showing. She's the renowned one.”

“You're ready now,” said Ginger. “
Maintenant
! We will put it together. But today it's time for the birthday girl to dance. It's time for all of us to dance.”

Ginger took Eastman by the hand and led him out of the room. I took Loretta by the hand and followed. Making our way into the crowded living room, Ginger took charge, walking over to the Columbia Grafonola, ignoring Peavine, and turning the music down.

“Can I have everyone's attention,” she said, tapping a wineglass with a spoon repeatedly. “We are all gathered here tonight to celebrate the birthday of my dear friend Loretta.
Mon bon ami
! And what a beautiful gathering we have here. You have all come to know Loretta over the past year in your own way, just as I have. So we all know what a warm, considerate, and passionate woman she is. And we're all delighted to be in your new, beautiful home, Loretta and Sidney. The fun is just beginning. But enough of my bad English. Please join me in song before we continue the festivities.”

“
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU
. . .” she began to sing. “EVERYONE!” she shouted as we all joined in, raising our cups and glasses.

As the song ended, there was whistling and light cheering all around before Ginger spoke up again. “NOW LET'S DANCE!”

She turned the music up very loud as folks scurried about, some setting their drinks down on end tables, others on the living room mantelshelf. Everyone then coupled up and began dancing to “Blues My Naughty Sweetie Gives to Me” by Ted Lewis and his Jazz Band.

“Are you happy?” I asked Loretta as we shuffled our feet and twisted to the tune.

“I'm happy and in love.”

I took her hand and spun her around. Hardly a soul in the place wasn't dancing. I even saw Reverend Eason standing to the side with his coffee, bobbing his head and having a ball. Claude was dancing with a gorgeous redboned girl, Ginger with Max, and they were certainly the most flamboyant. It was a sea of white and black moving as if they hadn't a care in the world.

“Ginger certainly seems to be enjoying herself,” said Loretta, leaning in to make sure I could hear her.

“So does James,” I said.

I pulled her close to me so we could hear each other above the noise. Her arms were wrapped around my neck, mine around her waist, as we casually dipped from side to side and circled to the rhythm.

I watched Max pinch Ginger on the leg. She took him by the hand and led him through the crowd toward the stairway. They made their way to the second floor, presumably en route to one of the guestrooms.

“By the way,” said Loretta, watching them as well, “Ginger is sleeping here tonight.”

“By herself?”

“Stop it, Sid. Yes.”

“Whatever you want. It's your birthday.”

A
FTER A FEW MONTHS OF RELATIVE INACTIVITY
, D
ECEMBER BROUGHT
with it a more than usual amount of snow. Several of Garvey's entourage had been called to a meeting at UNIA headquarters where Black Star Line business was to be discussed. I was sitting at a large conference table by myself, waiting for Garvey and company.

Two Legionnaires were keeping guard at the door. One of them was Peavine, who stood at attention with great discipline—following orders much better than he had at Loretta's party. As usual, the two Legionnaires made it impossible for anyone not connected to the UNIA to enter the room.

In walked a young lady with a platter of cheese and crackers. She placed it at the head of the table where Garvey always sat. She also placed beside it his customary carafe of fresh mango juice. Whenever his mango juice arrived, I knew the meeting would start within five minutes.

I began the countdown, and just like clockwork, in walked everyone. Many removed their snow-covered overcoats and hung them on the rack next to the door before taking their seats.

Two of Garvey's accountants and one of his lawyers were present, as well as John E. Bruce, Orlando Thompson, Hubert Harrison, William Ferris, and Reverend Eason. His two top security men were also there—Marcellus Strong and William Grant— one sitting to his right, the other his left. Both were built like prizefighters—tall and husky.

“I called this meeting,” said Garvey, pouring his glass of mango juice, “to discuss the idea of purchasing a ship that will be used as a luxury cruiser for our people. No more of these broken down war boats. We must secure a vessel that will allow our people to travel abroad in style. The
Kanawha
is a decent yacht, but we need something much more grand.”

He took a drink of his juice and savored it. He certainly didn't share it with anyone—ever. The juice was his and his alone. So were the cheese and crackers, but he always waited for the meetings to end before eating them.

“It may take more time than I'd like,” he said, sipping again, “before our people can begin moving to Africa permanently. In the meantime, we shall provide them with a cruiser that will at least let them visit the motherland. Speaking of visiting the motherland, as you all know, Elie Garcia is in Liberia now and sends promising news about the land development negotiations taking place with President C. B. D. King.”

I couldn't help but wonder where “our” people were going to get the money to take such lavish trips abroad. Amidst the poverty that existed throughout colored America, it seemed foolish to be conjuring up such schemes.

“This is good news,” said the tall, angular John E. Bruce. “Folks are ready for it. They need it—to be able to travel without being told to sit in this section or that.”

Bruce, in his sixties, was a veteran journalist who'd helped Garvey gain footing in Harlem. He acted as one of his main advisors and was famous for having once written bold words about the white man. “If they burn your house, burn theirs,” he'd penned. “If they kill your wives and children, kill theirs.” Garvey leaned heavily on Bruce for advice.

“Shall we mention this search for a luxury steamer in the
Negro World
?” asked Hubert.

“It may be a bit premature for that,” said William.

“Correct,” added Garvey. “It's premature. But listen, Hubert. I must commend you and William in front of everyone here for the job you're both doing with the paper. You're the best editors in New York.”

“It's mostly Hubert, sir,” said William.

“Nonsense,” said Hubert. “It's you.”

“Back to the business at hand,” quipped Garvey. “I've got my eye on several boats, but want to make sure they are properly appraised before we make a bid on one. It's in the best interest of Black Star Line stockholders that we broker a fair deal. And as you are all aware, I will be taking an extensive trip to the Caribbean in February to raise money. That leaves you, Orlando, two months to try and negotiate a purchase before I depart.”

“Yes, sir,” said the bookish-looking Orlando. “In fact, I wanted to know if you think it may be in our best interest to hire an outside brokerage firm.”

“That may not be a bad idea,” said Garvey. “But who?”

“Now hear me out here, Marcus. Just hear me out. There's a broker . . . a Mr. Anton Silverstone . . . who comes highly recommended. Word on the street is he's known for being fair to colored folk.”

“What is this you speak of, Orlando?”

“Well . . . now . . . he's a white man. A Jew.”

Garvey placed both hands on the edge of the table, scooted his chair back, and stood. He began slowly pacing. Orlando nervously tapped his pencil while the accountants pretended to shuffle some papers.

I stared straight ahead at the door near Peavine, who seemed quite pleased with his special post, one likely assigned to him because of the high praise James and I had given him during discussions with Garvey.

It seemed to take forever but Garvey finally rounded the table and took his seat again. But before another word was spoken, Amy Jacques walked in and approached Garvey. She whispered something in his ear. After about twenty seconds, she finished and exited.

Garvey sat there stewing over whatever news had just been delivered. So far this had been a meeting filled with nothing but tension. Such was life around Garvey. Distractions always got in the way of business—hence the many UNIA undertakings left undone.

Garvey pointed at Peavine and the other Legionnaire.

“You two!” he yelled. “Leave!”

Peavine quickly exited and the other guard followed.

“Well,” said Garvey. “It seems our snitch has finally been pegged—at least one of them. Yes . . . there is a snitch among us.”

The room was painfully silent. Those five words, “at least one of them,” had hit me like a truck. Ever since I'd heard that an alleged informant had been feeding Kilroe's office information about Garvey, I'd assumed I was safe. But now my heart raced.

“There's nothing worse than a double-crossing, no good, evildoing snitch,” said Garvey. “Their fate be damned!”

Suddenly, all of the lights went out and we were in the dark. It was a reminder of the electrical work I'd yet to do. Perhaps I should have prioritized better.

After about ten seconds the lights returned. Garvey scanned the room, then took a deep breath before speaking.

“Of course, when I say there's a snitch among us, I mean among us in the broader sense—not among us here at this table. All of you are my closest confidants.”

A huge relief came over me, but I just sat and watched as Garvey sat there thinking. I'd never seen him so enraged.

“Strong,” he said, “the snitch is having lunch as we speak with someone from Kilroe's office. They're at a place called Webster's in Manhattan. Take care of this. You and Grant are excused.”

“We'll need someone to drive,” said Strong. “Gerald and Elmore, along with several Legionnaires, took all the Fords to retrieve Prince Mutato and his entourage at the Waldorf. They'll be back shortly.”

“We don't have time,” said Grant.

“Then we'll have to find a guard with an available vehicle,” said Strong. “Let's go.”

“We don't have time for that,” said Garvey. “And do you think I want some random Legionnaire to witness your handling of this? One of them might also be a snitch. This is in-house business. You must get to this Webster's immediately. Reverend Eason can drive you.”

“In what?” asked Eason. “I have no transportation. Can you drive, Sidney?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know where Webster's is, Sidney?” asked Strong.

“No.”

“I do,” said Eason.

“Very well,” said Garvey. “You direct Sidney where to drive, Reverend. The four of you go. Now! Before he leaves.”

We stood, grabbed our overcoats, and exited. I was relieved to be out of the room, even though I had no idea exactly what we were being tasked to do.

With snow covering the ground, each step I took en route to my car left a three-inch-deep footprint in its wake. I looked ahead to my right and noticed the prints that Eason and company had left in front of me.

After about twenty steps I looked back at the various footprints behind us. It was as if they were following me. All of the footprints were a metaphor for what my life had become—following and being followed.

The prints reminded me of the many young, loyal teenage men Garvey had tailing various members of the UNIA. These ambitious youngsters were willing to do anything to curry favor with him. At least one had done just that by following this so-called snitch to Webster's Restaurant.

The falling snow was difficult to drive in, and it showed no signs of relenting. We made our way slowly down Park Avenue. No one said a word. Strong and Grant sat in the backseat and Eason was up front with me pointing the way.

I took a left on East Fifty-second Street and found a parking space across the way from Webster's. We waited. I was eager to see the snitch come walking out. Who was he?

“Turn the engine off,” said Strong. “When he comes out, I'll get out. You three just wait here.”

We waited about twenty minutes before we saw two men exit—one white, one colored.

“It's Pope,” said Strong. “I knew that nigga was no good.”

“Quick,” said Grant. “He's 'bout to get in his car.”

Strong got out, walked across the street, and approached the two men from behind. The three engaged in conversation for a bit before Strong grabbed the white man's briefcase, opened it, and began rummaging through the papers inside. He read a few of the documents, then put them back inside, closing the briefcase and handing it to Pope.

He shoved the white man in the chest, the force knocking him to the ground. He just sat there, afraid to get up. Strong then grabbed Pope by the collar, led him toward us, opened the door, and shoved him in the backseat.

“Drive,” said Strong, snatching the briefcase from Pope and handing it up front to James.

I found my way back to Park Avenue and drove north until we got to 135th Street.

“Park near the pier,” said Strong.

I thought about what was to come. Eason hadn't said a word. I knew that Strong and Grant were able to sense any disloyalty and would easily sniff me out if I showed the slightest bit of uneasiness. Their commitment to Garvey was stronger than anyone else's within the UNIA.

“This is good,” said Strong as I peeked at him in the mirror. “Stop.”

“Good ol' Pope,” said Grant, shaking his head and putting on some thick black gloves as I parked. “How many leases did you help Marcus secure? He credited you for helping him get that restaurant. He probably figured you knew more about real estate than just about anybody in Harlem.”

“I'm gonna ask you one time,” said Strong, also putting on his black gloves. “Who do you work for?”

“I've been acting independently,” said Pope, sweating through his shirt.

Strong revved back and landed a heavy punch across Pope's face, likely breaking his jaw. He then grabbed him by the arm and began pulling him out of the car.

“Ya'll come with me,” said Strong to the three of us.

We stepped into the blizzard, walked to the front of the car, and watched Strong deliver several blows to Pope's ribs and face. He fell to his knees and gasped for air.

“Please!” said Pope, extending his arm up to defend himself.

“You gotta choice,” said Grant, joining in. “You either tell us . . . or you will die today.”

Blood was pouring out of Pope's mouth onto the snow.

“I'm independent,” he said again.

Grant kicked him in the face, thrusting him back. It was a violent kick that could have easily killed him. He now lay flat on his back.

“Who?” yelled Strong.

It took every ounce of will not to intervene, but I decided to wait a bit longer. I knew this could just as well have been me bleeding on the ground and figured it was about at this point where I'd confess if it were.

“M . . . I . . . D,” whispered Pope.

“What's that?” asked Grant, getting down on one knee and placing his ear near Pope's mouth.

“Military Intelligence Division,” whispered Pope as his eyes rolled up into his head.

“And you been feedin' information to that son of a bitch Kilroe, huh?” asked Strong.

“I ain't never met Kilroe,” whispered Pope. “I just dealt with someone in his office. That man you saw me with.”

“So,” said Grant, “you the one who told Marcus's sorry bookkeeper to turn them files over to Kilroe? What was that no good nigga's name again?”

Pope just lay there.

“Huh?” shouted Grant, kicking him in the ribs.

“Uriah!” cried Pope.

“That's right,” said Grant. “It was Uriah the one turned them books over to Kilroe. Claimed Marcus was cheatin' 'em out they money. What'd you offer Uriah to turn them books over—a guarantee that he wouldn't go down with Marcus? Well, it's you who's goin' down.”

Strong bent over and grabbed Pope by the front of his shirt with both hands—lifting him to his feet—holding him up, his useless legs dangling. He was one more punch away from Heaven or Hell.

“Never liked you,” said Strong. “If I ever see your face in Harlem again . . . better yet . . . in all of New York, you're a dead man. Dead! You hear me?”

Pope could barely muster up the energy to nod his head yes, but did.