The Strivers' Row Spy (25 page)

“That's fine, Q. We know Hubert Harrison was there and it proves that Du Bois and Garvey are on the same commie team. Simple. One of Garvey's boys at a Du Bois, Johnson fundraiser involving a trip to Russia! Case closed.”

“Interesting.”

“This all means stay connected, Q . . . even through these busy, upcoming holidays. It's all getting awfully convoluted. But there's Red all around us.”

C
HRISTMAS
WAS A FAMILY AFFAIR THAT'D BEEN A LONG TIME COMING,
as Momma, Aunt Coretta, and Loretta's cousin Ruth, were in town. We decided to invite Ginger and Peavine over as well, knowing they'd enjoy the big dinner Momma was fixing. Of course, all of Ginger's kinfolk lived in Paris, and Peavine had told me his story.

I hadn't eaten a bite all day, as I wanted to savor every bite of Momma's feast. Loretta and I sat next to each other across from Peavine, Ruth, and Ginger, while Momma and Aunt Coretta sat at opposite short ends of the table.

We were surrounded by charming decorations, most of which Loretta had made by hand, and the house smelled of cinnamon, burning wood, and pine from the Christmas tree I'd purchased. The ladies had gone above and beyond in decorating it. In fact, with Momma in town and a baby on the way, the house finally felt complete. Though it was mighty cold outdoors, it didn't concern us because we had several logs on the fire and were warm and comfortable with plenty of stories to share.

“This ham is magnificent,” said Ginger. “You've outdone yourself, Mrs. Temple.”

“Thank you, honey.”

“And these biscuits better than any I done had,” said Peavine, dipping a piece of biscuit in the gravy that covered his mashed potatoes.

“Aunt Coretta the one made them biscuits,” said Momma. “Now, Loretta, you make sure you eatin' enough for you and that baby. Get you some more of them butter beans, collard greens, and sweet potatoes. Give that baby some strength!”

“Here you go, Miz Loretta,” said Peavine, serving her some collards. “You want me to get you some more of this here turkey, Miz Loretta?”

“Sure, Peavine. Just a little. I want to save room for some of that pie.”

“Love me some pie,” said Peavine, cutting into the turkey and filling Loretta's plate.

“Good,” said Aunt Coretta in her crackly, weak voice. “Got plenty of pie in there, baby.”

“How many pies ya'll cook, Aunt Coretta?” I asked.

“Well . . . we got two sweet potatoes with that butter crust you like, Sugar. And then we got one apple and a cherry.”

“Ooh wee!” said Peavine. “Cherry pie the best!”

“Especially Aunt Coretta's,” I said. “Melt in your mouth. Ain't that right, Momma?”

“Mm-hmm.”

I was glad to see Momma looking so good. Her hair was a lot grayer, but she looked and sounded strong. Her skin was still supple.

I couldn't say the same for Aunt Coretta. She was completely gray now and seemed frailer than ever. Both she and Momma had always been thin women, but now Aunt Coretta looked tired and weak. I wasn't sure how much longer she'd be with us and was surprised she'd been able to make the trip. Then again, she loved traveling on trains and probably mustered up all the strength she could for the ride to New York.

“Tell me about livin' in Vermont, Momma.”

“Well, Sugar, we been stayin' plenty busy. Before winter hit, we was spending most days workin' in the garden.” She began buttering her biscuit. “Gotta wait for springtime before we can tend to it again. Love to work in that garden. But now, three days a week, we go into town and cook for them lonely old folks at Oaks Village. Some of 'em goin' on eighty years old, and plenty of 'em done seen their husbands or wives pass on sometime back. But they love to see us comin' to cook for 'em. Aunt Coretta don't always come with me 'cause she be needin' her rest. But I like it better when she comes.”

“You like going, Aunt Coretta?” I asked.

“Oh yeah, Sugar. I be havin' to sit down mostly, but your momma don't mind.”

“No I don't,” said Momma, biting into her biscuit. “Long as she keep me company. It's one of the best jobs I ever had. Mrs. Mary got us them jobs.”

“That's good, Momma. Mary and Professor Gold are some good-hearted folks.”

“Course . . . on Sundays . . . Aunt Coretta and I go to church service.”

“But the Golds don't go to church,” I said, cutting my ham.

“Nah, Sugar. But we done found us a good church in town. Ain't that right, sister?”

“Mm-hmm,” said Aunt Coretta, taking a bite of butter beans from her shaking fork. “Full a good, God-fearin' white folks.”

Hearing that made me refocus on Garvey. Was he a God-fearin' man? I couldn't answer that. As I continued eating dinner and enjoying the conversation, my mind slowly drifted back into his world.

“I'm happy to be sharing Christmas here in New York with all of you,” said Ginger. “You are beautiful people. And let me tell you something . . .”

I saw Ginger moving her mouth, but her voice was slowly drowned out by that of Garvey's. I heard him shouting from the stage at Liberty Hall. “When my enemies attack me, they are actually attacking you!”

I continued watching Ginger as if she were pantomiming. Then I watched Peavine and Ruth do the same. As the dinner proceeded, all around the table were hand gestures, laughter, drinking, and chewing. But it was only Garvey's voice I heard. I could no longer be completely present among even my family and friends, no matter how hard I tried.

* * *

In January of 1922 I took the train to the Connolly Hotel somewhere in Newark, New Jersey, and made damn sure I wasn't followed. There were more agents than usual at this particular Bureau meeting, probably ten or so. Some I'd never met, and most of them white, except for Agent 800 and a young man I'd seen around the UNIA offices before. I hadn't the faintest idea he was an agent and couldn't wait for the meeting to begin so I could find out why he'd been hired.

There was great intensity in the room along with a lot of cigarette smoke. The agents reminded me of slobbering bloodhounds about to be turned loose on a runaway slave. And much to my disappointment, Ellington was absent.

“Listen up,” said Hoover. “This is the first meeting Agent Parker has attended. He's been in Harlem for several months. Agent Temple, you and Agent Jones have probably seen him around.”

We both nodded yes.

“His code name is 22X. Don't forget it. Welcome, Agent Parker. You should know that Agent Jones goes by 800 and Agent Temple's code is Q3Z. Now that you've seen their faces, remember their codes.”

“Yes, sir,” said Parker.

“Have you managed to ease into things without any hiccups?”

“Yes, sir. I'm part of a small planning committee Garvey's assembled. We've been tasked to help him write a philosophical manual for a major college he intends to build in Liberia.”

“Interesting. Stay on top of it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, gentlemen, this is it,” said Hoover, holding a piece of paper. “We've got him. Is the man who received this circular in the mail willing to testify to it?”

“Yes,” said Agent 800. “I've known of his unhappiness with Garvey for months now. His name is Bo Tremble. He's completely disconnected himself from the movement, but he's still on their mailing list. He says he's invested hundreds and hasn't received any return on it from the Black Star Line. Let's just say we have an angry man on our hands.”

“Good,” said Speed. “Anger is good in this case. It strengthens our hand. Agent Sloan, we're going to let NYPD take the lead on this. But your team will accompany them and make sure they don't flub it up.”

“I'm on it,” said the bone-thin Sloan, taking a big drag from his cigarette.

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves,” said Hoover. “We've still got some bases to cover. So you say hundreds have received these papers via the mail services, Agent Jones?”

“No. Thousands have.”

“And, Agent Temple, you're one hundred percent on the sale of the
Orion
having not gone through?”

“One hundred percent.”

“I'm dumbfounded,” said Sloan. “How could he be so foolish as to scratch the name
Orion
out and replace it with
Phyllis Wheatley
before actually buying it?”

“Because he'd promised his people a ship named the
Phyllis Wheatley
,” I said. “He had to make them think he was making good on his promise. No one would have invested in a ship they'd never heard of called the
Orion
. This move was about raising money. But the name being blotted out is beside the point. Even if he'd advertised it as the
Orion
, he'd be in trouble. He doesn't own it.”

“We'll need to find more men and women willing to come forward and testify,” said Hoover. “The more we can get to come forward with actual envelopes addressed to them, the stronger our case will be. Now . . . Agent Jones, has infiltrating Cyril Briggs's African Blood Brotherhood borne any fruit?”

“Yes. Many UNIA defectors have joined Briggs's ABB to spite Garvey. They each claim he owes them wages, and they're willing to testify in court.”

“Well, they're about to get their chance. We'll make the arrest tomorrow.”

* * *

The next day I engineered the big steam shovel like a man on a mission to do something good for the community. I wanted to lose myself in the work of building a beautiful church—to convince myself that such a deed would keep God from punishing me for the lies I was steeped in. With busy men all around me laboring in ditches and shoveling dirt into the back of trucks to be hauled away, I waited for the moment when James would likely approach the site with the news that Garvey had been arrested.

“More coal!” I yelled to the fat fireman, trying to make sure he could hear me over the loud engine.

“Yes, sir!” he shot back.

After about an hour of moving dirt I heard a loud voice yelling my name.

“Brother Sidney! Brother Sidney!”

I turned to my left and just as I'd imagined, James was standing in the distance beyond the ditch along with William and Hubert.

“You fellas take a break!” I yelled, motioning for my men to shut the shovel down.

I took my gloves off, jumped down, and circled around the ditch. They were standing there stone-faced.

“What is it?” I asked.

“They got him,” said James. “The police done arrested Marcus at his home.”

“For what?” I asked.

“We're waiting to find out,” said Hubert. “We just learned of it from Miss Jacques. Everyone over at headquarters is in a fit.”

Before I could say another word I saw, of all people, Ginger, running toward us. “Oh my God, Sidney,” she said, approaching out of breath. “Loretta told me you were here. She's in the car. You must come immediately. She's very sick.”

“Go!” said Hubert.

“I'll get in touch with ya'll later,” I said, turning to head for the car with Ginger following.

“I'll come with you,” said James.

* * *

Ginger, James, and I sat in the hospital vestibule awaiting word on Loretta's condition. I had been hopeful that she was simply going to deliver several weeks early, but when the doctor made me leave the delivery room I couldn't help but begin to worry.

“God is watching over all this,” said James, putting his hand on my shoulder.

“
Oui
,” added Ginger. “Don't worry, Sidney.”

I sat there with my interlocked hands pressed against my mouth. James had seemingly forgotten all about Marcus having been arrested and had given me his undivided attention.

The doctor finally came out. Immediately, I rushed to meet him halfway. I tried my best not to assume anything but could feel my heart pounding through my chest.

“How is she?” I asked.

“Mr. Temple, your wife is resting. She's going to be fine.”

“Oh, God, thank you,” I said, taking a deep breath and exhaling my relief. I turned to Ginger and James who were sitting about ten feet behind us and gave them an encouraging look. They too breathed sighs of relief.

“Can I see her?” I asked, turning back to face him.

“Mr. Temple, unfortunately there is some very bad news.”

“Yes.”

“The baby didn't make it.”

I didn't respond. In fact, his words didn't even register.

“Mr. Temple?”

“Yes.”

“The baby was stillborn.”

It had been my cousin, Aunt Coretta's son, who'd had a knife driven through his stomach during that far back summer. The doctor may just as well have done the same to me rather than deliver this news of my dead child.

I stared into his blue eyes. He appeared no older than forty, a handsome white man with a full head of dark brown, thick, wavy hair and an angular nose. There was a compassion emanating from him and he never looked away. Somehow, some part of me that I wasn't in control of gave me the strength to ask him one more question.

“Was it a boy?”

Perhaps he knew the unique joy a man feels upon having a son because he hesitated before answering.

“Yes.”

I
FINISHED DINNER AT
M
R
. D
ALEY'S
M
ANHATTAN TOWN HOUSE AND
made my way down the dark alleyway toward my car. It was mid-June and foggy. In fact, fog had been hovering over the whole of New York City for days on end, which suited a man in my condition just fine. I didn't miss the night stars or day sunshine and had no need for blue sky. Life was blue enough.

I'd been spending every day on the steam shovel, trying to dig my way out of hell. Garvey had managed to post bail the day after he'd been arrested and now, in what seemed like a pure act of defiance against authorities, was on a fundraising tour of the country.

His trial hadn't been set because there were several snags in the way, one being that Agent 800's star witness, Mr. Bo Tremble, had changed his mind and wasn't willing to testify against Garvey. The more agents scoured the country in search of disgruntled Black Star Line investors, the more they were being met with resistance. The trial would be set eventually, but when exactly was up in the air.

Still walking in the dark fog, I could hear nothing but the sound of my hard soles hitting the pavement. I thought about Loretta. She was at home with Ginger, painting and trying to get through the sadness that lingered. Our French friend had practically moved in, which was good. I didn't want Loretta to spend any time alone, and she was getting more work done than ever.

James had also been spending quite a bit of time at our place. He'd been instrumental in helping us through those first few days after leaving the hospital. The prayer he offered on our first night back home was certainly welcomed. The three of us sat in the living room, holding hands as he called on the man above.

“Let us pray,” he'd begun. “Heavenly Father, Lord of us all, we humble ourselves in your presence here today. Lord, who knows all things, You know the pain these young people are feeling here today. Lord, who knows all things, You know the reasons that we don't yet know. Lord, who knows all things, You care about even the sparrow that drops from the sky.

“You see the whole picture that we can't see. Bless this young couple in their grief. Comfort them. Place your loving arms around them and provide relief. Help them to go forward with ever more faith that someday all suffering will be eased, all confusion will be made clear, and death will not triumph. Comfort them, we pray. These blessings we ask in the name of Our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.”

Those words had soothed our souls. And now I was thinking only about getting home and soothing my mind with a glass of wine. Reaching into my coat pocket for my keys, I heard a deep voice call out my name.

“Good evening, Agent Temple.”

Startled, I stopped and turned to my right where I saw only the silhouette of a man standing against the wall about ten feet away.

“Excuse me?” I cautiously asked, squinting my eyes, trying to make more of him out.

“Quite a night, wouldn't you say?”

“Come again?”

“The fog. It makes for quite a night.”

“Sure . . . I guess. Sure.”

“It lets a man hide from all the madness out there. At least for a while.”

“Who are you and why did you call me Agent Temple?”

“Who I am shouldn't concern you. What I
know
should.”

Again I tried to make out his face a little better through the darkness but couldn't. I wasn't about to move an inch for fear that he was here to kill me. I did have my pistol and was prepared to draw it at any second but chose to use words instead of bullets for the time being.

“What is it you think you know?”

“I know you're fucked unless you do exactly what I say.”

I let those words sink in, realizing I was in no position to argue. I figured he was already holding a sidearm and that any attempt I made to reach under my coat for mine would be thwarted.

“I'm listening,” I said.

“Good. Real good. How's Mr. Garvey doing?”

“Fine, I presume.”

“Now, Agent Temple . . . you must realize you're in no position to play dumb with me. We both know that Mr. Marcus Garvey is a no-good snake of a man. And now he's laughing at the officials who arrested him. He has no intentions of ever going to prison over some trumped up charges of mail fraud. It's already been six months. So the way we see it, he'll have to be charged with something far worse to ever be put away for any significant amount of time.”

“Who is this ‘we' you speak of?”

“I thought I covered that. It doesn't concern you.”

“What do you want from me?”

“You think a powerful man like that is going down for simply misusing the mail service? Use your head.”

“Using the mail service to defraud folks out of their money is a serious crime.”

“Trust me. It'll take something more attention-grabbing, something he can be directly connected to and can't wiggle out of or blame on someone else.”

“Like?”

“Like violating the new Prohibition law.”

“I've worked on his ships as an engineer. He's done no such thing.”

“The documents I have in this briefcase suggest otherwise. They link him directly to Eddie Adams, one of the most notorious bootleggers, murderers, and outlaws in America. Adams was killed last year, so he certainly won't be around to deny such a connection.”

“You've fabricated these documents?”

“Yes. They prove that Garvey was rum-running, using his ships to transport the stuff from Cuba to Florida, then working with Adams to make a load of dough.”

“And?”

“And the fact that Garvey has been consumed with purchasing ships ever since Prohibition went into effect makes it all the more plausible. It further explains why his financial books have always been a mess. These documents are his death knell.”

“You'll never be able to make it stick.”

“No, I won't. You will. The documents will soon be planted in his office.”

“By who? By me?”

“You catch on quick.”

“I'll do no such thing.”

“My guess is you will.”

“I won't.”

“Look. We know you've been an agent with the Bureau since 1919. We know everything about you. We also know that he trusts you.”

“How have you come to such conclusions?”

“The United States Federal Government is an awfully big place. We've got a spy or two embedded in several departments. The BOI is no exception. You'd be amazed how many so-called loyal Americans will squeal on the government for the right amount of dough.”

“Go on.”

“Our inside man says your boss, Hoover, is too young for the job—that the Bureau is growing too fast—that too much is slipping past the wide-eyed George Washington University grad. Our man also tells us that Garvey is too smart for your boss.”

“Your inside man couldn't be an actual agent.”

“Of course he is. And he's very thorough. I have a photograph of the contract you signed. Several were taken. It proves you're an agent. You certainly wouldn't want Garvey to receive one. As you know, he's got a man or two working for him who'd be more than willing to tear you limb from limb. Oh, and remember that nice picture you took shaking Mr. J. Edgar Hoover's hand? It's such a nice picture of you two. He's a household name these days. Seen his face in the papers on more than a few occasions.”

“I've heard of him.”

“Still playin' dumb, huh? Our man took a nice picture of that picture as well. That's kinda funny. A picture of a picture.”

“Where are the photographs of said contract, etcetera?”

Without missing a beat he took a step forward and slid an envelope across the pavement toward my feet. I took a careful step forward and picked it up.

“Of course you can't see them in the dark,” he said. “But I'm confident you'll recognize your pretty face and signature when you get home later and have a look. You look good holding up your Bureau badge, too.”

“If you've got spies throughout Washington, why don't you have one working within Garvey's UNIA?”

“We do. But he can't do the job I'm asking you to do. He can't get close enough to the so-called Black Moses. That's what makes you unique.”

“Why don't you just let the Bureau do its job?”

“We have. For years. Where has that gotten us? And now it may take another year for this trial to ever come about, if at all. We need him off the public scene now. And I'm assuming you do too. Why else would you have become an agent?”

“What, a Negro can't be an agent simply because he wants to be an agent?”

“No.”

“White men do it every day.”

“Such are the ways of the world.”

“I see. Tell me who you're with.”

“Look, you stubborn son of bitch! Maybe I'm with the Communist Party. Why don't we go with that? They certainly have reason to hate that Jamaican pig. Then again, so do a lot of organizations. All I can tell you is that I'm simply someone you're going to have to deal with. You can call me Timekeeper. It'll prove to be fitting.”

“Somehow I don't think you're representing the Communist Party.”

“Why not? Don't tell me it's because you believe, as your Bureau does, that Garvey himself is a communist. Anyone paying attention knows that Garvey spouts nothing but anti-communist rhetoric. He's a capitalist to the bone. He's certainly on the Communist Party's enemies list.”

“Sounds like you've just tipped your hand.”

“Not by a long shot. I'm just paid very well to know a lot. Look, trying to figure out who I'm representing is a complete waste of time. I promise you.”

“All right, Timekeeper, if I were to agree to do it, how much time would I have?”

“I'd say get it done soon. And soon means soon.”

“Then?”

“There's a number in the envelope I just gave you. When you've done the work, call it. Once we've received word that the evidence is in place, I'll notify my contact within the police department. Oh, I forgot to mention that. Don't bother contacting the NYPD. We've got several of their boys on our payroll. Besides, many a man in uniform would like to see Garvey's black ass hanging from a tree. With his parading around town surrounded by all that African pageantry, chaos in the streets all the time. Disgusting.”

“How do I know you're not with the NYPD yourself?”

“Why don't you try and find out?” he asked, threateningly. “I don't exist. Don't you get it?”

“Give me the documents.”

“You know, Agent Temple, sometimes a man is just stuck. Don't fight it. Make things easy on yourself and all will return to normal. Of course, you could tell your bosses that your mission has been compromised. That would certainly end your assignment. And who's to say there'd be any future ones for a colored agent like you?”

“Garvey going down for rum running would also end my assignment. What's the difference?”

“You're right. Your work on this assignment's going to end soon one way or another. But one scenario leaves your life at risk with Garvey's men. Another leaves you a failure who turned himself in to the Bureau with the job left undone. But the last leaves you looking like a topnotch agent who took part in the takedown of a government enemy who was illegally selling liquor.”

“How would the latter play itself out?”

“Once you've planted the evidence, tell your bosses that you suspect Garvey of rum running, that you're trying to find evidence and may be close to something. Then, over the next few days, while they wait to hear back from you, the police will get the proper warrant, go in, and take control of the scene. When they find the evidence and make the arrest, your bosses will know that your original suspicions were right. Hell, they'll think you're the best agent they've ever had. Your fate will be sealed.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

“That's because you haven't thought it through yet.”

“I'll say it again, give me the documents.”

He slid another envelope toward me and I picked it up, knowing I would never do what he was suggesting. It wasn't in me. But I hadn't come this far just to quit either. I wasn't about to go running to the Bureau and admit that my mission had been compromised. That would effectively end any chance I'd have of continuing to spy on Garvey if he avoided prison. Du Bois would then be on his own and at the mercy of any schemes Garvey had up his sleeve. The NAACP boss was already rapidly losing popularity among the colored masses, while Garvey's image as a defiant, uncaged tiger was still soaring. I'd have to figure something out.

“Don't overthink this,” he said. “You don't owe that foreign son of a bitch a damn thing. His time has come.”

“Have a good night,” I said, turning and slowly walking away.

“You be careful now, Sidney.”

* * *

I walked into the house at about ten o'clock with both envelopes in hand and made my way down the hallway toward Loretta's studio. She and Ginger were sitting at their respective easels working on distinctly different-looking paintings. Ginger's was a portrait of an old Native American woman, Loretta's a piece she'd been working on for weeks, one she claimed was her interpretation of Heaven.

I chose not to interrupt them and headed straight for the kitchen where I poured myself a glass of wine—one of the last bottles we still had left. I walked out to the back porch and took a seat on the steps. Setting my glass down, I calmly opened one of the envelopes and pulled out the pictures I was hoping not to recognize. No such luck.