The Strivers' Row Spy (31 page)

“Won't be long now,” I said.

“Well, look here, brother. I don't wanna keep ya'll. Just wanted to run this Louisiana business by you. I'm leaving tomorrow for Georgia, then I'm off to Florida, but I'd love for you to meet me in New Orleans on the thirtieth. I'm due to speak there on January first.”

“You see all this work I'm . . .”

“I know. I know. I'm just puttin' the invitation out there 'cause I love you, brotha. You like family to me now. Come on! You know that.”

“I love you too, brotha,” I sincerely said, reaching out and grasping his hand, shaking it like it might be the last time I'd ever do so. He seemed so alone, so uneasy, much like myself. I was certain he felt the hand of Garvey squeezing him tighter and tighter the more he tried to build his new movement.

“Anyhow,” he said, “if you do decide to come, here's the information.” He handed me a folded piece of paper. “It's all written down there . . . where I'm speaking and the hotel where I'll be staying. You're officially invited. It's probably the most important speech I'll give, considering how big the UNIA following is down there. This thing is really startin' to take off.”

“We knew it would.”

“But Marcus's boys are causing us an awful lot of problems. Well . . . let me tell you about that later. I'm sure Bingo there don't wanna hear all this.”

“No . . . he's real good people, James. Bingo's my right-hand man. Go on and talk. Go on.”

“Don't pay me no mind,” said Bingo, smiling. “Just tryin' to stay out that cold as long as I can.”

“Ha-ha!” laughed James with a big grin. “Young brotha say he tryin' to stay out this cold. I hear ya. I hear ya. That hawk is out, boy!”

“You ain't lyin',” I said, watching his breath hit the air. “Go on and tell me about Marcus's boys.”

“Look, it ain't nothin' surprising, Brother Sid. They just keep showing up at our meetings and threatening our followers, even puttin' their hands on folks in some cases.”

“What?”

“Mm-hmm. Marcus has certainly put the word out. He done told 'em to stop us from gaining momentum. Gettin' ugly out there! His Los Angeles, Philadelphia, and Pittsburgh divisions are real bad. Sometimes they even block off the streets so folks can't get to the church where I'm speaking. Sight to behold, brotha! But we find a way. There's too many of us. We growin' fast. We attractin' them well-meanin' American Negroes. Most of them roguish West Indians stayin' with Marcus.”

“Sounds like you need some protection.”

“Nah. They just tryin' to intimidate us. What I need is your support. Wanna see you standing in the audience come the first. But ain't no pressure on it, brotha!”

“Oh, you got my support. You know that.”

“Right. Well, listen . . . next time you speak with Loretta, send her my love. Sure do miss that sista.”

“I will.”

“Ya'll take it easy now,” he said.

He tapped my door twice and headed for his car. It was impossible to fathom not being able to ask my best friend for help. Even if I could, how would he react if I told him I was a spy? It was all so terrible. He needed my support, but I couldn't give it. I needed his help but couldn't get it. Hell sounded better.

As I drove up Seventh later that night, I came to a brief stop in the approximate position where the Oldsmobile had been parking. Looking to my left, I noticed two distinct things: One, my back door was indeed very visible; and two, there was obviously no way anyone could see the plum-colored Chevrolet parked around the corner from this position. How any of this mattered, I was still trying to figure out.

With the Oldsmobile fast approaching, I turned left. There was Ivan, standing in his usual position, the inside southern end of the gate. It was from that end that he always lifted the lever and the heavy, black-iron gate opened.

“Evening, Mr. Temple,” he said.

“Evening, Ivan.”

I reached across the passenger's seat and handed him a one-dollar bill. I wanted to see if such a simple act could slip by Goat and Cleo, who'd already parked before the exchange.

“Christmas is almost here,” I said. “Hope you have a merry one.”

“Why thank you very much, Mr. Temple. And merry Christmas to you, too.”

I eased down the alleyway and pulled into my carport, then took a peek at the Oldsmobile. Cleo had already gotten out and was approaching the gate. I watched him have a brief conversation with Ivan, who showed him the bill.

I walked up the steps, opened the back door, then took one more look Ivan's way. I guess Cleo had made his point because he patted Ivan on the shoulder and returned to the Oldsmobile.

Later that night I ate nothing but grapes and peanuts while listening to Marion Harris's “After You've Gone” over and over before finally falling asleep on the couch.

T
HE FLOOD OF FOLKS ENTERING
L
IBERTY
H
ALL THE NEXT DAY HAD
all us workers at the church looking across the way. Legionnaires lined both sides of the street for nearly half a block. And when the huge motorcade approached, the hammering, drilling, and sawing completely stopped.

Marcus Garvey was a living icon, whether one hated him or not, and the workers wanted at least to catch a glimpse of him. Covered by his blanket of protectors, all holding umbrellas to shield their boss from the still-falling snow, Garvey hustled his way inside.

“I want to hear this,” said Bingo. “Take me inside.”

“You'll have to leave that sidearm. Everybody's searched before they can enter.”

“Not a problem. I should be all right without it for a few minutes, especially with Drake and them parked right across the way. I'll let you wave to 'em on our way over.”

Minutes later we stood in the Liberty Hall basement listening to Garvey shout his defiant rhetoric, seemingly about everyone who'd ever crossed him. It was as if this was his last chance to publicly lambaste folks before the big trial. He took full advantage. After he finished tearing into Du Bois once again, he turned his attention to a more surprising foe.

“Those of you who remain with me I shall not forget,” he said. “You are my family. Save for a few who may have me fooled. I cannot be so naïve as to think a few British or American spies are not among us. But I'm not speaking to them. I'm speaking to my family. You stand with me as I dare to set foot in the white man's inferno. It's his justice system. His laws. His evidence. His courtroom. He has everything on his side. Everything! But he's never butted heads with this fearless, African-blooded titan!”

A thunderous roar tried to blow through the ceiling and didn't relent for at least a minute. Bingo stood there taking it all in. It was his first taste of
Garvey Power
. And there was no denying the effect it had on anyone who'd ever witnessed it.

“Yes,” he continued, “those of you with me here at Liberty Hall today . . . those in our many offices across the country . . . I can trust you. We shook that big ol' bush long enough to get rid of the bad seeds. But we can't be foolish about it. There are always a few stubborn ones that manage to hang on, ones we can't see. And in this case, they may be hanging on to help the government hang me.”

“BOO!” roared the crowd.

“You see, Mr. J. Edgar Hoover, that nigga-hating puppet the president put out front, has a way of making it worth their while. You'll know who I speak of when the trial begins and one backstabbing former UNIA employee after another trots up to the stand and sings like a bird.”

“THAT'S RIGHT!” many shouted.

“EASON!” screamed others.

“But Mr. Hoover is no match for Britain's Secret Intelligence Service and their many rogue divisions. He doesn't have their old money, their centuries of developed resources. But even if he did, the U.S. and Britain hate me for different reasons. America simply fears me because I'm a loud-mouthed black man who doesn't know his place. They think I'm a Russian-loving communist like all the others. But! The Brits fear me because I'm going to take back what they stole: AFRICA!”

The audience erupted again. He let the noise feed him, and with every rising pitch he seemed to grow a little taller.

“You see,” he bellowed, “the Brits have had their intelligence officers stop our precious
Negro World
paper from being circulated throughout many of their colonized nations. It has crippled our paper's growth. And now they want to keep me out of Liberia . . . far, far away from their beloved,
colonized
Sierra Leone. They're afraid of a revolution. I've always suspected as much, but the hunch was recently confirmed. One of SIS's little mice was caught in one of our traps.”

“OOH!” cried the crowd.

“And the little mouse couldn't wiggle free without telling us a thing or two. Like who he reports to here in New York. What was his name?”

Garvey turned and looked at Marcellus Strong, who was standing stage right, arms folded. He gave Garvey a wry smile but said nothing.

“Ah, yes!” said Garvey. “Mr. Banks is his name.”

Bingo and I locked eyes. Hearing that name may just as well have been a slap across my face to wake me up.
My God
, was all I could think. The Timekeeper and his men worked for Britain's Secret Intelligence Service—better known as SIS. It all made sense. But Bingo and I hearing this news did little to change my predicament. If anything, it only raised the stakes for Bingo and company. They had all the more reason to kill me if I tried to run.

“Beware of him,” Garvey continued. “The little trapped mouse said Mr. Banks is a high-yellow Negro with thick, black glasses who smokes cigars all day long. I tell you all of this man's appearance so as to weaken his plots and schemes. We must all be on the lookout. So, to the British Secret Intelligence Service . . . my Liberty Hall family and I are aware of you. We've got a few more traps set for your little nibbling rodents. We're ready for your high-yellow man. Your Mr. Banks better not show his face in Harlem again.”

“STAY OUT OF HARLEM!” yelled several up front.

“Oh, those British!” he mockingly went on. “Think they own my beloved Jamaica! Think they own me! The greed! Sickens one! And let us not forget the man who's beginning to do as much damage to the UNIA as that uppity Du Bois. You all know him well. That sly James Eason actually had the audacity to once call himself my loyal friend. He lied! And now . . . now that he's up to his schemes . . . we must keep our eyes on him as he trots across the country bad-mouthing all that is sacred about our organization. He is our enemy! He is the grand traitor!”

This roar was now an angry one. The remaining Garvey loyalists seemed ready for a fight.

“So,” he went on, “as I ready myself to step into the white man's inferno, you all must be on the lookout. Keep your eyes wide open during these trying days . . . for the mice are lurking. And whatever the judge may rule, ‘AFRICA FOR THE AFRICANS' MUST REMAIN OUR GOAL, MUST REMAIN OUR RALLYING CRY. THE FIGHT MUST CONTINUE.”

“GARVEY! GARVEY! GARVEY!” the chant began.

We finished listening to the speech and returned to the church. There was a different feeling in the air. Bingo seemed more on edge, fidgety. He insisted I find out exactly when the meeting would take place, that we go see Miss Jacques. So at around three that afternoon, we did.

UNIA headquarters was beginning to take on the look of a capitol building. There were more flags hanging out front, newer, fancier automobiles parked along the curb, and at least fifty Legionnaires were standing guard. Some had formed a large U-shape around the stairwell. The rest were draped along the entire front of the building. It was an awesome display of uniformity.

The blue-uniformed men looked ready to march at once if given the order, all of them standing tall, dress swords at their sides. We'd gotten no closer than ten feet when two of them stepped forward and created an opening for us to walk through. My clout hadn't waned.

“Stand there and let them search you,” I said to Bingo.

“Excuse us, Mr. Temple,” said the taller one, seemingly uncomfortable with having to approach me. “Sorry to bother you but we've been told . . .”

“It's fine,” I said, lifting my arms.

They patted us both up and down. But they were more thorough than before, checking every inch of our clothing.

“Can you remove your shoes and hand them to us?” asked the shorter one.

We followed orders and watched them take each of our shoes, turn them upside down, and shake them.

“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Temple,” said the taller one again, handing them back to us. “Please make your way inside.”

Amy Jacques was busy at her desk when we approached. She and I had developed a very cordial relationship over the years. I quite liked her.

“Ah . . . Sidney,” she said with that thick Jamaican accent. “Good to see ya.”

“You as well,” I replied. “This here is my assistant over at the church. Name's Bingo.”

“Nice to meet you, Bingo.”

“You as well, sista.”

“Any word on the meeting, Amy?” I asked.

“I believe it's been organized finally. Let me go upstairs and speak with Marcus.”

“He's here?” I asked, looking at Bingo, who stood there stone-faced. “He said during his speech earlier that he was departing for Boston straightaway.”

“Not just yet. He had to meet with Henrietta Davis, but she just left. I'll be right back.”

As she headed upstairs, Bingo took a seat and I surveyed the place. It was as busy as ever. Office staff typed away at their desks and ran back and forth from one room to another, upstairs and down. Many of them, I gathered, were hard at work putting together the latest edition of the
Negro World
. And, as always, Legionnaires covered every door of every office.

One face I hadn't seen on our way in was a familiar one. Peavine was standing guard just inside the front entrance. He looked to be daydreaming, probably wishing he were off playing music in some swanky cabaret.

“January seventh,” said Amy, returning to her desk a little out of breath. “We've been trying to coordinate it with the arrival of a cruise ship coming from Africa. And now we know the arrival time for sure. Mr. Green and Mr. Stark from Liberia will be arriving that morning and the meeting is to be held at eight o'clock that night. Marcus would actually like to see you upstairs right now.”

“Certainly,” I said, eyeing Bingo, who discreetly nodded his approval.

Some ten minutes later I was still sitting in Garvey's office as he went on and on about the need to hire a new slew of Black Star Line mechanics once the trial was over and he was free. He was confident his lawyers could get him off. “If they can't make a solid defense for me I shall represent myself,” he said. “I just got through telling Lady Davis as much.”

“How is she?” I asked. “I haven't spoken to her in a while.”

“Very well,” he said. “She's managed to organize even more divisions for us in the West Indies during her trip. She also has some new ideas for growing the Black Star Line.”

“Excellent. Will she be attending the meeting on the seventh?”

“Indeed, Sidney. She has much to share. You know, I'll never grow tired of saying to anyone who will listen that I consider Henrietta Vinton Davis the most magnificent colored woman in the world today. She is a true UNIA loyalist. Whatever comes of me, our organization would be in good hands were she to take the helm.”

“She's a visionary to be sure.”

“Back to this business of me representing myself. I certainly could have been a lawyer had I so chosen.”

“I have no doubt,” I said.

“I could have also been head of an intelligence agency. I know how to catch bad guys. I've had many men followed. Many men! You included.”

“Why me?” I asked, my blood rushing.

He leaned forward; grabbed one of the many thick law books stacked on his desk, and opened it. It was a big blue one entitled
The Fundamentals of United States Law
. His eyes went from me to the book and stayed.

“Don't worry, Sidney. You checked out clean. I never doubted you would. I knew when I hired you that all you cared about was being an engineer. It's just you . . . that church . . . that wife . . . and my ships. I know this.”

“I'm a simple man.”

“It was Reverend Eason who introduced you to that church project, correct?”

“Yes.”

“That is what kept you two so close?”

“It was all business,” I said. “It was all about the Abyssinian. He introduced me to Reverend Powell.”

“So if I was to see you two together . . . you and Eason?” He slowly turned the page and waited for my response.

“We'd be discussing Abyssinian affairs. The community certainly is excited about it opening soon.”

“Hah! Half these niggas in America don't know what the hell they want. Thinkin' some imitation of a white man's church is gonna bring them hope. Please. Is Reverend Powell paying you well?”

“Enough.”

“Enough, you say. And I believe you, Mr. Vermont. You've never once asked me for anything . . . never pushed for some political position like all the others . . . never begged me for more money. You never speak unless spoken to. Again, that is why I share so much with you. That and the fact that I trust my instincts.”

“They've served you well.”

He turned the page again and began to study the content more intensely.

“We need more colored lawyers, Sidney. Perhaps you should have been one. You could have helped me sue the NAACP for slander. It is certainly Du Bois behind this
Garvey Must Go
campaign. He's appealing to the very group that's against our people—the U.S. government. He's joined by A. Phillip Randolph and Chandler Owen over at the
Messenger
. Those two have committed themselves to launching a vicious editorial campaign against me as well.”

“The people won't buy it,” I replied.

“My secret service men have come to believe that these house niggas plan on sending a letter to the U.S. attorney general claiming that our various UNIA divisions across the country have become violent, that they aim to kill our opponents if need be.”

“Sounds utterly desperate. Why would they notify the attorney general?”