The Strivers' Row Spy (32 page)

“They want to put pressure on him to speed up the trial. These fools supporting this campaign have the nerve to call themselves the ‘Friends of Negro Freedom.' As if I'm not the same. Haven't you always seen me as such?”

“Of course,” I said, surprised to see him displaying such self-doubt.

“We just disagree on what the meaning of freedom is and how to get it.”

“Right.”

He slammed the book shut very hard and finally looked up at me, his sternness never more pronounced. “There was the Revolutionary War—George Washington versus King George. There was the Civil War—Abraham Lincoln versus Jefferson Davis. Both wars fought on American soil. And now this may very well be the initial phase of America's Negro War—Marcus Garvey versus W. E. B. Du Bois.”

T
HE TRAIN RIDE TO
N
EW
O
RLEANS HAD BEEN A LONG ONE, SO LONG
that it allowed me more than enough time to think, fall asleep, then think some more. Shortly after my one-on-one meeting with Garvey, I'd lied and told Drake and them that I'd been given specific instructions.

“Garvey's demanding that I go and hear what Reverend Eason has to say,” I'd said. “He says the New Orleans gathering is pivotal because the city ranks second only to New York in UNIA constituents. I'm to report back to him during our big meeting.”

“If that's what it takes to ultimately get you in that meeting room, then go,” said Drake. “Just know that Bingo and I are coming with you. When will we be back in New York?”

“By the fourth,” I'd said. “Three days before the meeting.” Bingo had also accompanied me to my office while I'd informed Speed of Garvey's fictitious demand. He was all for my going and wanted a detailed report on Eason's new organization.

“You do exactly as Garvey wants at this point, Q,” he'd said, my eyes on Bingo and his gun as I'd held the phone. “He's busy testing everybody's loyalty, Q. He'll be in prison soon but you're still our insurance policy. Continue to placate him. You're a damn good agent, Q.”

As we'd chugged along through the various Southern states— North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, and Mississippi—I'd found myself gazing out at the Confederate terrain, so much of it soaked with the blood of those recently beaten and lynched. New York seemed like a foreign land in comparison.

We'd arrived in New Orleans in time to hear James speak at St. John's Church on First Street. In fact, he'd just finished and was in the midst of shaking hands as he filtered through the crowd inside. I waited out front along with Drake and Bingo.

My reason for making the trip was simple: to find an opportunity, any opportunity, to break free. But the more it sunk in that I was dealing with trained SIS men, escape seemed a more daunting task. Before leaving New York, Drake had spoken to me about the SIS spy whom Garvey's men had caught. Apparently the “little mouse” had only ever dealt with the Timekeeper.

“Look,” said Drake, “yes, the sloppy SIS spy who got pegged worked for Mr. Banks, just as we do, but he's never met any of us. He knows nothing about this particular mission. You're not stupid enough to think that all us SIS men know each other are you, Agent Temple?”

“Of course not.”

“Just like we're not stupid enough to think you know every man working for Mr. Hoover. Besides, the important thing is this: Mr. Banks never made this sloppy fool aware of you. So, you see, it's full steam ahead.”

His point made sense. So now that I'd succeeded at making it full steam ahead to New Orleans, I needed to make a move. The sun had already set, but I'd taken the time earlier in the evening to study the neighborhood surrounding the church. Harlem it was not. There were no row houses, no brownstones. Instead, there was nothing but shotgun shacks lining the narrow streets—little rectangular dwellings no more than twelve feet wide. We were in the heart of colored town. In fact, I hadn't seen a white face yet—some light-skinned Creoles, yes, but they were simply mixed-race Negroes.

James finally made his way out of the church, surrounded by several high-ranking members of his new Universal Negro Alliance—all of them smiling, beaming with pride. He had introduced each of them during his powerful speech. There were at least eight.

“Brother Sidney!” he cried out as he hustled down the steps. “There you are.” The two of us gave each other a big hug. “I saw you standing in the back while I was preachin'. Boy I mean to tell ya!”

“I heard every word,” I said. “Words of wisdom, James. Words of wisdom.” I turned to Bingo and Drake. “You remember my assistant, Bingo?”

“Of course,” said James, the two shaking. “Good to see ya, Brother Bingo.”

“Once he found out I was coming to New Orleans,” I said, “Bingo here was dyin' to come see it for the first time. This here's his older brother, Drake.”

“Had to bring him along too,” said Bingo, grinning. “He's the one paid my way. Was either that or stay home.”

James smiled and shook Drake's hand. “Smart man, Brother Bingo. Gotta brotha with some cash, might as well bring him on with you.”

Bingo just stayed with his grin. “That's right. That's right.”

“Well look here,” said James, “we're all on our way to Sista Constance Toutant's house for dinner. And you best believe you comin', even if I have to tie you up and throw you in the car. Sista can cook! She got a house full of gumbo, jambalaya, fried catfish, chitlins, collard greens, and cornbread.”

“Always wanted to try me some gumbo and jambalaya,” I said.

“Boy, you ain't lived 'til you tasted some gumbo. Ain't that right, brothas?”

“Mm-hmm,” said his colleagues collectively.

“Let's hit it,” said James.

I looked at Drake, who signaled his approval with a quick nod. And with that, we joined James's group, casually making our way down the busy sidewalk, heading west. There were folks everywhere who'd streamed out of the church, many huddled in groups near the front stairs engaging in sprightly conversation. One thing was clear: James had left them all in a festive mood, full of hope and pride.

“Did you notice anything different about the audience this evening, Reverend Eason?” asked one of his colleagues as we walked.

“Uh-huh. Sure did, Brother Turiaf. Was quite a few Jamaican brothers up in there. I heard 'em mumblin' to one another when we first arrived. Reverend Clemons said he recognized one of'em from the area but said he ain't never set foot in the church before.”

“That's right,” said Mr. Turiaf. “I spoke to Reverend Clemons too. He told me the same thing.”

“It don't matter none,” said James, as we all continued down the sidewalk. “We already know Marcus be sendin' fools everywhere we go. Ain't no doubt he's just the latest one.”

Just then a loud shot rang out from behind. I flinched, turned, and saw three colored men standing no more than twenty feet away. I couldn't make out their faces in the dark, but one was surely pointing a gun.

Immediately another shot. We all ducked, but this time I heard James groan and flail like he'd been hit in the back. Bingo and Drake, as if they'd been trained for President Harding's Secret Service, grabbed me and forced me to the ground, both of them covering me like a blanket.

As James tried to gather his balance, he turned around and another shot was fired, this one hitting him in the face, the force so great his head flung violently back. He fell to the ground and the assailants fled. Most of the men in our group gave chase, save for Mr. Turiaf, Drake, Bingo, and me.

“JAMES!” I yelled.

“STAY DOWN!” screamed Drake. “IT'S TOO LATE!”

I watched my friend lie there gasping for air, Mr. Turiaf hovering over him. With every bit of force I could muster, I tried to break free from the grip of the SIS men, wanting desperately to tend to my bloodied brother, but they had me by both arms, protecting me like gold. I was just that to them. God forbid the man they'd assigned to carry out Garvey's murder were to get shot before the big meeting.

“NO!” I hollered. “HANG ON, JAMES! I'M RIGHT HERE! HANG ON!”

* * *

All I could think about during that long train ride home was how cowards had been responsible for murdering two of the most significant people in my life—my cousin, at the hands of a white man, and now James, who'd been shot by a Negro, most likely a Garveyite. In both cases, neither had stood a chance of defending himself.

Now that James was dead, I found it difficult simply to put one foot in front of the other. I'd barely been able to make it to my seat on the train. I was nothing but a limp being—heart still beating, mind and soul: gone. But it didn't matter. The SIS men were handling me like a mannequin, pulling me to and fro, propping me up here and there—making sure I remained usable.

In less than a minute after James had been shot, Bingo and Drake had dragged me to the car. They drove straight to the station and made sure I joined them in boarding the next train to New York. They weren't about to let the police show up and question me as an eyewitness. And now, with nearly two days of travel in front of us, I could hear nothing but the nightmarish sound of that popping gun over and over again.

Cleo and Goat picked the three of us up at a chaotic Penn Station around noon on the fourth and drove me back to Strivers' Row. We stopped by Tony's so I could order some dinner. I hadn't eaten since New Orleans.

On my way out I grabbed a copy of the
Messenger
from a paperboy. Word of James's murder was all over the front page. It was clearly being blamed on Garvey. But proving that would likely be impossible. Still, the
Garvey Must Go
campaign had ratcheted up its public outcry.

Later that night I lay on the couch near the fireplace downstairs, thinking about James, agonizing over the fact that he was gone. It had happened so fast.

With the fire crackling in the background, I rolled over on my side and reached for the half-empty fifth of whiskey there on the coffee table. I guzzled a bunch down without even sitting up. Then I put it back down and grabbed the paper bag from Tony's. There was still half my salami sandwich inside. As I pulled it out, the receipt fell onto the floor. I reached down and picked it up. The size and lightness of it triggered something in me.

I rubbed my eyes and sat up, examining the backside of it, which was blank. It was about a three-by-five-inch slip. I put the sandwich back on the table and focused on the receipt. I began folding it until it was no bigger than half a piece of Chiclets gum.

I stood and put it in my right pants pocket, patting the outside as if searching myself. It could not be felt in the least. My mind raced.

Taking it back out and sitting, I began unfolding it. Then I flattened it out on the coffee table. I took a pen from my briefcase and began writing very tiny words on it. I was crafting a letter to the one person who just might be in a position to help me. I'd have to hand-deliver it of course, right in front of Bingo at that—quite the risk but my only option.

I leaned over the table and squeezed the pen tighter, my face up close to the words. With the sparkle and pop of the roaring fire keeping me company—its warm glow allowing me to see my pen glide across the receipt—I began to hatch a plan.

I woke the next morning, having slept on the couch again, determined to put the plan into action. I headed upstairs and found my three rarely used fedora hats hanging inside the closet door—one black, one brown, one gray. I put the black one on and stepped in front of the cheval glass. It suited me rather well, even making my scraggly face a bit more presentable. Nevertheless, I decided to shave.

Standing in front of the washroom mirror, face lathered in white cream, I glided the blade along my right cheek before dipping it in the cloudy sink water below. I jiggled it and watched the curly black hairs float to the top, the splashing sound accentuated against the morning silence of a cold house.

I looked in the mirror at the smooth, narrow strip of skin my blade had left behind—then back at the floating hairs—nothing more than dead cells. They symbolized my deathlike existence. Again, I glided the blade along my cheek, wanting to see more fresh skin, more of the old me. It was time to try living again.

Minutes later I backed the Baby Grand out and approached the gate. I needed to buy myself a minute or two, so I turned the engine off and pretended to have trouble restarting it.

I stepped out, lifted the hood, and began tinkering around. Ivan quickly walked over and stood next to me. My intentions were for Drake and Cleo across the way to think nothing of the conversation we were about to have. I also wanted them to notice my hat.

“What you think it is?” asked Ivan.

“Just something loose probably,” I said, jiggling a wire. “Listen, Ivan, my cousin Peavine is coming in from Chicago today. I want him to be able to go on inside and relax until I get home tonight, but I don't want to leave my front door unlocked. He'll park down the street, but can you let him walk through the gate so he can use the back door? I left it unlocked.”

“No can do, Mr. Temple. Strivers' Row policy.”

“Look, Ivan, you been knowin' me some three years. Been nothin' but good to you.”

“But they pay me to—”

“I'll pay you ten dollars,” I said.

“Well, now . . . I just don't—”

“Make it twenty,” I said, closing the hood, rubbing my hands together and nodding across the way at Drake.

“Oh my!” he said, eyes wide open.

He followed me as I walked around, got back in, and started the engine. Again I nodded at Drake, who nodded back as I rolled down the window.

“So what you say, Ivan? Deal?”

“Deal.”

When I got to the church, I told Bingo that we needed to pay another visit to UNIA headquarters. “I want to reconfirm the day, time, and place,” I said. “This news about James's murder may have changed things.”

In my heart I believed that Garvey had ordered the killing, that it wasn't some angry, revenge-seeking Garveyite acting on his own. Still, I wasn't certain. And I didn't have some newfound desire to go through with murdering Garvey. Besides, even if I did poison him, the SIS men would still find it in their best interest to get rid of me.

As we got in the car, I reminded Bingo that I needed to pick up a bank check that was probably waiting for me at the real estate office.