The Strivers' Row Spy (4 page)

B
ACK IN
J
UNE
, G
ALLEANISTS, FOLLOWERS OF
L
UIGI
G
ALLEANI, AN
Italian-born anarchist who had been in the United States since 1901, had detonated several bombs across the country. They'd even managed to damage the home of Attorney General A. Mitchell Palmer. That act made them prime targets of the Justice Department and, perhaps not coincidentally, of my training program. Hoover had reason to believe a tiny group was operating out of Baltimore, site of my three-week training assignment.

It had been raining for seven straight days, and now my face was pressed down against a muddy quagmire in Patterson Park. Lexington Speed stood over me, demanding that I complete the twenty push-ups I had left.

“Get your ass in the air, Temple!” Speed yelled.

Speed had been around the Bureau long before Hoover. He was a huge man, about six-foot-six. His head was shiny-bald and pinkish in color, the veins protruding from his temple like purple hookworms, his physique godlike. He was downright scary-looking. I couldn't decide whether his goal was to kill me or train me.

“Jones is wiping his ass with you, Temple.”

This insult hurled at me was in reference to James Wormley Jones. He and the two other trainees had already finished doing one hundred push-ups. But, for some reason, I was being asked to do one hundred fifty today. Maybe because earlier we'd completed a one-mile run and I'd whipped Jones. In his defense, I was ten years younger.

Paul Mann was one of the trainees. He was an arrogant young man. The other, Bobby Ellington, seemed to be rather enlightened. He was from Hudson, Ohio, and fresh out of Ohio Wesleyan University. His obsession with Greek mythology was evident. I had enjoyed conversing with him the previous six nights and knew instinctively that he was a decent man.

My body was so sore that I couldn't wait to get back to my hotel room and lie down. I finally pained my way through the last push-up.

“All right, Temple,” Speed yelled, “session complete. We've got a half-mile run back to the hotel. Ellington, you and Temple are assigned to relieve Knox and Long in one hour. You'll take night watch from sundown to sunup. Any movement whatsoever out of that alley house and you immediately notify the team.”

So much for going back to the hotel and resting. Our tiny hotel was located four blocks from the Galleanists' hideout, which was close to the Phoenix Shot Tower. For the past seven days, two rotating agents had been parked across the street and down about twenty yards from the Galleanists' ground-level room in a red brick alley house.

So far, there had been no movement. There were only four rooms in the building, the two rear ones—one upstairs, one down—each occupied by single old men. We had seen both of them come and go and had sneaked around back at night and watched them through their windows. The front upstairs room was unoccupied, as the sign in the window read FOR RENT.

Based on a solid tip, we had reason to believe four male Galleanists occupied the downstairs front room. We were operating on the assumption the four were simply lying low inside, perhaps planning their next move and building bombs. Or maybe they were out of town and would soon return.

Either way, the week had left plenty of downtime for Speed to work us like dogs. He fancied himself a brilliant marksman and, evidently, expected us to follow in his footsteps. As this Baltimore job was considered a special assignment, the Justice Department had given our team the authority to arm ourselves. We had even visited a firing range earlier in the week, immediately after completing a rigorous exercise routine.

Agent Speed wanted us completely fatigued when we visited the range. Tired, wobbly legs and aching, shaky arms didn't make for accurate shooting. I accepted the challenge and wasn't going to let Speed break me. He hadn't called me a nigger yet, but it was right on the tip of his tongue.

It was getting dark and the rain was still pouring down. Ellington and I, holding our umbrellas, approached the black Lincoln. In it sat Knox and Long. They had been parked there for eight hours. From the look of things, there'd still been no activity in the hideout.

I wondered, privately, if the Galleanists had simply spotted us. But the street was lined with automobiles and had plenty of folks walking up and down throughout the day, so the Lincoln didn't stand out.

Taylor Knox and Sam Long were veteran agents like Speed. But they were not as physically imposing, though they seemed to enjoy physical training and, like Speed, had military backgrounds.

Ellington knocked on the passenger-side window and Knox opened his door. He threw a cigarette on the ground and spoke to Ellington.

“You workin' by yourself tonight?”

“No, I'm with Temple.”

“Who?” asked Knox.

Ellington pointed at me, and Knox just sat there squinting his eyes and acting as if he couldn't see me.

“I don't see anyone,” he said. “It's dark out here. Smile, boy. Let me see those teeth.”

Knox and Long laughed as Ellington gave me a sympathetic look. It would take great discipline for me to ignore his antics for the next fourteen days. Ellington stood there as if waiting for me to react. I studied Knox, sizing up his pinkish, oily face.

He was a heavy drinker and smoker from Georgia who didn't see the value of men like me. Long, a Louisianan, was the quiet type who tended to follow Knox's every move. I never knew what he was thinking. People like him left me uneasy. At least in the case of Knox, he made it known that he despised my type. The two of them looked like twins—salt-and-pepper hair, average builds, white T-shirts, black slacks, and soulless-looking eyes.

“We're here to relieve you two,” I said. “Agent Speed wants you to join him for supper at the spot next to the hotel. He's waiting on you.”

Knox got out of the Lincoln, slowly stepped toward me, and we were briefly face-to-face. He spit tobacco on the ground and smiled.

“Well all right, then,” he said with a twang. “Don't want to leave anybody waitin' on little ol' me.”

Agent Long exited the driver side, circled around front, and approached us. He put his right hand on Knox's left shoulder, encouraging him to move on.

“Night-night, boys,” said Knox as the two walked away.

Ellington got into the passenger side. As I sat behind the wheel, I briefly contemplated starting the engine, turning the Lincoln around, and running over the two Southern sons of bitches. The thought quickly passed. It was becoming abundantly clear that even though Hoover wanted me around for selfish reasons, the greater Bureau wasn't on board with his little experiment.

“I wonder how many bombs are in there?” Ellington asked, staring ahead and to his left at the pitch-black window of the hideout.

“Are they even in there?” I asked.

“Probably. Speed told me the tip came from an Italian bomb maker who some agents apprehended in Buffalo last month.”

“Why aren't the local police involved then?” I asked.

“Because ever since April, when all of those mail bombs were delivered to prominent government officials, not to mention the one that exploded at Palmer's house last month, Palmer himself has made it clear that this is a federal matter, not a local one. We're probably one team of twenty staking out houses around the country. The local police don't even know about this particular location. And if they did know, they'd probably make the mistake of walking up and knocking on the door—aggressively seeking to catch them making the damn things.”

“Good point.”

“Also,” said Ellington, wiping the rain from his forehead, “if they happen to have the bombs hidden somewhere else, such a visit from Baltimore's finest would only make them postpone or cancel their mission. We're hoping to follow the four and catch them planting the devices. I'm quickly learning that such patience is what makes the Bureau unique. It is slowly creating a new way of catching criminals. Why do you think they've chosen us? This is a thinking man's business.”

“I'm tempted,” I said, “to sneak over and see if they have something covering the inside of that window—a black cloth of some sort.”

“Lose the temptation.” He began rubbing the dashboard with his hand, clearing away the moisture.

“Hope you have some stories to tell,” I said. “We're gonna be sitting here all night and nothing's gonna happen.”

“You do know that Hoover is meticulous about everything, right? A friend of mine attended night school with him at George Washington. He said that when Hoover worked at the Library of Congress, he was such a perfectionist that he mastered the entire Dewey decimal system.”

“He dresses sharp—I know that,” I said.

Ellington and I were certainly following the dress code. Agent Speed had already informed us that Hoover expected all of the agents to wear black suits, white shirts, keep their hair very short, and have pristinely shiny shoes. Agents were also ordered to wear fedora hats.

Speed himself didn't follow Hoover's orders about hair and wasn't likely to change his bald look. He was the exception. I found it ironic that Hoover was so picky about the agents' appearance, considering that his own look was rather odd. And he was awfully young to be so in command—only twenty-four.

“Agent Speed told me something interesting,” said Ellington. “Hoover is looking for young agents he can groom to head up various field offices. Agents who get those jobs have a great chance to rise high within the Bureau. Speed seemed to suggest that I had excellent prospects of securing one of those positions.”

“Good for you,” I said.

“Speed said Hoover is intrigued by my background.”

I just nodded. I really liked Ellington. The twenty-one-year-old kid had good energy. His striking good looks suggested he should be pursuing a career as a film actor rather than an agent.

“What in God's name were you dreaming about the other night?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Your stirring and mumbling woke me up several times.”

“What was I saying?” he asked.

“You kept going on and on about Cronus, Dodona, and Aphrodite. You were tossing and turning like you were engaged in a fight with someone.”

“Hmm,” he said. “I don't know.”

“Come on.”

“I was probably just dreaming about my childhood.”

“I don't understand.”

“Look,” he said, “it's a bit embarrassing. But when I was a kid, I used to pretend I was Zeus—the king of the gods. You know?”

“Yeah, the ruler of Mount Olympus and the god of the sky.”

“Right,” he said, growing restless. “I actually thought I was him.”

“But you don't
still
think you're him?”

“I guess last night I did.” We both snickered before he went on. “Actually, I still pretend I'm Zeus from time to time, especially when Agent Speed is busting my ass. I feel like wiping him out the way Zeus struck Salmoneus dead with a thunderbolt. But knowing Agent Speed, he'd probably laugh at the thunderbolt and crush me. The man is scary.”

“Yes,” I said, “he's a very scary man.”

“Anyhow, I'll try to cut out the tossing and turning so you can sleep. Let you do the dreaming from now on. Did you dream a lot as a youngster?”

“Shoot,” I said. “I wished. More like nightmares. Simple dreams would have been great.”

“I know. Nightmares stink when you're a kid because you can't predict when they might visit you. And when they do, you can't understand what they mean.”

“Oh . . . I knew what mine meant.”

“No shit?”

“Yeah,” I said. “When I was sixteen, I witnessed something horrific.”

I paused for a spell.

“Look, Temple, if you don't want to go into it I understand.”

“Nah. It's just . . . I've always avoided talking about it.”

I thought back and contemplated whether I wanted to share this story with him. I closed my eyes. I started to see myself as that innocent sixteen-year-old, happy to be spending time with my cousin in the summer of 1910. We had been like brothers, so close, even though we only saw each other in the summers.

I glanced over at Ellington. For some reason I trusted the kid. Oddly, I hadn't been able to completely share this story with anyone for nine years, and now, unbelievably, I felt ready to get it out—to share the details with someone I barely knew. I turned my attention back to the hideout and the words began to flow.

“It really is still as clear as yesterday,” I said. “It was a hot day in Chicago. I watched my cousin TJ engage in a fistfight with a white man. My cousin was eighteen and the man was probably thirty-five.

“TJ and I were riding our bicycles, approaching an intersection. TJ didn't see an automobile idling there at the intersection, preparing to turn. When it turned, TJ ran into the side of it and scratched the door a bit. No real damage.”

“Right,” said Ellington.

“The man jumped out and began shoving my cousin. He wouldn't stop. Finally TJ pushed back, and the two began fighting. All of a sudden the man pulled a knife and my cousin kept engaging him.

“Anyway, the man stabbed him in the stomach. Then he walked toward me and pointed it within an inch of my face. I lost all of my senses, just stood there, staring down the point of the blade for what seemed like a lifetime.

“But he then thought better of it, got back into his car, and drove away. I was shaking like crazy, but I fell to my knees beside TJ. I held him as he bled all over me and died right in my arms.”