Matthew Henson and the Ice Temple of Harlem

by Gary Phillips

  “You need to see him. Letters aren’t enough.” His friend’s English had improved markedly since the two had last been together.

  “I know. I guess, well, there is the money, but that’s an excuse.”

  “Yes, it is. You know how to get there.”

  Ootah had not stayed in Moriussaq all this time. He had been visited with a wanderlust after first seeing New York when the North Pole expedition had returned. For a while, he’d lived in Svalbard, an archipelago a few hundred miles south of the Pole. Via signing on ships and even a missionary tour, he’d been to Denmark, Russia and even lived for a stint in London where he’d obtained a tailored suit on Savile Row, which he now wore at their meal.

  “Bespoke is what the English call it,” his friend had told him, running his thumb up and down the underside of one of the suit’s wide lapels. For the last few months, he’d also told Henson, he’d been back in their village. “Anaukaq’s coming along as a harpooner,” he added.

  Henson beamed. His own family environment had not been nurturing after his folks died when he and his sisters were young. His stepmother Nelle was a cruel, unfulfilled woman who beat him and the girls. Finally getting up some size, he’d said his goodbye to her with a sock to her eye and a warning that he’d be back if she hurt his sisters. He certainly needed to do better by his boy. What exactly was holding him back? Did he need to be a success before returning? And what was success as measured by what he did now for a living? A part-time travelogue show on the radio, hawking soda pop and swinging on ropes through gangsters’ windows. By hook or by crook, he could get back there if he really wanted to. After all, the Grim Destroyer didn’t care who he claimed, and given his current career—if that’s what it was—he could go at any time.

  “I promise to make amends, brother.”

  Ootah stopped chewing, swallowed his food and, clasping his hands together, bowed slightly at the man across the table from him. “By Peeshahhah who guides our way through storm and dark of day.”

  “By Peeshahhah who guides our way through storm and dark of day,” Henson repeated, also clasping his hands together and bowing slightly. They evoked the name of the Great Hunter. There could be no dishonor.

  And yet here he was, no closer to retuning to northern Greenland than he had been those four years ago. They’d also talked about the Daughter during Ootah’s several days in the city, which included the two being interviewed in The New York Amsterdam News and on the Clicquot Club radio show, plus a special broadcast from Abyssinian Baptist Church. Ootah had said no more than that the Daughter had been secreted away, and that he and only one other knew where it was. Henson hadn’t asked him who the other one was, as he’d assumed it’d either been Seegloo or Ooqueah, the other two Inuit who’d reached the North Pole. He didn’t want to know. Imagining word of the discovery might be found out one day, he wanted ignorance about its whereabouts in case he should be tortured to reveal any details.

  Of course, that didn’t mean Egingwah hadn’t spied on his bother to find out what he was up to. That made Henson sound as paranoid as Peary had become, but there you had it. Word of what Ootah had moved could have made it back to the commander here in the States. Hell, for all he knew Egingwah, or whoever, could have returned to America.

  It was also possible that Davis, upon hearing of the possibility of the Daughter, could have mounted an expedition on the hush-hush and gone up there. That was certainly the type of thing he’d do, wanting to test himself and satisfy his curiosity. And who knew, maybe the good Reverend Christofferson got to talking to his mistress one evening and blabbed about the tear sent from the sun goddess. That he’d asked about it could have been the source of the rumors. Back in town, he asked Renwick’s driver to let him off before reaching his home. From a payphone in a drugstore, he called Destiny Stevenson at her music shop.

  “Hey, stranger,” she said sweetly over the line.

  “Didn’t mean to disappear. I’m not that kind of fella.”

  “I know you’re not.”

  “You busy tonight? Want to drop by my broadcast at Smalls and we can get something to eat after?”

  “Sounds great,” she said.

  He gave her the details and rang off. He then walked back to his apartment, using the alone time to decide several matters, including what to tell the Weldon Institute. At his place, he reviewed the notes for his weekly broadcast and made his way to Seventh Avenue near 135th Street and Smalls Paradise, “Harlem’s Hot Spot” as it said on its menus. The cabaret was about two blocks from Striver’s Row. The nightclub had an elongated marquee over the main entrance with the name of the place—minus an apostrophe—in relief letters and pulsing lights. The building it was in resided next door to the Mayfield Beauty Shoppe offering extra marcelling. As the club was in the basement, Henson technically did his broadcasts for WGJZ in a supply room-turned-studio off the club floor. When the evening show was on, waiters would dance the Charleston while deftly holding trays and stomping the rug between the tables. The club could handle some 1,500 customers and was known to pack in hundreds more if, say, Cab Calloway’s band was playing.

  “How’s it rollin’, Matt?” the doorman said.

  “If I had your hand.”

  “Yeah, man,” the stockier one said, pushing the swing door open to the still closed club.

  He was an ex-heavyweight who’d had a so-so career in the ring.

  Henson walked through the club where the staff was busy setting out utensils and cloth napkins on the tables. Several musicians were on stage, blowing or plucking their instruments going over their arrangements. A horn player nodded at Henson. The broadcast room was behind and to the right of the stage. It was near the office, and he saw the owner, Edwin Smalls, seated at his desk doing paperwork. Always sharply dressed, his suit jacket was on a hanger behind him and golden cufflinks sparkled on his wrists.

  “The Snow Leopard,” he said, looking up briefly.

  “Brother Smalls.”

  Past him, the studio had a padded swing door with a porthole window. On the outside was a hand-painted sign reading: On Air, and over that, a red light had been installed. Beneath was a speaker, its heavy wire leading into the compact broadcast space. There were several folding chairs set up for listeners. No one was there yet.

  Inside, the engineer, Wally Carlyle was waiting for Henson. He was a youngish white man with a crew cut, natty bowtie and pressed blue shirt.

  “Hello, Matt,” he said.

  “How’s it going, Wally?”

  “The same ol’ jive, man,” The engineer, a jazz fan, said. A control console had been built in the room. There were several other instruments in the small room, as well. Carlyleflipped several toggle switches on the main console, tapping his finger on the extended microphone to check the sound level. He noted the flux of needles on his gages and turned one two knobs with the precision of a surgeon. Henson locked the door and flicked on the “On Air” light.

  He then sat on a stool at the end of the console, the engineer positioned the microphone on its swing arm over him. Both of them looked at the wall clock to check the time. Henson shifted in his seat, adjusting the microphone. He placed his papers on the console and cleared his throat. The engineer sat down, too and, eyes back to the clock, counted down with his fingers pointed at Henson. He got to his index finger and jabbed it toward the other man while he flipped two switches, bringing them live on the airwaves.

  “And now, faithful listeners,” came the mellifluous voice of stage actor Warren William over the recording lathe, “once again it is time for the weekly installment of Strange Journeys. From the Aztecs to the Yoruba, from the Ting Dynasty to the War of the Roses, you’ll hear tales of tropical jungles in unforgiving climes, fantastic treks through the sun-drenched deserts of lost kingdoms and expeditions into the lands of ice and snow.” A dramatic pause, then William concluded, “I give you now your host, the hunter, trapper, linguist, and storied man of tomorrow…today, Matt
hew Alexander Henson.”

  Carlyle winked at Henson as he stopped the recording device. It was a bit much, Henson knew, but Lacy DeHavilin had insisted on engaging William’s services and had written the over-the-top introduction herself. Wickedly, she’d included a line about his privates being the size of a mule’s but thankfully only he had read that passage. Though, dammit, he had the unerring feeling the unexpurgated version would show up one day, probably in her ribald memoir. Focusing, he began, reading a passage from his book.

  “The route to Cape Columbia is through a region of somber magnificence. Huge beetling cliffs overlook the pathway; dark savage headlands, around which we had to travel, project out into the ice-covered waters of the ocean, and vast stretches of wind-swept plains meet the eye in alternate changes.” Henson finished the reading and segued from setting the scene into a story about Roald Amundsen and the flight of the Norge, a dirigible designed by General Umberto Nobile, to reach the North Pole two years ago.

  “The airship and her sixteen-man crew not only reached the Pole, but went on to Alaska as planned,” Henson said into the microphone. “Overall, their flight covered more than 6,000 miles, a lot of that unexplored territory. Can you imagine?” he breathed, “what that must have been like? The excitement and exhilaration of seeing that uncharted vast area? I can tell you from personal experience, my friends, there’s no thrill quite like it, you and the wilderness of snow and wonder.”

  The engineer dipped his head in appreciation of the picture Henson had painted.

  He continued, “Unfortunately, my dear audience, once success was achieved, Amundsen and Nobile had a falling out, as each believed he should get the lion’s share of the credit for the Arctic flight.” He looked off into the distance, a crooked smile composing his features. “But really, the lesson to be learned in these sort of endeavors is that it’s a team effort that’s key. Only in working together can the hardships Mother Nature and mankind throw at us be overcome.”

  The engineer nodded.

  “Next week, I’ll conclude with the excursion the two were involved in earlier this year.” He lowered his voice as he ended the sentence, an ominous foreshadowing of events. For both men had perished after recently having returned to the unyielding top of the world. Nobile had gone missing in the airship Italia, and Amundsen had joined the search for his estranged friend. His plane crashed and he died. Nobile was never found.

  The half-hour broadcast also included Henson answering letters from his listeners. He rustled papers louder than normal for a sound effect at the start of this segment. “I have a letter from a Miss Thelma Rudolph who asks if I’ll ever again return to the North Pole. She also asks why we don’t have a fund drive among our churches to sponsor an expedition of a select sampling of our negro leaders and I lead them there.” Henson set the letter aside, an open envelope paperclipped to it.

  “Well, Miss Rudolph, that sounds like a fine undertaking, one that plucks the strings of my heart. But right now, what with rent parties a necessity and groceries going up in Harlem, seems it be best to concentrate money-making efforts closer to home. While we do own some properties but plenty of these buildings are in outside hands. The Urban League recently reported that forty-eight percent of us colored renters pay nearly twice as much our white counterparts in other areas of New York. A four-room apartment north of Central Park goes for $55 versus the same going for $32 elsewhere. Many of us have boarders on different shifts sharing mattresses as a way to meet these exorbitant prices.

  “Now don’t get me wrong, I ain’t calling for revolution, but I am saying like with those flyboys and their blimp, we need to put our heads together and pool our money and efforts for the betterment of all.” The stool creaked as he shifted his weight. “Well the ol’ clock on the wall and the steely eye from engineer Wally says it’s that time again. I must take my leave.”

  Wally the engineer queued up the recorded music of the Clicquot Club Band. Over this, Henson talked as he brought the music sound level down some.

  “And remember, there’s only one discovery of refreshment for me my fellow travelers, Clicquot Club Pale Dry Ginger Ale. Yes, pale…dry…ginger…ale. Made from only the purest of ingredients including naturally sweet cane sugar. It is a refresher like no other.” Henson flung his arms wide and the broadcast on a rapid-fire tom-tom beat like raindrops splattering on a tin roof.

  “Good stuff, Matt,” the younger man said.

  “Thanks, Wally.”

  “Say, I hear the muckety-mucks at Zenith are talking syndication. Looking to get your show picked up on a few more stations. They’ve been getting inquiries from Pittsburgh and Baltimore, and even in a place called West Memphis.”

  “Well, all reet.”

  “Ha.”

  Zenith Radio Corporation supplied all the radio equipment for the studio in the night club and had paid for the installation of the electrical machinery. The connection had been made years ago as Peary had used Zenith radios on his expeditions and had even appeared in a print ad extolling their virtue at one point. Yet, unlike other white controlled entities, the higher-ups in the company didn’t pretend that Henson did not exist. There was a fondness for him among them it seemed. The two men said their goodbyes after they stepped back into the larger area.

  “You sounded good,” Destiny Stevenson said, rising from her folding chair.

  “Why thank you, ma’am.” He bowed slightly, taking her hand and kissing it as if a wayward count on holiday.

  “Oh, you charmer.”

  They locked gazes, then he said, “I promised you dinner, as I recall.”

  “You did, here?”

  “It gets a might rambunctious out there at the tables. I was thinking more intimate surroundings.”

  “You were, were you?”

  In another part of town, the moon shone on a one-story garage where two others met in secrecy. They were in the office of Granady Truck Repair & Parts in the Bronx. The firm actually used the trucks to ferry illegal beer and stronger spirits across the five boroughs.

  “Here it is,” Detective Kevin Hoffman said. He handed a file folder to Dutch Schultz. The plainclothesman looked more dour than usual.

  Shultz handed the file unopened to his driver and bodyguard, Vin O’Hara. The gangster turned to go.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Hoffman said.

  “Oh yeah,” Schultz grinned, nodding toward O’Hara. He had a lit cigar between his kid-gloved fingers.

  The driver reached into his coat pocket with his free hand and withdrew a stuffed envelope. He flipped it to the detective. As this happened, O’Hara managed to open the folder slightly and see the photograph clipped on top of the typewritten pages in there. He maintained his poker face.

  “Don’t spend that all in one place, Judas.” Schultz laughed as the two hoodlums left.

  Hoffman stood still for several moments then pocketed the envelope and departed as well.

  At an eatery called the Sugar Hill Café on 144th Street near Amsterdam, Henson and Stevenson had a meal of smothered steak, collard greens and steamed carrots. More than once, Stevenson slipped her foot out of her low-heeled shoe and tapped her toes on his shoe. They had coffee after dinner.

  “What else are you going to show a girl tonight, Mr. Henson?”

  “You big city wimmen are kind of bold, aren’t you?”

  “We must be bold if we’re to seize our future,” she said.

  He frowned. “Your father says that, doesn’t he?”

  “He does, indeed. And we have front row seats for the to-do.”

  He sipped contemplatively. “I talked to your father, and I’ll be going over the security with OD day after tomorrow. Among the crew he’s rounded up a few former bodyguards for Garvey. The kind of gents who didn’t blink when they went up against them Kluxers.”

  “You expecting trouble?”

  “No, but I don’t want to get caught with my pants down.”

&nbs
p; “Oh, no, we wouldn’t want that,” she teased. “What about the police?”

  “What about them?” he huffed. “They aren’t providing any personnel, not even Cole Rodgers.” He had more of his coffee. “You’re not too full are you, Des?”

  “I’m feeling pretty spry…pops.”

  “Good, wouldn’t want you getting too sleepy yet.”

  “What sort of night do you have planned, Mr. Arctic Adventurer?” She leaned forward, whispering, “We gonna do some exploring back at your place?”

  Grinning Henson said, “Before we get to that, we got us some burglarizing to do.”

  “Huh?”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Five in the corner pocket,” Fremont Davis announced. He leaned onto the pool table and his stick struck the cue ball dead center. The cue ball rolled over the green cloth. At first, it looked as if he was going to hit his opponent’s ball, but the pool ball angled just enough away that it didn’t and then banged against the five solid just so. The ball rolled languidly, and dropped into the called pocket.

  Hugo Renwick drew on his cigar and let out a stream of smoke. He stood holding his pool cue. The two men were in the red velvet-wallpapered game room of the Challenger’s Club.

  “Nice shot,” he said.

  “One must keep a steady nerve.” Davis stalked around the table, figuring out his next shot.

  The club stood on the Upper East Side with Central Park in the background, in a four-story townhouse. Its façade was in the style of German vernacular architecture that harkened back to the days when Manhattan was a Dutch colony. It was made of brick and wood and there had been some recent renovations befitting the Beaux Arts style that had enthralled the modern-day customers of numerous architectural firms. It had tiered sloping roofs, and stood as a somber edifice to the desire for humans to uncover the mystery and wonder of the planet they lived on.

  “Is that why you invited me, Davis? To remind me of your resolve?”

  The big game hunter stroked a finger and thumb down his goatee. “What if it’s to join forces rather than work at cross purposes?” He tapped the tip of his cue stick on the table’s rail. “The nine in the side pocket.” He began lining up his shot. “The aims of your institute and mine are not diametrically opposed, you know.”