So for us whatever happens will be no surprise. We’ve kept the faith, and for that alone all shall be well. Yes, all shall be well. But who knows? Perhaps there’s a trace of our old bee tree’s honey still concealed in the carcass of our raging political lion….
Yes, Hickman, he thought, all will be well. For in exploiting our condition he’s retaught us who loved him and all who’ll listen a lesson taught our people following the Reconstruction: that in this land, and no matter their color, the weak and powerless are granted either false hopes or blind ignorant bliss. And that the trick of survival lies in keeping at the endless task of distinguishing the one from the other. Therefore, we must keep “keeping on.” So we’ll take our look at the man and this city and return home. And perhaps all we’ll ever know for certain is that we have endured and endured the stress and hardships of our enduring. So, having chosen to hope for justice and equity in a land where so many are eager to exploit the mystery of color to our disadvantage, we’ll have to keep clinging to hope and leave the Founding Fathers’ dream of eternal bliss to the future—
Bliss? he thought as he awoke with a start, good Lord, Hickman, how could you come up with such a crude misnaming! Anyway, we’ll have to go on struggling for our dream, because given the way the deck has been stacked, what more can we reasonably expect?
Yes, Hickman, and that’s why for us the mystery and inescapable agony of hoping lies in its being a form of gambling, a game in which winners take the leanest, hindmost part. So, like playing jazz in the days when it earned fellows like you little fame and even less money, it has to serve as its own compensation. Maybe that’s its built-in joke and realistic function. If so, maybe it’s still working behind the scenes in its own secret fashion. Because in spite of all our defeats it might well be blues-like and a transcendent triumph over all who would reduce us to hopelessness—Amen!
Yes, Hickman, but after staking so much on time, change, and a little lost boy you forgot the joker who can take the form of a woman! That’s right, you ignored the fact that usually when folks like us reach out for a pot there’s always some woman of theirs who’s waiting to grab it. And I mean by any means possible. You, who learned years ago that their men have used them to block the gate to equality. And if it were left to them Saint Peter would turn out to be an evil, nigger-hating woman! It’s a terrible idea, but the truth is the truth, and that’s the nasty old black-and-white mess of it! So thank God that there’s also been the other more charitable side, in which, sometimes, it’s been the women who’ve extended us a helping hand….
But not that secretary! Why couldn’t she bring herself to bend a bit? If she had, we could be seeing something of the city instead of worrying about our next move…. Well, she didn ‘t, so that increases the danger. Because even if she told him that we have arrived he might have decided to keep playing hide-and-seek, not realizing that this time, with a new player out to destroy him, the game is for keeps. But how do we reach him?
And now, thumbing through the old notebook in which he recorded bits of information supplied by friends whose work involved travel throughout the country and by former members and their children who now lived in the North, he came upon a red-inked entry which suggested a possible means of reaching his man.
Beneath the names of a woman and an exclusive hotel he had written the cryptic words: Penthouse for pink-toed friend. Hollywood Blonde. Dallas. Likes mink coats and Dark Gables. Ellington fan.
It’s a nasty idea, he thought, and risky, because it might mean coming up against even more hostility and in a scene that’s even more unfamiliar. Still, considering the pressure of time and our limited choices it’s worth exploring.
Checking his watch to see if there had been ample time for the members of the steering committee to have rested, he telephoned Wilhite and asked that he have them join him for a strategy session. Then, selecting a quiet corner of the lobby where comfortable chairs were arranged around a low table, he waited until Wilhite, Sister Bea, Sister Arter, Brother Jackson, and Elder Whitby arrived.
“After our trip I know you should be resting,” he said, “but given what happened at that office I thought we’d better come up with a new plan as soon as possible. I apologize, but that’s why I asked you to join me. And since some of you are not going to approve what I’m about to propose I suggest that we keep our voices calm and act relaxed so as to avoid attracting the attention of anyone who might become curious.
“Most of all, let’s talk without mentioning names, because after what we’ve just gone through he’s probably been alerted and intends to keep out of sight. And unless he’s changed, he might even have someone keeping an eye on us. If so, we could wear ourselves out knocking on doors and making telephone calls, but the closest we’ll get will be some telephone operator or secretary. Therefore, while you were upstairs I’ve been trying to think of other ways of reaching him. And since he seems to be using women to cover his trail it occurred to me that due to the seriousness of the situation we might be forgiven if we use a woman to run him to earth. In brief, I have the name and address of one who might save us a lot of snooping around and lead us to him. I don’t like the idea of using a woman to catch him, because not only is it unethical, but it could prove more embarrassing to us than to him. So while I apologize for the idea, it’s the best I can come up with. What’s your opinion?”
“Revern’,” Sister Bea said, “which one of us are you talking about, me or Sister Arter?”
Hickman stared, swallowed, and grinned.
“Why neither, Sister Bea—and you should know I wouldn’t put you ladies in such a position. I was referring to one of his lady friends.”
“Now that’s better,” Sister Bea said, “but which one would that be?”
“Remember,” Hickman said with a look around the lobby, “that I said that we’d use no names. Besides, her name’s not important. But according to my information she’s one of his favorites. Such a favorite that he maintains a penthouse suite for her in a high-class hotel. And because it’s the last place in the world he’d expect us to have heard of it might be a good place to tree him.”
“So what are you suggesting?” Elder Whitby said.
“That we try to reach him there, and if we don’t we can at least tell his lady friend our reason for trying to reach him and hope that she’ll pass on the word.”
“I don’t like it,” Wilhite said, “not after that business in the elevator. It’s too risky.”
“I agree,” Hickman said, “but since he insists on playing hide-and-seek it could be crucial. I think we should consider it, and not only because a life is at stake but because we don’t know the man who’s after him, where he is, or the time and place in which he intends to attack. Therefore we have to get to our man, and as quickly as possible.”
Following a brief discussion it was agreed, and after the sisters had exchanged their white uniform for less conspicuous clothing the group left the Longworth by taxi and headed for another hotel which was reputed to compare favorably with the old Paris Ritz.
Upon reaching the entrance to the imposing establishment Hickman climbed out and stood looking on while his companions slowly assembled themselves with grave, Southern decorum. And sensing their intimidation as now they stood taking in the hotel’s grandeur he recalled his recent experience with the Oklahoma hotel, and stepping between Sister Bea and Sister Arter, he nodded casually to the towering doorman and escorted the group through the doors of the hotel and toward its reception desk.
Astir with a quiet bustle of movement and a discreet murmur of genteel voices, the elegant lobby did indeed remind him of hotels he had known during his tours of France as a jazz musician; but now as he led his group toward the reception desk it was as though they were entering a televised drama in which the sound track was faltering to an inarticulate buzz while expressions of consternation were transforming most of the faces that were turning to stare. And now, reaching the reception desk, he was facing a desk clerk who
was obviously startled, and the instant he named the suite to which he wished to be directed the young man turned pale with panic.
“B-b-but, sir,” the young man stammered, “we have no such suite; it doesn’t exist! You’ve made an unfortunate mistake!”
“Now, isn’t that strange,” Hickman said, “because we were reliably informed….”
“… Informed,” the clerk gasped. “You were informed?”
“That’s right, and it is extremely important that we contact the Senator….”
Suddenly throwing up his hands and sending petals flying from the white carnation which graced his lapel, the clerk started away.
“Wait here,” he said. “This is a matter for the manager.”
Watching the clerk rush to the rear of the reception area and disappear into an office, Hickman winked at the blank faces of the others and grinned.
“You were right, Sister Bea,” he said in an undertone, “no room at the inn. So now we’ll see what kind of face the manager puts on when he sees who’s invaded his fancy lobby”—and looked around to see a small, dark-haired, foreign-looking man rushing toward them with his palms extended as though restraining an unwieldy wall of unwelcome air.
“There has been a mistake! There is no such suite,” the little man exclaimed as he hurried around the desk, “no such suite! Absolutely no such suite!”
“But,” Hickman began, “we were informed….”
“No, sir,” the manager interrupted, “you were misinformed! It cannot be! Our guests are special and their privacy and security is our top priority, so I should know! … Which is to say that we are intimately familiar with each of our guests, therefore when I tell you that no such suite exists you must believe me!”
“But I wasn’t about to contradict you,” Hickman said, “it’s just that we were told …”
“… Told? Told by whom?”
“I’m sorry,” Hickman said, “but since it appears that there’s been a mistake, I’d rather not say. But we’re strangers in town, and since our informant was trying to help us reach a very busy official you’ll understand our not wishing to embarrass him. Especially when it’s possible that we’re the ones who made a mistake by confusing the name of your hotel with the one he gave us….”
“Undoubtedly, sir,” the manager said. “And that is most regrettable! For while we would be proud to include that most qualified and desirable gentleman among our guests, we are, alas, not so fortunate. Which makes it all the more distressing that you were so misinformed—for what if otheirs should hear the same canard and assume that after having been so honored we had lost the Senator’s patronage? It would be a disaster! A loss of prestige! Therefore, sir, it is imperative that we be given the name of this irresponsible informant so that he can be corrected!”
“I understand your concern, sir,” Hickman said, “but don’t worry, because I’ll see that he’s informed of our mistake—
“Yes, Deacon,” he said, turning quickly to Wilhite, “that’s probably what happened—we picked the wrong hotel!”
Then back to the manager, “But just to be certain, sir, let me ask you if you were given the correct name of the individual whose suite we asked to see….”
“Why of course,” the manager said, “everyone knows the Senator, he is a most esteemed official! Why, of course!”
“So that settles it,” Hickman said. “He doesn’t keep a suite here, but he’s often seen here—is that it?”
Drawing himself up to his full height with his head thrown back, the manager’s voice warbled like that of a bird thrilling in springtime.
“Monsieur, if I may say so, we are unquestionably the best! Therefore every somebody who is somebody is our guest at some time or the other! It is de rigueur! They must, as you say, make our scene!”
Hickman smiled and shook his head with his eyes playing over the richly paneled lobby and its curious guests.
“Yes, I would think so,” he said, “it looks like that kind of place and I’m sorry that we disturbed you. But before we leave, would you be so kind as to do us a favor?”
“Oh, a favor! What kind of favor?”
“It’s just that if the Senator happens by here at any time during the next four hours you’ll be so kind as to tell him that Reverend Hickman and a group of his members have arrived and can be reached at the Longview. Would you be so kind as to give him that message?”
Suddenly beaming as though presented an unexpected bonus, the manager executed a slight Continental bow.
“Why, of course,” he said, “even though I doubt that the Senator will honor us with his presence today. He does, after all, have several friends among our permanent guests. So of course! And if he happens to drop in I assure you that we’ll be delighted to give him your message.”
“And I’ll bet a fat man that he’ll be true to his word,” Sister Bea said, her face a blank as she glared at Hickman and nodded. “Yes, sir!”
“Yes, madame,” the manager said with a smile as suddenly he seized Sister Bea’s hand, “I’ll be delighted!”
“And we thank you, sir,” Hickman said and broke off as now, with an elegant bow, the manager raised Sister Bea’s worn brown hand to his lips and kissed it.
Then, thinking, Good Lord, he was watching Sister Bea staring at the manager’s lowered head with eyes wide with wonder, then at himself with an expression that vacillated for a second between a ghostly smile and a threat of tears, then flamed abruptly into a seething mask of indignation—as now, fuming with outrage, she snatched her hand away, and he found himself fixed by the blazing eyes of a virtuous woman who appeared to hold him responsible for being near-dishonored by a sleek white foreigner’s sensual guile.
“Madame … sir,” the manager said with an eye-twinkling smile, “you are most … er … welcome!”
“And we,” Hickman said with a woeful sigh, “are truly thankful!”
Why, he thought as he turned away, didn’t I simply ask to speak with the woman?
Leaving the hotel for a downtown section by taxi, Hickman held a still-fuming Sister Bea’s arm as he led the group to the editorial offices of a middle-of-the-road newspaper known for its unstinting editorial criticism of the Senator. Such hostility had led a rival paper to accuse its management of inspiring the wave of protest which Washington Negroes had begun directing at the Senator, but it had denied having either a pro-Negro or anti-Sunraider bias. Nevertheless, after hoping that he could count on its assistance, he was again disappointed. For after penetrating the barriers that protected the managing editor and asking his aid in reaching the Senator, the man not only refused but failed to question him as to his motive.
“We’ll not be a party to any of your ill-advised protests,” the managing editor said, “and you should realize that this is a newspaper, not a bureau of private information. Why don’t you try getting him at his office?”
“That’s the problem,” Hickman said. “We did.”
Leading the disappointed group to the street, Hickman drew Wilhite aside.
“Deacon,” he said, “if we keep drawing blanks like this some of the members are going to become discouraged. So now I want you to get the others back to the hotel and wait there while I try going after him by another route.
“I don’t know, Wilhite,” he added, “but seeing so many of us at one time seems to make these Washington white folks nervous.”
Wilhite laughed. “You’re right, A.Z., they’d probably feel more comfortable if we were toting trays or dragging cotton sacks. But how about our straightlaced Sister Bea and that Frenchman manager?”
“Wilhite, believe me, I’ve never seen anything like it. She reacted as though instead of being kissed by a Frenchman she was being bitten by a rattlesnake! Yes, sir! And then she stared at me as if I had told him to do it! Yes, but for a second there she was tempted! I was watching her expression leap from ‘yes’ to ‘no’ faster than Scott Joplin could leap an octave!”
Minutes later, hoping that Miss Pry
or might have changed her mind, Hickman was back at the Senator’s office building—but this time he got no further than the elevators.
For as luck would have it, the single guard on duty was the same who had been teased by Brother Provo, and without ceremony he found himself being hustled from the building.
Irritated at being manhandled but amused by his memory of the guard’s encounter with Brother Provo, he relaxed his body and left the smaller man struggling against the sudden inertia of his bulk as best he could. And while the guard strained to wrestle him toward the doors he withdrew into that mute, Tarbaby’s state of remoteness with which he had long disciplined himself in abiding fools and avoiding most provocations of violent intent. Then, aware that a curious crowd was beginning to gather he relented and allowed himself to be pushed out of the building and onto the sidewalk. And not until the guard snatched his favorite panama from his head and threw it to the sidewalk did he react.
And now, with the guard silently daring him to retaliate he waited for him to complete the old ritual of insult by stomping his hat and selected the man’s prominent Adam’s-apple as the precise target for his counterattack.
Then, suddenly, he felt an urge to laugh. For in surveying the crowd for possible allies he was ambushed by an old minstrel song: Who’s been here since I been gone/ A great big nigger with a derby on, and as the refrain resounded in his mind he was relieved to see that his man was standing with legs too far apart to stomp his hat. And experiencing a wild mixture of anger and laughter he bent, swooped up his panama, came erect, and stood calmly flicking the dirt from his hat with his handkerchief.
Three Days Before the Shooting . . . Page 80
