“You don’t mind sitting with your plate in your lap do you, Sidney?”
“No.”
“Good. Our table is filling up quickly and I don’t want anyone to interrupt our conversation.”
We walked into an adjacent room that was filled with antique furniture and old European art. Daley took a seat on a black sofa, and I joined him. I guess he felt comfortable talking to me because of his previous conversations with Gold.
“Back to James Weldon Johnson,” he said, trying to keep his plate from sliding off his lap. “His political influence in Washington is going to be pivotal in helping the NAACP have a voice. He will be lobbying Congress to help pass the Dyer Anti-Lynching Bill.”
“That’ll be one hell of a task,” I said.
“Yeah. His presence in the South, speaking in favor of the bill, has already made him quite unpopular with the Ku Klux Klan. In fact, there are little Klan cells popping up in the North more and more, spawned, no doubt, by the growth of the NAACP. The more Johnson pushes for the bill, the more I fear for his safety.”
“How far does the bill go?” I asked, taking a bite of rice.
“It seeks to make lynching a federal felony.”
I watched him dig into his food and wanted to ask about Max Eastman but thought better of it. I didn’t want to come off as some investigative journalist, and I figured if I was patient enough, he might just bring Eastman up on his own.
“I’m still thinking about your comment regarding Mr. Weldon Johnson’s safety,” I said.
“The current secretary of the NAACP—guy named Shillady—got himself beaten to a bloody pulp in Austin just a few days ago. By whom? A judge, for Chrissakes! Can you believe that?”
“Doesn’t shock me,” I said. “How could it?”
“Shillady was white.”
“Oh.”
“Now you can see why I fear for Johnson’s very life if he becomes secretary.”
“Some things are worth dying for,” I said. “Maybe Johnson feels that this cause is.”
“I’m sure he does. Let’s get back to our table.”
Plates in hand, we made our way back into the main room, which was full now, and took our seats. I looked around and couldn’t believe what I saw. A young man sitting to our left, two tables over, was none other than Paul Mann, one of the agents I’d been in training with. What the hell is he doing here?
“Mr. Daley,” I said, “you wouldn’t happen to know who the gentleman in the blue suit is—the one with his legs crossed?”
“Ah yes,” he said, cutting. “That is Paul Mann, the new sales assistant over at the Crisis. He’s actually been put in charge of increasing our New England distribution. Brilliant lad. Columbia graduate. Recognize him?”
“I believe we met at a conference of some sort during college,” I said.
So it was Paul Mann whom Hoover had sicced on Du Bois. I guess he figured that because there were so many whites involved in both the NAACP and the Crusader, he could use Paul. I had probably said two words to him during our entire training. As I recalled, Ellington hadn’t liked him very much either. The guy was arrogant.
I scanned the rest of the room looking for someone else I might recognize. I was beginning to wonder just who else was or wasn’t a spy; maybe I was surrounded by them.
Paul Mann and I finally locked eyes. “If you’ll excuse me for just a second, Mr. Daley, the restroom calls.”
Mouth full, he simply nodded while I kept my eyes on Mann, as if summoning him to join me.
A minute later, as I stood in the hallway near the restroom studying one of the paintings on the wall, he obliged.
“You would almost swear this is a Rembrandt,” I said, leaning in.
“I didn’t know Hoover assigned you to some art aficionado,” Mann snarkily said, as he studied a piece on the adjacent wall, neither of us openly acknowledging the other.
“Funny,” I said. “But perhaps Garvey is just that.”
“Your assignment is Garvey, huh?” he asked in his uppity, Ivy League accent.
“Yes. And yours?”
“Tonight’s keynote speaker,” he said.
“You know they’re basically one and the same, right?” I asked, still looking at the painting.
“You mean enemy aliens? To that the answer is no. Du Bois is home grown. But enemy communists? Well, of course, the answer to that is yes.”
“It’s probable,” I said, “that a lot of the people Du Bois and Garvey know cross paths with one another. Maybe some folks I meet might share pertinent info with me. Pertinent to you. Might help you do your job better. Help you dig in the right places.”
“Maybe,” he said. “At least I’m already in. Are you?”
“Not yet. But I will be soon.”
“Then this is all a bit premature, don’t you think?”
“Look,” I said, “we’re both new agents. And New York just might swallow both of us up. Why not help each other?”
“Uh, New York is home for me,” he said, still stuck on that point.
“But colored New York ain’t. And I know there’s nothing you’d like more than to move right on up Hoover’s ladder. So . . . when possible, I’ll help you if you help me. I take it you’re working at the Crisis?”
“Indeed,” he said, both of us still eyeing our paintings.
“What is the best time for me to reach you there? You know, to tell you I’m hungry. I love eating at a restaurant called Snappy’s.”
“Very well,” he said, beginning to walk away, “I’m usually free from eleven to one.” He stopped and turned, finally looking at me. Then, with a smirk, said, “But you still have to get in.”
With that he returned to his seat and I did the same, only to have Daley start right up. “I tell you what, kid, I’m a chartered member of the Civic Club. So are Mr. Johnson and Mr. Du Bois. You’ll have to come down one day as my guest—get to know folks.”
“I’d be very thankful for such a privilege.”
A redheaded gentleman stepped to a podium at the front of the room to address the audience. The room grew quiet.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it is time for me to introduce our guest for this evening. He is the author of the groundbreaking and internationally celebrated book The Souls of Black Folk. He is credited with playing a major role in the formation of the NAACP and is the editor of America’s preeminent colored news magazine, the Crisis. He has been called the most important colored voice since Frederick Douglass. Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm reception to Dr. William Edward Burghardt Du Bois.”
Du Bois had been sitting in a different room, out of sight. He entered and approached the podium. He was not a tall man, but walked very upright, with much confidence, and was impeccably dressed—distinguished-looking. He appeared much younger than his fifty-one years, wearing a well-groomed goatee and exuding a charisma that swept through the room. He had lost all of his hair on top and kept the dark ring that was left cut very short. It made him look professorial.
The guests stood in applause for quite a spell. It was a magnetic moment—one I would never forget.
“Thank you very much,” he said with humility. “Thank you.”
I took a peek at Paul Mann as he impersonated a loyal employee. I wanted to walk over and hit him right between the eyes, but who was I to knock a man for being an informant. I was guilty of grotesque hypocrisy.
“Thank you,” Du Bois said again. “Please . . . sit.”
A hush came over the room. Du Bois gathered himself and opened what looked like a leather folder. You could hear a pin drop.
“We are returning from war,” he said. “The Crisis and tens of thousands of black men were drafted into a great struggle. For bleeding France and what she means and has meant and will mean to us and humanity and against the threat of German race arrogance, we fought gladly and to the last drop of blood; for America and her highest ideals, we fought in far-off hope; for the dominant Southern oligarchy entrenched in Washington, we
fought in bitter resignation. . . .”
The entire room was captivated—hanging on his every word. I had already read this portion of Du Bois’s lecture in a May edition of the Crisis. He was reading from his own editorial entitled “Returning Soldiers,” but listening to him say the words live was like hearing them for the first time.
“But today we return. We return from the slavery of uniform which the world’s madness demanded us to don to the freedom of civil garb. We stand again to look America squarely in the face and call a spade a spade. We sing: This country of ours, despite all its better souls have done and dreamed, is yet a shameful land. It lynches. And lynching is barbarism of a degree of contemptible nastiness unparalleled in human history. Yet for fifty years we have lynched two Negroes a week, and we have kept this up right through the war. . . .”
His words were shaking me, putting me into a transcendent state, allowing me to forget about my achy rib. Everything was coming into focus.
“This is the country to which we Soldiers of Democracy return. This is the fatherland for which we fought! But it is our fatherland. It was right for us to fight. The faults of our country are our faults. Under similar circumstances, we would fight again. But by the God of Heaven, we are cowards and jackasses if now that that war is over, we do not marshal every ounce of our brain and brawn to fight a sterner, longer, more unbending battle against the forces of hell in our own land. We return. We return from fighting . . .”
After the reading, Du Bois went on to speak for several minutes. I wanted to walk up to the man as soon as he finished and offer my services for free. But I realized my contribution to his cause would forever go faceless. My work was to be done in the shadows, without recognition or appreciation.
8
IT WAS NOW SEPTEMBER FOURTH, THE DAY I’D BEEN LONGING FOR. AS I sat and waited for Loretta to step off the train, my broken rib throbbed. Earlier that day I’d mailed an anonymous letter to Du Bois, informing him of Paul Mann and a few other items.
Dear Dr. Du Bois,
It has come to my attention that the gentleman you recently hired as a circulations assistant, Mr. Paul Mann, is an informant for the Bureau of Investigation. You would be well served not to out him, as knowing his identity and whereabouts will serve you well and prevent the Bureau from planting any further informants within your organization for the time being. Telling him only what you don’t mind the government knowing will also keep the Bureau at bay. Thank you for the leadership you are giving to the American Negro. The prosperity of your association is critical, and it is important for you to know that there are many of us working behind the scenes to protect the movement. Sincerely, The Loyalist
From this point forward I intended to write such letters. I would keep him one step ahead of Garvey and the government as best I could. What I actually intended to solicit from Agent Mann were details about what Hoover was asking him to look for. I figured he just might share such info if I volunteered what Hoover was asking me to focus on. But it was going to take time to build this type of relationship.
Loretta stepped off the train in a pink sundress looking more vibrant and beautiful than ever. Seeing her was sure to be the medicine I had been missing. I had no intentions of letting her see me in pain. I wanted her to feel at ease, safe, and inspired to paint something beautiful.
“Hello, my love,” she said. I didn’t say a word but grabbed the sides of her face with both hands and gave her a long, warm kiss.
We entered the town house just before sundown. All I had installed so far were a bedspring and mattress. The rest of the place was so empty our voices echoed.
As we made our way into the master bedroom, Loretta tried to act interested in the interior aesthetics, but she was more interested in touching and holding me. The feeling was mutual. It was as if we had just met, both feeling the magnetic force of physical attraction.
She grabbed my shoulders and kindly guided me backward toward the sheetless mattress. I lay down as she slowly climbed on top of me, straddling me in a squatting position, lifting the bottom front side of her sundress and holding it in her mouth, lips gripping it tightly.
She put her hands on my upper chest, using it to press against and maintain her balance. She aggressively unzipped my slacks with her left hand, never bothering to pull them down. Fondling my hardness with the same hand, she used the tip of it to pull her white cotton panties to the side and put me in her.
The warm thrust immediately relieved all of my pain, and I reached for the back of her head, pulling it down with my right hand—palming it as the tips of her hair tickled my nose. I put my hands under her dress, clutching her hips in an attempt to slow her movement, but her thrust only became more aggressive.
She sensed my release and put her right fingers in my mouth. I softly bit down on them as the two of us climaxed for what felt like everlastingness.
* * *
The next morning her father’s Chevrolet Baby Grand arrived from Philadelphia while she was still asleep. Because of my injury, I still couldn’t do my Kodokan routine, so I drove over to the post office. The smoothness of the ride likely spoiled me forever, and the slick automobile blended right in with the rest of Harlem’s finest.
Waiting for me in my mailbox was a copy of the Chicago Defender, arguably the leading colored newspaper. In it was their “Weekly Comment” regarding the Carnegie Hall meeting I had tried to attend. I sat behind the wheel and read it.
Such meetings as that of the Marcus Garvey one Monday night, Aug. 25, in Carnegie Hall are more harmful than helpful to the Race. We say Marcus Garvey because it would appear that he alone is the whole association. In the first place, the man who got himself misquoted in all the white dailies of Tuesday morning, Aug. 26, is not an American citizen. Our Race, it is true, is struggling hard here for justice, but the fiery little man who wants to start a Black Star Line to Africa will find conditions almost as bad in his own country, where he might better center his activities. His organization, too, is composed mainly of foreigners, and certainly does not represent one iota of the American Race man. Our people will not be frightened into quitting their fight for equality, but we can well dispense with the help of a man like Garvey.
Next, I headed over to my new office on 145th and Seventh. A Bureau employee was there finishing up. Dressed as a handyman, he showed me the layout and explained what was what. Two phones had been installed, one for everyday business, the other for Bureau communications only. And they had separate lines in case Hoover or Speed tried to contact me while I was on the business phone with a client.
Several wooden chairs and a desk had also been delivered. It was a small office, but of good quality. I was amazed at how freely the Bureau was willing to spend its money on all things that concerned spying on so-called enemy aliens like Garvey. Whatever I needed to enhance the effectiveness of my mission was granted. And the office itself was expensive—especially considering it was only a front business, a home base and cover for me.
But it was smart to have such an office because it would give the appearance to greater Harlem that I was independent, and Garvey himself would surely be more suspicious of an unemployed man coming to beg for a job. If and when I did go to work for Garvey, greater Harlem would simply see it as another of my many contracts.
I called the Bureau, which had much information to share. A secured post office box had been set up for me under the code name Q3Z. It was located at a different post office from the one I’d been using. One of their couriers would be delivering sealed telegrams and money addressed to that box, so I was to check it regularly. I was to phone in all newsworthy messages by dialing the Bureau’s telegraph office. An operator would transcribe my message, and it would soon be read by Hoover, then filed away. The Bureau wanted all brand-new info in writing.
Two men from Davis Brothers’ Signs were out front putting up a small placard with my business name on it. It read: TEMPLE CONSULTING. That was all—no specifics about the type of consulting. Si
nce I would rarely be there and solicit only the work I was interested in, it was important not to advertise loudly and lure more folks in than I could help.
I would market the business as an engineering and land-use planning firm. I would do no labor but offer consultation to any interested developers, builders, architects, or property owners who needed my service. Being strictly a consultant on such matters was not only something I was comfortable with, it would also allow me to come and go freely. It would allow me to provide a legitimate service and build an actual client base. I figured that when I left the Bureau, I could keep the business, assuming it created revenue.
Today I planned to make my first attempt at visiting Garvey’s office. But first I was going to pick Loretta up and take her to breakfast. She wanted to spend the afternoon soaking up the Harlem art. It would still be days before our furniture and other items arrived, so there was little to do around the house.
We sat in a booth at Snappy’s and talked while enjoying our oatmeal and coffee. She was still melancholy about her father but at the same time anxious to see the new city.
“I wish I was an early riser like you,” she said. “The idea of getting up at five every morning is dreadful.”
“The good thing,” I said, “is that it gives me a chance to get three hours of work done before you even wake up.”
“Do you think we can make a habit of meeting for breakfast like this? It will give me a chance to connect with you every day, at least briefly.”
“I don’t see any reason why we can’t.”
“Thanks for letting me snoop for a bit across the street,” she said. “The paintings being done in the class over there are some of the best I’ve ever seen. The instructor is a woman from France. She said she teaches the class two days a week and that there are other classes being taught by foreign artists all over Harlem.”
“Wait until they see your work.”
The Strivers' Row Spy Page 8
