The Strivers' Row Spy

by Jason Overstreet

  Looking at Powell, I could have sworn he was white himself. But he wasn’t. He was colored, and looked to be in his fifties. His dark-rimmed eyeglasses, buttoned-up almond-colored suit, and wavy hair gave him the look of an aristocrat. His burgundy waistcoat was more distinguished-looking, and perhaps of a thicker cloth, than the vests the average Harlem man was sporting—more British perhaps. And though I wanted it for myself, it was certainly more appropriate for a man his age.

  “Brother Powell gonna need someone involved he can trust,” said Eason. “Lotta money being invested. And though God is watching over him and his congregation, the devil also has a vested interest.”

  “Amen,” said Powell. “The congregation has given generously with their tithing, and I don’t want to let them down. They’re willing to be patient as long as the end result is a marvelous place of worship. I’ve told them that this is at least a three-year project. I’ve had visions of building a church since my Yale Divinity School days.”

  Reverend Powell was beaming with pride. He crossed his legs and I noticed one of his freshly polished patent-leather shoes. The man was refined, both in dress and demeanor.

  “I’ve always marveled at beautiful architecture,” he added. “My intention is to have the church built in a new Gothic and Tudor style. The architect I’m hoping to hire shares my taste. He’s the renowned Charles Bolton, but he doesn’t come cheap. If all goes well I want stained glass windows and Italian marble furnishings. It will be a grand undertaking.”

  “Where will it be?” I asked.

  “On West 138th. Right next to Liberty Hall.”

  “Look, Brother Temple,” said Eason, “splitting your time between the Black Star Line and the Abyssinian will be good for your health. Besides, even I can only handle small doses of Brother Garvey at a time.”

  “Hold on now,” said Powell. “I’d like to see what the young man knows before we get too far ahead of ourselves.”

  “I’ll offer my services on a trial basis for the next month,” I said. “We’ll see where it goes from there. How does that sound?”

  “You are a God-fearing man, correct?” asked Powell.

  “Both me and my wife.”

  Eason jumped in. “I done told you ’bout his wife, Brother Powell. She from Philadelphia—the late Reverend Cunningham’s daughter.”

  “That’s right. You did tell me that. Very well then, Sidney. I’m meeting with a representative from the Buildings Department on Friday. His name is Henry Burns. He can better explain the obstacles that are standing in our way. And it’ll give you a chance to see the property. Can you be there?”

  “Count on it.”

  “Good. Maybe once you and Burns get better acquainted, I won’t have to deal with him anymore. That will be your job.”

  “That’s what my business is here for.”

  “I need to spend more time preparing my sermons anyway.”

  “What is the story behind the church’s name?” I asked.

  “Oh, it’s a story we’re proud of. Back in 1808 some Ethiopian sea merchants had moved here and were attending the First Baptist Church in Manhattan. They were asked to sit in a different section from the whites. But they refused to. They weren’t accustomed to segregation. They left and started their own church where folks were free to worship openly. Abyssinia is simply another word for Ethiopia.”

  “Ain’t that something,” said Eason, standing. “Well, look, I hate to end our little visit so fast, but I need to get up out of here.” His eyes peering down, he flicked his suit jacket just below his left shoulder, removing some lint. “Chicago is calling. You know where the Yarmouth is docked, right, Brother Sidney?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why don’t you go by and introduce yourself to Captain Cockburn tomorrow. I done told him about you. And feel free to inspect things. Brother Garvey’s ready to fire all them boys down there anyhow. He’s done pegged ’em as a bunch of amateurs. You ready, Reverend?”

  “It was a pleasure,” said Powell, standing to shake my hand.

  “Likewise,” I said.

  After they left I finished my sandwich and headed out. My destination was a telephone booth on Seventh Avenue. Weeks earlier I’d filled an empty can with coins and put it under my car seat. Now they’d come in handy because I was going to call Professor Gold. Just needed to tell him I was fine.

  “I’m glad you’re adjusting to the city,” he said, “and that your evening with Phil Daley went well. How was it hearing Dr. Du Bois?”

  “It was one of the best nights of my life. I can’t thank you enough. But listen, Professor Gold, I’m phoning you from a paying booth, as I’m of the assumption that the Bureau is periodically listening in on my conversations at the office. Why wouldn’t they ensure their investment?”

  “You’re probably correct, Sidney. Better safe than sorry. I certainly don’t ever want any men in suits visiting me out here in the woods.”

  “Don’t worry, Professor Gold. You’re the one person in my inner circle who doesn’t exist.”

  I smiled into the transmitter and heard him snicker through the receiver. I also felt the gnawing stress pain in my upper stomach coming on again.

  “Mary feels the same way about me,” he joked. “All I have is the dog.”

  “I pity you.”

  “Listen, you should also be careful with the sidewalk telephones. If anyone were to follow you, they could wait until you hang up, then dial the operator, claim they’d been accidentally cut off, and have the call reconnected.”

  “Good to know.”

  “I was a spy in my former life,” he said.

  “A magnificent one I’m sure.”

  “Quite average, actually.”

  “In all seriousness,” I said, pressing the right side of my abdomen, “I don’t think the Bureau knows anything about you.”

  “They don’t—at least nothing beyond my being one of your many professors. I spoke to President Tanenbaum about the conversation he originally had with a Bureau agent regarding you. Only academic performance was discussed and a letter he had written to the Army on your behalf. Interesting that they looked into all of your records, public statements you made in the newspaper, and your high school history but never looked into your college living situation—at least as far as we know.”

  “Even the smartest of us overlooks something significant at one time or another.”

  “That is and will always be a fact, Sidney.”

  “I will try not to let too much time pass before contacting you, and I look forward to the day when we can sit down and discuss all of this.”

  “Well, Sidney, I’m sure with you on the job Dr. Du Bois and the NAACP’s future is in good hands.”

  “Let’s hope. It certainly won’t come without great sacrifice.”

  “I’m just glad to hear you’re well.”

  “I am, and send my best to Mary. Good-bye, Professor Gold.”

  “Good-bye, Sidney, and stay safe.”

  12

  I LAID EYES ON THE YARMOUTH FOR THE FIRST TIME AND KNEW I HAD my work cut out for me. It looked to be in terrible condition. Walking through a light rain that had set in, I studied the old vessel and couldn’t help but wonder why it had ever been purchased. If impressing Garvey meant getting this rickety boat up and running, my days as a spy might be short-lived.

  The ship had been floated, its water pumped out, and it was on a dry dock supported by blocks. Making my way past the many hands attending to its every nook and cranny, I saw men trying to remove excessive growth that was covering the hull.

  I approached a skinny young man who was on his knees near one of the deckhouses replacing some damaged wood. I asked him where I could find Captain Cockburn, and he told me that he hadn’t seen him in days. I made my way to the engine room below. I figured if leaky boilers were the problem I’d take a quick look.

  Not only was the room empty, it was filthy. There were tools lying around everywhere. After about an hour of tinkering a
round and getting myself filthy, I discovered that two of the boilers were badly corroded and someone had made a poor attempt at welding several fissures together. They should have known that the rusty steel surrounding the fissures was too eroded to repair.

  I couldn’t be certain, but it looked like a section of bulged boilerplate had been removed and replaced with a much thinner patch—sloppy work to say the least. The Yarmouth needed new boilers—an expensive proposition that Garvey likely wouldn’t want to hear. But how much pressure the boilers could take depended on how many passengers and how much cargo he intended to carry to Cuba. Any excessive steam pressure could cause the boilers to explode.

  * * *

  With Garvey and Eason in Chicago for about a week, it gave me a chance, later in the week, to meet Captain Cockburn and further assess the vessel. Even when Garvey did get back into town, he was busy dealing with other matters. But I managed to explain the boiler problem to Eason. He said that Garvey was adamant about not replacing them, so I ended up spending the next few weeks doing the best repair job I could manage.

  Finally, in mid-October, while sitting in my office with Reverend Powell—going over some logistics regarding the Abyssinian—Amy Ashwood phoned and said that Garvey wanted to see me at the pier immediately.

  Within thirty minutes I arrived and he was already there, standing with his hands on the railing, looking out at his docked Yarmouth.

  “Mr. Garvey?” I said walking up from behind.

  “Ah, good, you’re here, Sidney,” he said, not looking at me, his eyes still on his boat, only a few deck hands scuttling about. “I want to discuss those boilers you repaired.”

  “Okay,” I said, positioning myself to his right, my eyes also fixed on his Yarmouth.

  “Did you do a good job?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Well then, why do you now want to replace the boilers? I received the estimates you gave to Eason. Are you telling me that your patch job will not actually suffice?”

  “It will not suffice for long,” I said. “You need new boilers.”

  “What you’re suggesting will cost as much as an entire new ship. And with the ridiculous salary Captain Cockburn has negotiated for himself, this is no time to spend where we need not spend.”

  I studied his big rickety ship and was certain he’d grossly overpaid for it, a reported $168,500. I believed it was worth no more than $30,000.

  “You have all this education,” he continued, a strong wind kicking up. “If I can get you the proper supplies, can the problem be sufficiently repaired?”

  “It’s not likely,” I reluctantly responded, knowing the move could put my entire employment in jeopardy. But I knew he was a smart man and would be able to sniff out any sort of kowtowing on my part.

  “I pay you to fix. So . . . fix! I just fired all of those idiot Negroes masquerading as mechanics and now you’re bringing bad news just two weeks before we’re scheduled to launch my baby in front of thousands of proud and anxious brothers and sisters.”

  “My deepest apologies, Mr. Garvey.”

  He looked up at the gray sky, as if calculating something. “If we had more of our people qualified to captain boats, I could have told Cockburn to go fry an egg. He used his leverage much to his advantage.”

  He began gripping the railing tightly. “And this bad boiler news comes in the middle of my having to go back and forth to the office of that jackass of a man, Edwin Kilroe. He is without question the most reprehensible assistant district attorney in America. He can’t even disguise his revulsion of the darker race.”

  “Perhaps it can make this one trip to Cuba,” I said, knowing if the boat sank he’d at least know I’d warned him. “But I strongly suggest replacing the boilers before any future voyages.”

  “Now that is much more encouraging news, Sidney.” He pointed his chubby finger at me, looking at me for the first time. “That we can do.”

  He pulled a paper from his coat pocket and began studying it, the wind flapping it about. The man never seemed to stop doing something. And his disregard for what he was saying, when he was saying it, and whom he was saying it to was alarming.

  “Yes,” he said, slapping the paper, “Kilroe may be trying to stop progress, but he’s got another thing coming if he thinks he’s got this proud West Indian pegged. There are four million Negroes around the world pledging their allegiance to my UNIA. Four million! Feel free to repeat this?”

  “Four million,” I repeated, knowing the figure was dramatically overblown.

  “Good, Sidney. You know nothing but science, but our world is a political one. These pale-faced imposters like Dr. Du Bois and his flock will do anything to stop me . . . those who must use the darkness of the skin under their fingernails to prove their Negroness.”

  He folded up the paper, put it back in his pocket, and pulled another from a different pocket. He was obviously juggling different ideas and allowing me in on his thinking. He was preoccupied to say the least.

  “I’m a very dark, proud man. And you, Sidney, you fall somewhere in between. But you’re at least very brown, like this Paul Robeson—this very popular football sportsman. Where does he run with that ball?”

  “Rutgers University.”

  “I see. Rutgers for Robeson—Harvard for Du Bois.”

  “Birkbeck for Garvey,” I said, watching him study the paper, wishing I could read it myself.

  “I read that Mr. Robeson,” he said, “is an admirer of Du Bois. In fact, many men are choosing to follow this Harvard man. But there’s a simple choice for our people to make when comparing that mulatto excuse for a leader to me: Which way forward? Can you say it?”

  “Which way forward?” I repeated.

  “That’s right. Garvey or Du Bois?”

  “Garvey,” I said.

  “Where’s your conviction? Perhaps you would be more comfortable working for him?”

  “Only if he has a big ship for me to work on.”

  He smiled but stayed on the paper. “Ever the professional you are, Sidney—thinking of the job at hand only. Good. And I didn’t hire some white man to fix my boat. I hired you. All we need is each other. And all you and I need is Africa. The white man can have America.”

  “He already does,” I said.

  “Right. But Du Bois and his stolid group of intellectuals are keeping the colored man lazy. Having him believe that if he just goes and receives the white man’s education he can perhaps become president someday. President of the white man’s own country! Foolishness!”

  I shook my head, trying to convince him that I agreed with his sentiment.

  “Look at that ship,” he continued. “It is mine.”

  “It most certainly is.”

  “To be used for international trade, Sidney. The Negro won’t have to depend on whites to exchange goods anymore. We can also allow Negroes to visit Africa on a shorter route, avoid going to Europe first. But as for now, I just want your assurances that you can ready it for launch in two weeks.”

  “You’ve hired me to do a job, Mr. Garvey, and it’s a job I’ll do.”

  I listened to him go on and on about Kilroe some more, along with a myriad of other topics, before he finally ended the conversation by saying, “Come by tomorrow morning at eleven sharp, Sidney. I want to show you something.”

  * * *

  Back at my office an hour later I was heavy into a phone conversation with Speed. He wanted some details about Mr. Garvey and was chomping at the bit. I’d already decided to share only what I felt like sharing.

  “This will be received quite well here in Washington,” said Speed. “What else you got?”

  “Garvey,” I said, “wants me to attend all future sales meetings, along with his lawyers. He claims he doesn’t want to make another offer on a vessel without quote, ‘a man like you present.’ ”

  “This is strong,” said Speed. “Shit. Real strong. Pays to be colored I guess.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “
Nothing, Q. It’s just that none of our white asses can get within ten miles of that Jamaican bastard, that’s all. Continue.”

  “Garvey is also establishing other businesses along West 136th Street with the help of his real estate friend, a Mr. Jimmy Pope. Pope is securing several buildings.”

  “Give me the names of the businesses,” said Speed.

  “One is the Universal Restaurant. There will be a Phyllis Wheatley Hotel and a Booker T. Washington University. Then there’s a tearoom and an ice cream parlor.”

  “A fuckin’ tearoom?” said Speed. “Let me guess . . . they’re gonna serve African tea? Pardon me while I laugh my ass off.”

  “You still writing?” I asked, bothered by his disrespectful tone. “Or do you want me to send all this in a telegram?”

  “Go ahead, Q. But a fuckin’ tearoom!” He laughed. “Go ahead.”

  “He wants me to assess the electrical wiring throughout all of these facilities at some point.”

  “Good, that means access. Hold on one minute, Q. Our boss would like to speak with you. Just continue filling him in. And be sure to send a telegram detailing the names of these businesses after we get off the phone here. Okay?”

  “Got it,” I said, surprised that Mr. Hoover was getting on.

  “Hold on, Q. Here’s the boss.”

  “Q3Z?” said Hoover, his somewhat youthful voice reminding me again of our age similarity.

  “Yes, sir,” I calmly answered. “This is Q3Z.”

  “You brought up a name I see written down here, a Jimmy Pope. What other names did Garvey mention?”

  “A Mr. Edwin Kilroe,” I said, knowing I wasn’t going to bring up anything Garvey had said about Du Bois. “He’s the assistant district attorney.”

  “And?” said Hoover. “Take me inside the conversation. He must have gotten into the race thing. He prides himself on having an us-against-them mentality.”

  “I see,” I said, laughing on the inside at the hypocrisy. “Mr. Garvey claimed that he was being targeted by Kilroe as a lawbreaker because of his growing popularity, his black power. Garvey said he’d shout ‘Africa for the Africans to the hilltop,’ in spite of Kilroe’s threats.”