“People think the shadows illustrate something evil about America,” said Peter Monday in his high-pitched voice, as he stood over his painting, pointing out its various features.
“I see lots of pain, Peter,” said Ginger Bouvier, a French woman who’d been in New York for two years. “Plus de douleur que je peux supporter. More pain than I can bear.”
“The shadows are insignificant,” added May Baxter, a tiny copper-skinned women in her forties. “One would be better served focusing on the faces themselves, the joy emanating from each as they delight in tearing off their shirts.”
Tony Binn was the youngest of the group—probably no older than eighteen. “The smoke reminds me of a painting I saw at a show last month,” he said. “The artist’s name is Stuart Davis, and the painting was called Newark. Has anyone else seen it or even heard of Davis?”
Everyone shook their heads no except Loretta. “When I saw Davis’s Newark,” she said, “it hurt me. I can still see it vividly. I see an emerging burst of blood near the center of the painting. The blood is beginning to fill a dormant riverbed. Perhaps it’s blood from the city’s slain innocent. They’ve been slaughtered in masses in the adjacent barn or shack by an army of evil occupiers. It makes me recall the bloody images Gustave Flaubert’s novel Salammbô created in my mind.”
Her words took everyone by surprise and seemed out of place for the otherwise casual mood. And she was describing something they’d never seen. It was as if she’d been thinking about the obscure Stuart Davis painting for days and was offering up far more analysis than the group was prepared for. Her words simply confirmed to me that she was still able to go to dark places on a whim—especially when it came to the issue of death. But did she see darkness where there was none?
“Hmm,” said Tony Binn with a confused look. “I didn’t see any violence at all in Davis’s painting.”
“They had all of the colors you wanted,” I said, interrupting.
“Thank you so much, Love,” said Loretta.
“J’ai besoin d’un bon monsieur de faire les choses pour moi,” said Ginger.
Loretta translated. “Ginger said she needs a kind gentleman to do such things for her.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Yes, I know I am a lucky woman,” said Loretta. “Oui, je sais que je suis une femme très chanceuse.”
“Your French is getting quite good,” said Ginger.
“Thanks to you, Oh Wise One of a thousand tongues,” said Loretta, beginning to joke a bit, her arms moving about. “All of the greats speak French. Maybe I’m preparing to become a world sensation—a Suzanne Valadon, if you will. Oui, Ginger?”
“Oui. A master of canvas and language. A savant. The . . . Loretta Temple.”
The two stood, giving each other a hug and then a kiss on the cheek. They had developed a deep friendship and had considerable respect for each other, Ginger’s effusiveness having certainly rubbed off on Loretta.
Ginger was not married, had an abundance of wealth, and exhibited much more independence than the average American woman. She was quite the painter herself and had even taught at the University of Paris. Her fascination with colored artists and Harlem life was what had brought her to America—a sabbatical of sorts.
“Suzanne Valadon?” said Ginger, sitting back down. “Non, Loretta, vous serez mieux que sa. You will be better than her.”
Ginger rarely held her tongue about any subject, even in front of men, and there was never enough wine on hand for her. But she was a delight. Her willingness to show public affection toward Loretta, regardless of whoever was around, had been good for my wife. And with me rarely at home, it was helping her recover. Ginger also taught a weekly Impressionism class in Greenwich Village, made up of about twenty students, most of them white, and Loretta was enthralled by it.
“I’m off to the office,” I said, purposely not mentioning the fact that I was actually heading to Madison Square Garden.
“Oh, Sidney,” Loretta said, grabbing something from the desk, “will you do me a favor and drop these invitations off on your way. I’ve invited a couple of the neighbors to the party. Both live here on The Row.”
“Who?” I asked as she handed me two cards.
“Dr. Louis T. Wright and Vertner Tandy. Vertner is the architect. You two will have plenty to talk about. I met them both at the Strivers’ Row Homeowners Committee meeting last week.”
“Ah, Loretta,” said Ginger, “only one week ’til your birthday. You must take her shopping, Sidney.”
“Yes,” I said, smiling. “I must. Listen, Loretta, Reverend Eason will also be attending.”
“Wonderful. He promised to show me some of his drawings. Make sure you remind him to bring them.”
Later I did just that, as I stood with Eason near a tunnel entryway directly behind the stage that he and an entourage of UNIA officials would soon speak from.
“I don’t think your wife will be impressed with my artistic skills,” yelled Eason over the noise of the crowd.
“But she thinks you can do no wrong,” I countered.
“I hope all these Negroes packed in this hotbox feel the same way about Marcus,” he shouted. We both looked up into the sea of black faces—slowly panning back and forth. “God knows one of these riled up folks may have been sent here by the devil. The same devil that sent George Tyler.”
Shortly after Tyler had shot Garvey that past year, he’d apparently jumped to his death while in jail. That fact merely added to our suspicion about who’d sent him to kill Garvey. As for me, I wondered who’d sent Tyler, Sleepy, and his heavyset partner.
I tried to avoid speculation, as it could have been anyone. But all of us had become paranoid ever since—constantly looking over our shoulders—flinching at the slightest clang or pop. UNIA staff members had received several other threats over the phone and each time had notified the police. But it became apparent that the men in uniform had a strong hatred for Garvey, seemingly not caring if he was assassinated.
I was learning that being colored and contacting the police for help didn’t go together—especially if it involved one Negro threatening or harming another. New York was like the rest of the country in that regard. Harlemites spoke openly about how the police would just as soon we all dispose of one another.
I’d spent a good part of the year trying to forget about how I’d disposed of Sleepy and Jumpy. I’d actually left them lying there in the weeds, and out of pure nervousness, had driven their Cadillac as far east as possible before walking back home that night. I’d cleaned up the glass from the broken wine bottles, replacing them with new bottles so the bullet hole in the wall didn’t show.
When Loretta arrived, I lied again, telling her that someone had tried to break in earlier that day while we were both gone, hence why the door was practically split in two and barely hanging on the hinges. The news only deepened her desire to move.
The next day I sent an anonymous letter to the local coroner, and the bodies were removed some days later. Not one time during the months following the incident did a police officer come by our neighborhood and question people about their deaths. They were just two more dead Negroes to them.
“I often wonder,” yelled Eason, “if we need even more young brothers protecting Marcus.”
“Probably!” I shouted back.
The past year had seen Garvey step up security. Marcellus Strong was his headman and the leader of a handful of armed bodyguards assigned to Garvey. There were also at least ten African Legionnaires surrounding him at all times. In fact, moments before Garvey entered Madison Square Garden, a policeman tried to approach him and couldn’t get within fifty feet. A message had to be relayed to Garvey.
The police department had gotten used to such inconveniences. They’d grown tired of the UNIA leader and his outrageous processions that covered the streets whenever he made a simple trip to a department store or museum. Anytime Garvey went for so much as a walk to a fruit stand, he was sandwiched bet
ween an army of men. Anyone attempting to take a shot at him, as Tyler had, would at best only be able to hit one of his officers.
On top of this, ever since the shooting, UNIA headquarters had been surrounded with African Legionnaires. It would have been difficult for the president of the United States himself to get into the building. Garvey was easily the most protected Negro in America—from sunup to sundown.
“I wish you had seen the parade,” shouted Eason. “I can’t imagine there will ever be a more spectacular scene. Thousands lined the streets—many of them white—just to take a look at the spectacle. White folks ain’t never seen that many Negroes in one place. We done scared ’em to death! I bet it’s the biggest parade in New York history. Had to be over four hundred automobiles took part, and I ain’t lyin’ to ya, brother.”
“Where was Garvey’s automobile positioned?”
“Near the front, just behind several policemen and their horses. But listen. It was our marching band, the choir, and uniformed Legionnaires that made it special—made it a truly colorful event. There was such harmony, and everyone marched with amazing unity. And the Black Cross nurses, dressed in their white robes, looked beautiful. I’m tellin’ ya! You needed to see it, Sidney.”
“I caught a glimpse of it,” I yelled.
“What?” he screamed.
“I said I caught a glimpse of it—the very end of it.”
“Well, it was true history. And there were so many banners and flags representing UNIA members from different states and countries. If it’s true that there are four hundred million Negroes in the world, it felt like every last one was there today lining the streets. All in all it was as if royalty were parading through New York. But what we’re seeing right here is just as spectacular. Ain’t no doubt. This here rally is a monster.”
Again we surveyed the crowd of about twenty-five thousand. The energy in the building was more ferocious than anything I’d ever witnessed. It was at that very moment that I truly recognized the power of Marcus Garvey.
“Time for me to take the stage,” shouted Eason.
I remained standing near the tunnel entryway as he joined the other UNIA dignitaries—many of them from other parts of the world. There had to be a few hundred of them—some dressed in regular suits, others in traditional African and Caribbean apparel.
All of them took their seats on the huge stage that had been built for the special event. It was a high platform surrounded by uniformed African Legionnaires. I knew that Madison Square Garden wasn’t built to hold that many people. Not only were all of the stadium seats occupied, thousands sat in chairs on the massive stadium floor. Many others stood in any available spot they could find. Garvey’s organizing committee had spent months preparing for the parade and rally, and boy had they delivered.
I found myself studying certain individuals in the crowd. One man seated directly in front of the stage about twenty rows back kept reaching into his coat pocket. I walked toward the side of the stage to get a better look. Again, the man reached into his pocket.
I nudged one of the Legionnaires and pointed at the shifty man. Two Legionnaires began to make their way toward the twentieth row. But the man removed his hand and simply pulled out a five-inch wooden stick with some fabric wrapped around it. He unrolled it and revealed a tiny red, black, and green flag. Those were the official UNIA colors, and the man had made the flag himself. Still, the Legionnaires took his jacket, searched it, but found nothing. These kinds of false alarms had become the norm for those of us surrounding Garvey. But it was better to be safe than sorry.
16
THE STAGE WAS NOW COMPLETELY FULL AND A BAND BEGAN TO PLAY. I stared at Garvey in his academic cap and gown of purple, green, and gold. I figured he wore such a gown because of the insecurity he felt when comparing himself to the more academically accomplished Dr. Du Bois.
I wondered why a man without any degree to speak of would have the audacity to dress as such. I continued staring at him, wondering how insane he actually was and what wild exhibitions of his I’d have to endure in the future. His act was far too ostentatious for my taste.
The band continued and my mind began to wander. I recalled sitting in a meeting that past June that Hoover had called—the only one I’d been summoned to attend that year. Agent James Wormley Jones was also ordered to be at the New York gathering. There I learned that he’d been training Garvey’s African Legion soldiers in Newport News, Virginia.
Also present at the meeting had been my old training buddy Bobby Ellington along with Taylor Knox, the racist agent from training. He was sitting between Agent Speed and Paul Mann, who gave reports on Du Bois and James Weldon Johnson. We were told that Agent Mann was now exclusively assigned to Du Bois and Johnson. Of course, through my talks with Daley, I knew the facts about Du Bois. Mann only knew what lies Du Bois had fed him. But that didn’t stop him from spouting platitudes to Hoover at the meeting, the same ones he’d already told me about at Snappy’s. The two of us had met several more times over the year, but now he had the boss’s ear.
“Mr. Hoover, Du Bois is likely more dangerous than any Negro in America,” said Mann. “He’s as familiar with the intricacies of our government as any man I’ve ever met. You’d think he’d worked within the president’s cabinet. Given enough time, he’s more than capable of building his NAACP into the most powerful communist organization in the world.”
“I’m mainly concerned about his ability to raise money via the Bolsheviks,” said Hoover, still not looking a day older than twenty-one. “Follow the money, Agent Mann.”
“Of the two, Garvey’s attracting a more dangerous element,” said Speed. “According to Jones’s reports, it’s only a matter of time before blood is shed on a grand scale.”
“He’s broken no laws,” I said.
“Yet,” Speed countered.
“They’re one and the same—Garvey and Du Bois,” said Hoover. “One’s more calculating and diplomatic; the other more arrogant and grandstanding. But they’re both on the same team. They’re both communists trying to build organizations powerful enough to overthrow the government. God help us if they join forces. And the Bolsheviks have enough money to bankroll them for a century.”
“Garvey’s no fool,” said Jones, “but some of his Legionnaires are foolishly searching for a fight—a physical one—and Garvey will ultimately have to be held accountable for their actions.”
“Again, as we sit here today, he has broken no laws,” I said. “I’ll be the first to report it when he does. That’s what I think I’ve been assigned to do.”
I was knowingly speaking boldly—telling them what I really thought—because I knew they needed me. I’d gotten so close to Garvey, and the odds of any future agent doing so were bad.
“As long as you’re not covering anything up, Temple,” said Speed, standing to confront me—pointing his finger.
“How dare you question me!” I replied, also standing.
“There’s shit all around him,” said Speed. “All you have to do is help him step in it.”
“Easy, you two,” Ellington interjected, rising and positioning himself between us.
“We want him sitting in a courtroom with shit on his shoes,” said Speed. “Shit we can use to send his ass to jail. There’s no way in hell he’s building that empire on the up-and-up.”
“I’ll do my job; you do yours,” I said. “It’s not my fault Garvey would never let the likes of you within a mile of him.”
Speed just stood there huffing and puffing, his bald head getting redder by the second, the veins on his temples pulsating. I stared directly at him.
Taylor Knox, with his racist behind, hadn’t said a word, but he patted Speed on the shoulder as if congratulating him for scolding me. I think he was simply Speed’s assistant at this point and Ellington was Hoover’s.
“Are his sales documents in order, Agent Temple?” asked Hoover. “Those proving his ownership of the ship?”
“I have never been able
to gain access to those documents,” I answered, calmly sitting again, regaining my composure. “But he’s been negotiating the sale of two more ships. One is a steam-paddle ship called the SS Shadyside, and the other is a yacht—the SS Kanawha. He may even officially own them at this point.”
” I’ve recently been added to Garvey’s publicity committee,” said Jones. “The odds are long, but it may afford me an opportunity to look at the books—at least a better opportunity than Temple.”
“Jones might be right,” I added, “but I don’t think those books are ever leaving Garvey’s office.”
“Where does he keep them?” Hoover asked.
“He keeps them locked in his office. I’ve purchased equipment for the Yarmouth before and had to turn all receipts in to his secretary, Miss Jacques. She logs everything in a large book then places the receipts in separate envelopes. I saw where she stored all of the items—in a padlocked file cabinet behind his desk.”
“Question,” said Speed. “Where does she log the thousands of dollars being given to Garvey by all of those foolish followers of his? Huh, Temple?”
“In a separate book.”
“What would it take for you to gain access?” asked Hoover.
“It’d be next to impossible. But he’s asked me to upgrade the entire electrical system throughout UNIA headquarters soon. I’ll have access at that point, but he’ll have to be out of the office and have no one manning the door. What are the odds?”
“Make it work, Temple,” said Hoover, “even if it’s months from now.”
“I’ll do my best, but he has two men in particular that split time overseeing security detail. If one is at Garvey’s side while he’s out and about, the other is heading up security at the offices.”
“Tell me about them,” Hoover ordered.
The Strivers' Row Spy Page 15
