The Strivers' Row Spy

by Jason Overstreet

  “The first is William Grant who just might be the meanest son of a bitch I’ve ever met. The other is Marcellus Strong. Both are more than willing to give their lives for Garvey and are highly trained strongmen. I’ve seen Grant beat one man to within an inch of his life. He’s a war veteran from the West Indies who heads up the Tiger Division of Garvey’s African Legion. He trains his Legionnaires military style.”

  “Yeah, we’ve had words about my training tactics on more than one occasion,” added Jones. “He’s a monster of a man. I’ll vouch for that.”

  “Again,” said Hoover, “make it work. You’ve been trained to handle such men, Temple. I know it may take some time, but we need to see those sales documents.”

  “I can also confirm what Temple is saying about the Shadyside and Kanawha,” said Jones. “From what I’ve heard, he’s raised thousands by recently mailing out adverts, boasting about these specific boats—getting folks to invest in them.”

  “The question is,” said Hoover, “did he officially own the ships when he began soliciting funds for them? Does he even own them as we sit here today? What we need is to compare these adverts with the official bills of sale for these two ships.”

  “I’m not sure the adverts had dates on them,” I said.

  “Well if they did, and that date precedes the date of the official sale, Mr. Garvey has a major problem. We must get access to those documents.”

  “Garvey is sloppy,” said Speed. “We knew that before you two came on board. It’s just a matter of time before his ambition forces him to slip up. And when he does, don’t try to catch him.”

  “Why should we believe Garvey will continue to trust you, Agent Temple?” asked Hoover.

  “Because the first successful voyage of the Yarmouth was a feather in my cap. He credited my mechanical work for its safe return. And that first voyage was vital in Garvey’s eyes.”

  “Why?”

  “He wanted his followers to actually see something tangible—something grand—to make them believe in him like never before. He wanted to make the first launch a big to-do. And it worked. There were thousands of folks gathered at the pier, cheering and crying when they saw the Yarmouth for the first time. As Garvey stood there with them and watched the boat sail off into the distance, the cheering and crying turned to silence and almost worship. The crowd saw Garvey as the man who was going to take them from hell to heaven. I was standing there. His power was real.”

  “But the second voyage was a disaster,” said Speed. “According to your own report, Temple, Garvey had a cargo full of whiskey aboard when it began to capsize a hundred miles from New York. You reported that he had to call the coast guard to help him save it from sinking. And this was in the middle of Prohibition laws going into effect. He didn’t blame you for that mess?”

  “No. He blamed Captain Cockburn, who ignored my advice and refused my consultation. The whiskey trip was to be the Yarmouth’s second official voyage. I had adamantly advised against it from the beginning, telling Garvey the ship was in terrible condition. And at first, Cockburn agreed with me. But I think he cut a side deal with the distillery and suddenly changed his mind, telling Garvey the ship’s condition had miraculously been improved. Again, I told Garvey not to ship out. But he did. And when the voyage failed, Garvey knew I was one of the only advisors he could trust. My good standing was sealed. Garvey had me attend to the ship afterward and a third voyage was a success. The ship has since returned from the Caribbean. In fact, Cockburn has been fired and a new man, Hugh Mulzac, is now the first officer of the Yarmouth.”

  “What was Garvey doing with all that whiskey anyway?” asked Speed. “Tell Mr. Hoover what you told me on the phone.”

  “Trying to get it out of the country before the Prohibition laws went into effect,” I said. “He’d made a deal with a distillery to ship it to Havana for them.”

  “He seems to be involving himself in more business than he can ultimately handle,” said Hoover. “He’s getting in over his head, and that’s a good thing for us. Stay on top of it. Thanks to the telephone numbers Agent Jones has been able to wire to us, we now have both his office and home phones tapped.”

  “That won’t bear any fruit,” I said. “Garvey never discusses business over the telephone. Ever! He always assumes the authorities are listening.”

  “Well then,” Hoover replied, “that makes it doubly important that you gain access. Now, Agent Mann, Du Bois is clearly more involved in international affairs than you can handle alone, with his attending these Pan-African conferences in Europe and all. We want you to stay put, but you’ll soon have company. We intend to place another agent within his NAACP as soon as possible, perhaps one with some foreign relations experience. We need to know what’s being discussed at these conferences—what his detailed plans are and perhaps the names of those helping to fund him.”

  “Any names of potential Du Bois funders we can gather will serve us well,” said Speed. “If those Reds get wind that the United States government is aware of them funding a communist sympathizer, we can put the fear of God in them. They may be proud foreign communists, but they don’t want us to know their names. They’ll close their checkbooks faster than you can say boo, and perhaps that will help dry up Du Bois’s funds.”

  Upon hearing those words I knew why I had to stay in the mix. Listening to Hoover and Speed talk about Garvey made it clear that they feared him for the wrong reasons. They thought he was a communist. He wasn’t. They thought he wanted to overthrow the government. He didn’t. He simply wanted to be solely responsible for the plight of the Negro and part of that meant crushing Du Bois. So what I’d already known was being reaffirmed—both the Bureau and Garvey were Du Bois’s enemies.

  I continued listening as Hoover told me that the government’s interest had cooled on Max Eastman. I was to focus exclusively on Garvey, which was good news because I didn’t have to shadow Claude McKay, who’d just returned from overseas and been hired by Eastman to edit his Liberator. Hubert Harrison, Eason, and I were spending quite a bit of time with the poet down in Greenwich Village talking politics, and I would have hated having to share any of it with Hoover.

  * * *

  A roar came over the crowd and my attention was drawn back to the present, back to the Madison Square Garden stage. Garvey had finally been called to the platform and was accompanied by several aides.

  They walked him to the podium and, before heading back to their seats, referred to him as “Your Majesty,” something that made me sick to my stomach. He had to wait at least five minutes before the screaming crowd quieted down. That gave him time to take out a perfumed handkerchief, breathe into it for a while, and gather his thoughts. According to Eason, he’d been doing this for years.

  “I have sent a telegram of greeting to Eamon de Valera,” Garvey began. “He is the president of the Irish Republic. The message said, ‘Please accept sympathy of Negroes of the world for your cause. We believe Ireland should be free even as Africa shall be free for the Negroes of the world. Keep up the fight for a free Ireland. Signed, Marcus Garvey, President-General of the Universal Negro Improvement Association.’ ”

  The crowd rose and gave a thunderous applause. Garvey waited for the right moment and then shouted, “We are the descendants of a suffering people. We are the descendants of a people determined to suffer no longer.”

  As the crowd roared, I panned the adoring faces again. It was as if they saw God in him.

  “We shall now organize the four hundred million Negroes of the world into a vast organization to plant the banner of freedom on the great continent of Africa. We have no apologies to make and will make none. We do not desire what has belonged to others, though others have always sought to deprive us of that which belonged to us. We new Negroes—we men who have returned from war—we will dispute every inch of the way until we win. We will begin by framing a Bill of Rights of the Negro Race with a Constitution to guide the life and destiny of the four hundred million. The Cons
titution of the United States means that every white American would shed his blood to defend that Constitution. The Constitution of the Negro Race will mean that every Negro will shed his blood to defend his Constitution. If Europe is for the Europeans, then Africa shall be for the black peoples of the world. We say it, we mean it.”

  There was no doubting that he meant it. And there was no doubting that he believed America belonged to whites. Du Bois would strongly disagree, and so would I. But the screaming audience seemingly concurred with their Black Moses. He was clearly framing what it meant to be a separatist.

  “Wheresoever I go,” he bellowed, “whether it is England, France, or Germany, I am told, ‘This is a white man’s country.’ Wheresoever I travel throughout the United States of America, I am made to understand that I am a nigger. If the Englishman claims England as his native habitat and the Frenchman claims France, the time has come for four hundred million Negroes to claim Africa as their native land.”

  The noise rose to a pitch so loud that my bones rattled. Garvey had the audience by the throat, and he could do with them as he wished. I wondered if Du Bois stood a chance.

  17

  AFTER GARVEY SPOKE I HEADED HOME, EVEN THOUGH THE EVENT was scheduled to continue well into the night. I was looking forward to some quiet time with Loretta and couldn’t drive fast enough. Approaching Strivers’ Row, I recalled the last letter I’d sent to Du Bois back in July. It was very much to the point.

  Dear Dr. Du Bois,

  Please know that the Bureau of Investigation is planning on placing a new agent inside the NAACP. He will tout his foreign affairs expertise. His job is to make a list of all possible communist donors you may have. I don’t presume to know if you have any, as that is not my concern. Just be mindful of keeping your donor list top secret, and be on the lookout when hiring new staff. Sincerely, The Loyalist

  I approached Strivers’ Row’s Seventh Avenue gate, and Ivan, the uniformed young man who stood guard and let tenants in and out of the back alleyway, gave me a wave.

  “How are you, Mr. Temple?” he asked, pulling the gate open and letting me drive through.

  “Real good, Ivan. Thanks for asking.”

  I parked, got out, took off my gun and holster, then placed it under the car’s hood. I’d made a habit of doing such, knowing I could never let Loretta see me with it.

  I’d also purchased another pistol and had placed it in a secure spot in my upstairs closet. I’d cut away several slabs of wood to create a storage place under the closet floor. Along with the pistol, I’d stored an extra magazine, several boxes of bullets, and an extra holster.

  I closed the hood and headed inside. As I walked down the hallway, I could hear Loretta and Ginger—mainly Ginger, her voice so theatrical, her words so enunciated. Even when she was speaking English, it felt like French.

  I slowed my walk, stopping several feet from the doorway. I should have entered the room and let them know I was home, but instead I eavesdropped.

  “He was a disgusting man, Loretta. I detested him in the end. And to think, for six years I thought of him as a prince of sorts—a charming, honest gentleman.”

  “I want nothing more than for you to find true love again, Ginger.”

  “True love? I cannot have it again, as you say, because I never had it to begin with. The next time will be the first. But it matters not. Because I will never marry again. A man’s nature is to sleep with this woman and that woman. They cannot help it. Besides, Olivier only married me because he knew of my father’s wealth. Dégoûtant! Disgusting!”

  “You’re only twenty-nine, Ginger. Have faith. And you’re beautiful.”

  “Oh? I don’t feel beautiful.”

  “You have what so many women want. You’re tall, have such satiny skin, and have the eyes—or better yet, the overall face—of a modern-day Cleopatra. You’re stunning, Ginger.”

  “Vous êtes trop aimable. You’re too kind. Though I must say, I’m constantly being asked if I’m Egyptian. Are Egyptian men less promiscuous than French? Why do I even bother asking such a foolish question? Of course they are. But if I’m not mistaken, Cleopatra was actually Greek. Maybe I’ll travel to Athens.”

  “Maybe you will meet an American.”

  “They haven’t the artistic souls of Frenchmen. They bore me. I am not referring to colored American men. Colored American men have a natural soulfulness. They have an artistic quality to them that is born out of overcoming years of mistreatment—of having to reach down deep and find creative ways to distract their minds from all the ugliness. Your husband—your Sidney—is encouraging your art. It’s lovely.”

  “I’m home,” I said, casually approaching the doorway. “Hello, Ginger.”

  “Bonjour, Sidney.”

  “I’ll let you two continue your visit,” I said. “I have to go down the street and make a telephone call.”

  “Why don’t you two have a telephone installed in this gigantic castle?” asked Ginger.

  “Sidney doesn’t want people from work calling the house late at night,” said Loretta.

  “It’s a man’s world,” said Ginger. “Il est un monde d’hommes. I repeat everything in French, Sidney, so your wife can better pick up the language.”

  “I see. Well, carry on, you two.”

  Moments later I parked on Seventh Avenue and phoned Momma. She had just turned sixty and hadn’t been feeling well. I dialed the operator and waited for the connection. After several rings she picked up.

  “Temple residence,” she said with a raspy voice that worried me.

  “It’s Sidney, Momma.”

  “Hi, Sugar.”

  “You feelin’ any better?”

  “Oh yeah, Sugar. Momma’s fine.”

  “Did you get that money I sent you?”

  “Yes, Sugar.”

  “Your voice is cracking, Momma.”

  “Oh . . . I’ve just been havin’ a little trouble breathing, Sugar. That’s all. Don’t you worry about me. You been sleepin’ any better?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “The doctor prescribed me some barbital pills. I just take one at night and sleep like a baby.”

  “Sure am glad to hear that.”

  “Listen, Momma, and listen real good. I’ve done spoke to Professor Gold, and you remember the little place Loretta and I had on his property?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, I want you to go stay there—at least for a while. The clean air in Vermont will help heal your lungs. I don’t think it’s good for you to live in the city anymore—not Milwaukee or Chicago, and definitely not New York. You need a slower pace. And with you not having to work no more, it’ll be real good for you.”

  “Now, Sugar, you know I got my sister real close by.”

  “Now, Momma, Aunt Coretta’s in Chicago, and ain’t goin’ nowhere. Besides, you don’t see her but about once a year. Loretta has already agreed to come help you pack and take the train with you—help you get situated. You can get rid of what you don’t need.”

  “But, Sugar, what’s Momma gonna do out there all alone?”

  “But you’re all alone now. And this way you’ll be closer to us. Besides, the Golds are like family. They’ll visit with you every day and take you into town when you need. And if you wanna work, they have plenty of gardening and cleaning you can do.”

  “I just don’t wanna be that far away from Coretta, Sugar. Darn well goin’ on seventy, and she ain’t doin’ so good. Don’t know how much longer she’s got.”

  “What if Aunt Coretta moved with you?”

  “Well, I’d have to think on that, Sugar.”

  “You’d be able to take care of her then.”

  “Let me think on it.”

  “Okay. But I’m serious about this now.”

  “I know you is. Momma appreciates that. Tell me about your new house, Sugar.”

  “It’s a big ol’ four-bedroom place.”

  “What’s it look like, Sugar, the neighborhood, the house? Paint a picture
for Momma.”

  “Well, Seventh and Eighth Avenues run north and south. 138th and 139th Streets run east and west. Strivers’ Row is basically a block that includes those four streets.”

  “Is there a good church nearby?”

  “Yes, Momma.”

  “All right. Just wanna make sure you two are attendin’ service, that’s all.”

  “Anyhow, we live on the southern side of 139th. That’s row three. It shares a private back alleyway with row two.”

  “Ooh, you got your own private alleyway?”

  “Yeah. If you’re headin’ north on Seventh you turn left and enter through a big old black iron gate. Ours is the fourth place on the right. ’Course I’m talkin’ about entering through the back.”

  “I can’t wait to see it, Sugar.”

  Momma and I talked a little longer, and I did my best to explain to her what Harlem was like. I was hoping she’d soon be able to see it for herself.

  I returned home to find Loretta alone in her studio, hard at work.

  “Can I give you a bath?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  Moments later I sat in a wooden chair just behind the tub in the middle of our all-white washroom. Loretta was relaxing with her back to me—seemingly in a daze. The only sound was that of me dipping a white cloth into the soapy water before running it along her neck and shoulders. I then scrubbed her fingertips one by one—the cloth absorbing different shades of caked-on blue paint.

  “I should be washing your hands,” she said, grabbing mine, turning them, and surveying my oil-stained palms. “I want you to start using gloves when you’re in that engine room. You need to protect your beautiful hands, Love.”

  She interlocked her right hand with my left, leaned back, and we kissed, just above her left shoulder.

  “Turn your body around and face me,” I said.

  She turned around, her hips splashing water over the side of the tub in the process. Looking into her eyes and marveling at her damp, buttery-looking skin, it took all of the restraint I could muster not to undress, ease into the water, and have my needs satisfied. But this wasn’t about me.