The Strivers' Row Spy

by Jason Overstreet

  “Lie back.”

  Her head rested against the opposite end of the tub, and she continued eyeing me. Her chin was barely above water, and I could see portions of her nakedness through the suds. I reached into the warm water and grabbed her feet, pulling them toward me. Taking the cloth, I began washing her feet.

  “What did I do to deserve this?” she asked.

  “You said yes to me three years ago.”

  I dropped the cloth back in the water and began caressing and massaging her arches and heels, then moved on to her toes.

  “Why don’t you ever talk about work?” she asked.

  “Because when I’m with you I want it to be all about you.”

  “But I want to know how you spend your days. Do you spend most of the time at the new church site or on the ships?”

  “At the church site and with Reverend Powell at his office. And at my own office.”

  “And with Mr. Garvey, right?”

  “No!” I snapped, stopping the foot rub.

  “Jeez . . . I just asked.”

  “You know I spend no time with him. None! I barely even know him. He’s into political stuff I don’t concern myself with. When it comes to the contractual work I do for the Black Star Line, I just go directly to the pier, do my work, and leave.”

  “All right. Keep rubbing.”

  “Listen,” I said, massaging her feet again, “Reverend Eason’s the only one affiliated with the UNIA that I’m close to, and that’s because of his connection to your father. And we share mutual friends.”

  “Like who?”

  “Just people. People you don’t know. Just like I don’t know many of your new friends.”

  “Was Reverend Eason at that parade today? It was quite a spectacle.”

  “You saw it? I thought you were here working all day.”

  “Ginger and I went and had lunch. I’ve never seen so many people. All of the flags and colors, the men dressed in military uniforms. What does it all mean? And why are so many men and women following Mr. Garvey?”

  “He’s a powerful speaker from outside the United States. They’ve never seen anyone quite like him. But most parades do draw crowds.”

  “Not like that.”

  I tried to get a sense of what she might be thinking. She was more curious than usual, and I wanted to change the subject.

  “Am I rubbing too hard?”

  “No. You know, the more I hear about Mr. Garvey, the more I don’t like him. Ginger thinks he’s a hateful man. Why is Reverend Eason so pleasant and Mr. Garvey so . . .”

  “Like I just said, I don’t really know him. Just like a Coca-Cola deliveryman doesn’t know the president of Coca-Cola. I just have a contract to work on his ships.”

  “Sorry. I’ll let it go. Last thing I’m trying to do is upset you.”

  “It’s okay. I’m not upset.”

  “Good,” she said, closing her eyes. “That feels so amazing.”

  “Am I the best at it?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the only one who’s ever rubbed my feet.”

  “Hey!”

  “I’m just pullin’ your leg, silly,” she said. “You’re so thoughtful. So kind.”

  I grabbed her ankles and began sliding my grip down to her calves.

  “How’s that?” I asked, massaging.

  “So good.”

  After a minute or two I leaned forward, sliding my hands around from her calves to her thighs. Again I massaged, but with broad strokes under the warm water.

  “Magic hands,” she said.

  Moments later, her eyes still closed, she took my right hand and slid it farther under water. Running it along her inner thigh, she placed it where she wanted. I needn’t rush now, as we were in perfect rhythm. I wanted this to be entirely about her.

  18

  I WAS ABOUT TO LEAVE THE OFFICE AND MAKE MY WAY TO MEET MR. Daley at the Civic Club when the Bureau phone rang. Much to my surprise it was Hoover, and I’d never heard him this upset.

  “What in God’s name was all of that African garbage marching up and down the street the other day?” he asked. “The pictures and reports we’re getting in to D.C. are disgusting. Your telegram didn’t quite do all of that African pageantry justice, Q3Z.”

  “It’s simply a symbolic exercise in black unity,” I said. “That’s all at this point.”

  “Well it flies in the face of everything America stands for. And we won’t have it. This is the U.S. Not some damn monkey Africa. Stay glued to that sonofabitch, you hear? I want his colored rear end behind bars. He’s lucky the legal system has its protocol. I’m trying to remain patient.”

  “I’m on top of it,” I said, sick to my stomach at his unabashed racism.

  “He’s scaring real Americans to death with all this wild, primitive behavior. Parading down the damn streets of our America. And it makes me look bad. Attorney general is irate! These damn photographs! Look like a bunch of rabid animals. Why can’t they be more like you, Q3Z?”

  “I don’t know how to answer that, sir.”

  “Don’t. But make no mistake. He’s taking his cues from commie Russia about how to start a revolution. Over my dead body, you hear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Harlem,” he angrily said, “is becoming just what I feared it would with the likes of Garvey and Du Bois and the rest of these commies stoking the flames of hate. It has become an inferno of black madness.”

  * * *

  Minutes later I drove slowly enough to make out the face of the man driving about three cars behind me in an Auburn Beauty-Six Roadster. It was blue with black fenders. It seemed that every left or right turn I’d made, the vehicle had followed. I was heading to the Civic Club to meet Daley, something I had no reason to keep secret, but still, if I was being followed—why?

  I was now driving south on Fifth Avenue with Central Park to my right. As long as I continued on Fifth, I would eventually hit the Civic Club at Twelfth Street. But I made a right on Fifty-fifth Street instead. I sped up and made a quick right, weaving in and out of traffic until I’d lost him.

  An hour later I sat with Daley in a large, smoke-filled dining room at the Civic Club, surrounded by dark wood panels, thick chairs, and scholarly looking men. It was about six in the evening and the place was filling up quickly. Ideas that would affect all of colored America were hatched here and often by white men. Yet, the place embodied integration like no other, and I felt very much at home.

  “What exactly is it like being associated with Garvey?” asked Daley, sipping his coffee. “I can’t imagine. Why even bother being linked to him?”

  “I’m an engineer. I don’t let politics get in the way of making a wage. Some of us can’t afford to be so selective. Some might ask why I’m associated with the Abyssinian Church—you know—some who have a disdain for religion.”

  “Reverend Powell and Garvey are hardly viewed in the same way—by the overall general public, I mean.”

  “Look, it’s a job, okay? How many white ship owners do you know who’d be willing to hire me? The answer is none. And how many colored men do you know who can afford to turn down a job? Let us not forget the difference between you and me, Mr. Daley.”

  “I just worry for you, that’s all. Garvey has a lot of enemies.”

  Daley raised his eyebrows at me as a waitress set down a thick steak in front of him. It looked like it’d barely been cooked, and he’d ordered no bread, vegetables, or potatoes to go with it. Just a big, fat, greasy, raw-looking steak. I wasn’t eating but was enjoying a hot cup of coffee with milk and sugar.

  “Can you believe,” he said, chewing his steak, “that Garvey named himself Provisional President of Africa at the convention he held?”

  “No. I can’t.”

  “Does he not understand that Africa is an enormous continent with over forty countries, each seeking to reinstate its own unique political, tribal, and ideological beliefs? Why would they want to rid themselves of one foreign ruler, only to gain anothe
r?”

  “They wouldn’t,” I said, sipping.

  “He does the continent a tremendous disservice with his proclamation. I was also dumbfounded to learn that he has never even been to Africa.”

  “He hasn’t?” I asked.

  “No.”

  I took a sip of my coffee and observed the entire room. There had to be at least fifty men in the place, and at each table, groups were engaging in fervid conversation.

  “Is that who I think it is?” I asked.

  “Who?”

  “At the front door, walking in with the other two men.”

  “Ah, yes. That indeed is Dr. Du Bois. I must introduce you this time . . . once he’s been seated.”

  “Can I ask one favor?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I’d rather you not mention my work with Garvey’s Black Star Line.”

  “Done!”

  I watched as Du Bois and his two colleagues—one colored, one white—walked over and sat at a far corner table. He was dressed impeccably in a brown suit with a golden tie.

  “Come with me,” said Daley.

  He led me through the dimly lit room, and we made our way toward the back corner—the muted light from the lamp above Du Bois’s table serving as an orangish spotlight on the political giant. I was surprised at how calm my nerves were. It was as if I’d been destined to meet the legend.

  “Willy, how are you?” asked Daley, as the two shook hands.

  “Very nice to see you, Phil. I’m doing well.”

  “I’d like you to meet a good friend of mine. This is Sidney Temple. He’s intricately involved in the planning phase of the Abyssinian Church. He’s an engineer.”

  “That’s marvelous. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sidney.”

  “It is truly an honor, Dr. Du Bois,” I said, shaking his hand.

  “You two sit,” said Du Bois.

  “Good to see you, Elmore,” said Daley, sitting. “How are you, Carl?”

  He shook the two gentlemen’s hands and I followed suit as Du Bois engaged me.

  “Mr. Temple, I do believe the development and completion of that church will do more for Harlem in the way of symbolism than just about anything I can imagine. And in corresponding with Reverend Powell, he feels the same way. I wish you all the success in the world.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “With several architects being attached at different points, my part of the undertaking will likely take at least three years to complete.”

  “Willy,” said Daley, “I think it’s safe to say that Sidney here has staked out his place as a member of the Talented Tenth. He graduated last year with a master’s degree from the distinguished Middlebury College. With honors.”

  “Outstanding,” said Du Bois. “Wish more of our people would get traditional educations. They need to learn more than basic farming, carpentry, and home economics. May Booker T. Washington rest in peace, and may his Tuskegee Institute continue to thrive, but our people are more than industrial laborers. Need to develop their minds.”

  “To do so,” said Daley, “would certainly mean attending so-called ‘white institutions.’ The loud voice of Marcus Garvey is still ringing in my ears—saying your people should steer clear of such places.”

  I could see Du Bois’s mind wandering. He calmly lit a gold-tipped Benson & Hedges cigarette and took a puff as the four of us waited for him to break the silence. Finally, he sipped his coffee and continued.

  “My good friend James Weldon Johnson makes a habit of stating our NAACP creed. It’s as follows: The only possible end of the race problem in the United States to which we can now look without despair is one which embraces the fullest cooperation between white and black in all the phases of national activity.”

  “I profoundly concur,” I excitedly said.

  Du Bois continued. “As you well know, friends, Marcus Garvey and I don’t agree on anything, save our support for the Dyer Anti-Lynching Bill. I’m doing my best not to engage in a public war of words with him. I fear such a sparring match would only embolden him and his impetuous followers.”

  “Hearing the sound of his own voice is enough to embolden Garvey,” said Daley. “He wants nothing more than for you to treat him as your equal. And engaging him would suggest just that to the greater public. You’re doing well to stay silent.”

  “But for how long?” asked the dark-chocolate-skinned Carl. “With every divisive word he utters, a new person joins the ranks of the UNIA rather than the NAACP. We may be losing this war of words.”

  “As it relates to the masses today . . . perhaps,” said Du Bois. “But with respect to the clairvoyant minority—those of us sitting here included—the higher ground is ours. And through humility, patience, and a well-thought-out, well-crafted agenda, it shall remain ours.”

  “I heard that Mr. Garvey railed against you at Liberty Hall after your return from Paris,” said Daley. “In fact, he’s rather preoccupied with bringing your name up whenever he speaks to his throng at Liberty Hall.”

  “The mere mention of Liberty Hall,” said Du Bois, “reminds me of Garvey’s fascination with Ireland’s struggle for independence. He named his paper, the Negro World, after the Irish World. And he named his Liberty Hall after the Liberty Hall in Dublin. But I would like to remind my Jamaican counterpart of something: When it comes to the Irish, no people in the world have gone with blither spirit to kill niggers—from Kingston to Delhi and from Kumasi to Fiji—than they.”

  Daley and I sat there chatting a bit longer before heading back to our table. I felt so empowered—so much more attached to Du Bois. Shaking his hand and looking him in the eye had given even more weight to the work I was doing. It further strengthened my support for him and allowed me to feel his indignation toward Garvey. The Jamaican’s rise was obviously weighing on the Harvard man. But not enough to deter him. In fact, after that evening I was more certain than ever that Du Bois had the strength and vision to carry us home.

  * * *

  Later in the week I left Snappy’s and headed to my office, having just heard Agent Mann go on and on about Du Bois’s travel habits. Apparently he was out of town all the time. “He’s lecture happy,” Mann had said. “I think his ego is much like you explained Garvey’s being. Except Du Bois is constantly pandering to the Jews. He’s addicted to the applause, too. Damn commie.”

  I was glad that I’d survived the meeting without slapping him. But when I walked into my office a few minutes later and picked up the Bureau phone, Speed sounded like he wanted to slap me.

  “Don’t go stickin’ your damn chest out like you’re some colored Harlem king all of a sudden, Q!” he’d said. “You’re in deep with Garvey, but that doesn’t mean I’m not your damn boss still.”

  “Where is all of this coming from?” I asked.

  “I told you to get back to me right away on this latest ship purchase Garvey’s got up his sleeve. That means right fuckin’ away.”

  “It’s all still in limbo. I told you that.”

  “Limbo my ass! Don’t go getting colored-comfy with all them Harlem Jamaicans now. You work for the Bureau of Investigation. I need some sales data soon. None of this limbo shit. Got it?”

  “As soon as it presents itself... yes. What good is it for me to give you names of ships he isn’t going to buy? I’m waiting for him to make an actual offer on one first. I don’t want to waste your time.”

  “I’m just staying on top of you. It’s my job. How’s the family?”

  “Good. Actually, I’m throwing a birthday party for my wife tomorrow.”

  “All of colored New York gonna be there? Do you need me to bring some watermelon?” He laughed real hard. “Don’t answer that, Q. Just fuckin’ with you. Who’s invited?”

  “Mostly her artist friends. Real simple. And, I beg your pardon, but there will be plenty of whites in attendance.”

  “Is that right? A mixed crowd? Sounds mighty revolutionary. Mighty Bolshevik-like. But, I know you have to be a man-about
-town and keep up appearances with her. You’re a successful Harlem consultant, right? What time’s the party?”

  “Eight.”

  * * *

  The following evening I stood in front of our bedroom cheval glass adjusting my blue tie as Loretta sat on the bed putting on her red high heels.

  “How many wineglasses do we have?” she asked.

  “About fifteen. But we have plenty of paper cups. We’ll put the glasses aside for your closest friends.”

  “Is that a new suit you’re wearing?”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean to tell me you bought me this beautiful red dress for my birthday and bought yourself a suit also? You’re not supposed to buy yourself a gift on someone else’s birthday.”

  “I spotted that dress months ago and purchased it last week. I bought this suit today. I don’t own one that’s this shade of gray. Besides, I had to have something special to wear for your party.”

  “Like I always say, I’ve never seen a man spend that much time in front of the mirror. In fact, I’ve never known anyone, man or a woman, who loves clothes as much as you.”

  “Stop,” I said, thinking about the latest cash delivery I’d received at my office from the Bureau courier. Hoover was paying me well.

  “But you do look good,” she continued in a flirtatious voice, her eyes cutting up at me real sharp as she sat there still putting on her heels.

  “Sweetheart, do you see that little box on the end table?” I asked, tilting the cheval glass so that I could see my entire body and continue adjusting my tie.

  “Where?”

  “Top of the end table on my side of the bed.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you open it and hand me my cufflinks?”

  She stood, walked over, and opened the box.

  “Sidney?”

  “Yes.”

  “These aren’t cufflinks. They’re earrings. Oh my gosh. They’re absolutely stunning.”

  “Happy birthday again, my dear.” I’d spent almost every last cent I’d made on them, but she was worth every penny.

  “You outdid yourself, Love.” She approached and hugged me from behind as I continued with my tie—both of us looking into the mirror.