“Look at us,” I said. “We’re not a bad-looking couple. Either that or this mirror loves us.”
I moved aside so she could see herself trying on the earrings. Backing up and sitting on the edge of the bed, I admired her beauty. She looked even more stunning in the dress than I’d imagined and would certainly be the belle of the ball.
* * *
I stood out front under one of the graceful trees that lined both sides of 139th Street greeting guests and pointing them in the right direction as they arrived, all the while hoping each was as loosely committed to the new Prohibition laws as Loretta and I—at least for the night.
As a gust of wind swept through and blew the leaves above me, I turned to look at the front door. Loretta and Ginger were standing there accepting gifts and exchanging pleasantries with one friend after another.
It was as if they’d all known each other for years. She’d created an entire separate world that didn’t include me. The realization took me aback for a second. But I quickly caught myself. Who in the hell was I to have such thoughts? Besides, these strangers were all so polite, each having practically uttered the same words upon shaking my hand: “My, what a stunning place you have here.”
Later, with most of the guests now in attendance, Eason and I stood in the dining room—he with a cup of coffee, I with a glass of red wine. Mamie Smith’s “Crazy Blues” was playing. The tune filled the house and everyone was having a grand old time.
I was just happy finally to be playing music by a colored singer. Other than Bert Williams, W. C. Handy, and a few others, Mamie was one of the only colored artists to have a record, and her bluesy sound was far different from anything else available. I loved Handy, but he was a composer. Mamie was actually singing. Before her, folks had to go to the cabarets to hear such music. But it was 1920 and Mamie had finally broken through.
“Brother Sidney,” said Eason, dressed in a black tuxedo, “I know you just walked in from outdoors, but I been standin’ here for a while, and that’s about the fifth time Peavine done played that same record.”
“Is that right? Hold on a second.”
I walked over to the Columbia Grafonola and approached Peavine. He was a nineteen-year-old young man, tall like me, but more stringy. He worked as a security guard down at the UNIA. He loved music and fancied himself a future musician. I’d taken a liking to him, even though he seemed to have his head in the clouds more often than not.
“Peavine,” I said to him, “how many times you gonna play the same song? They’ve done heard Mamie about five times.”
“Yeah, but ain’t she something?” He flashed a big smile.
“Yes, but you need to play somebody else.”
“How ’bout some Bert Williams, Mr. Temple?” He thumbed through the records. “Some W. C. Handy?”
“You can’t just play the colored singers, Peavine. If you do, we’ll be hearing the same songs over and over.”
“You ain’t got Bert Williams’s “Somebody Else, Not Me” in this stack, Sidney?”
“No. I can’t stand that song. He talks all the way through it.”
“You right.”
“Besides, we’ve only got one song by Mamie, one by W. C. Handy, and one by Bert Williams in that whole stack. That ain’t enough music to be playin’ all night.”
He finally pulled a record out—proudly—as if he’d found a missing jewel, and then damn near shoved it in my face. “Here. I’ll play some Marion Harris and the Louisiana Five.”
“Good.”
“Oh, Mr. Temple.” He flipped the record and blew on it. “I saw your Chevrolet when I walked up. Love that au-to-mo-bile, sir!”
“Maybe I’ll give you a ride in it someday if you can manage to stop playing Mamie over and over again.”
“Ooh-ee! What I wouldn’t give for a ride in that beauty.”
“Just try to focus on switching the records, Peavine. You are gettin’ paid for this.”
He smiled, danced to what was left of “Crazy Blues,” and began admiring the crowd. He seemed to be having more fun than anyone. It was as if he hadn’t heard a word I’d said. I shook my head and walked back over to rejoin Reverend Eason.
“Peavine’s got me worried, Rev.”
“It’s about time you started calling me James,” said Eason.
“Okay, James . . . Peavine’s got me worried.”
“He just a bit slow, that’s all. And too damn happy.”
“Happy, I don’t mind,” I said. “It’s the slow part I’m worried about.”
“I’ve been surveying the room, Brother Sidney. There ain’t a single man or woman without a glass of that devil’s grape juice in hand.”
“It’s a party, James. Didn’t Jesus himself partake?”
“Perhaps. His words have been examined and interpreted exhaustively. Still, I shall abstain. The coffee’s doing me just fine.”
“What about a cup of whiskey? I have a few bottles stashed away upstairs for a rainy day. Bought ’em when I first got to Harlem.”
“Lord no.”
“Good. They might be worth a lot someday.”
“Suckers better be worth more than yo soul, brother.”
“God bless you, James.” I shook my head, smiled, and held up my wine. “Yep, we’re all goin’ to hell.”
I looked over toward the door and watched folks stream in. One face took me aback. There stood that racist sonofabitch Taylor Knox from Baltimore training. I couldn’t believe he had set foot in my house.
19
AGENT KNOX HAD BEEN IN MY HOUSE FOR NO MORE THAN FIVE minutes before I made my way over to him near the stairwell. James was now chatting with Peavine near the china closet and the party was in full swing.
“What in the hell are you doing in my house?” I asked, his oily, alcoholic-looking red nose appearing puffier than ever.
“Is that the way you welcome a fellow . . . you know . . . into your home?” Knox said, smiling real big.
“You damn sure weren’t invited,” I said, both of us with our backs to the stairwell now. “What kind of shit is this anyway? You’re gonna blow my damn—”
“Easy, Q. Speed invited me. Said it was going to be a multiracial affair, and boy was he right.” He scanned the place. “Looks like a lot of loosey gooseys up in here. The Red type, so to speak.”
“Try,” I said, “not to talk with that stupid Southern drawl. This is New York. And these people are my wife’s friends. She’s trying to raise her profile as a New York painter. She has to be very social. But I’ll have you know . . . one of Garvey’s top men is here. You idiot!”
“Don’t worry, Q. I’m playing the role of the gentleman who owns the building where your office is located. Mr. Bob Hannity. So, you see, why wouldn’t we be friends? Why wouldn’t a man like me get an invite?”
“Did Mr. Hoover . . .”
“Hoover don’t know anything about this. Besides, he don’t spend every second of the day worryin’ about Harlem. He’s busy with an entire fuckin’ country of Reds, boy. Nah . . . Speed and me set up this little visit. So, relax. I’m just here to . . . take roll . . . so to speak. See how the niggers get down.”
“You better watch yourself,” I said, both of us standing nearly shoulder-to-shoulder, looking out at the crowd, pretending to be cordial.
“What are all these commies drinking by the way?” he asked. “That wouldn’t be the jail juice would it?”
“What, you gonna round them all up and arrest them? They’re artists. You can’t expect me to be in New York undercover and not allow my wife to function in her world. They all brought their own wine. Besides, I can smell the much heavier stuff on your breath.”
“Your wife isn’t going to be a problem, is she?”
“You’re the damn problem! Her high profile will allow me to keep a low profile while being in the thick of things. Everyone in Harlem knows I’m an engineer. That’s what matters here. Not these people.”
“You don’t mind if I sorta make the r
ounds, do you, Q? See if I can get a feel for things, maybe meet someone I can put on the list?”
“I want you to leave.”
“Five minutes, Q.”
“Make it two. I need to get back to Mr. Eason. I’m sure you’re familiar with the name.”
“Indeed.”
“And again, try to speak like you’re from New York if you can. You own a building here, right?”
“Don’t you worry, Q. I can fake-talk real good like a Yankee.”
“Two minutes.”
I squeezed my way through the crowd and headed back over to James, trying my best to cool off. Telling Speed about the mixed crowd had been a mistake. Of course he’d taken it as his opportunity to send a white agent into Harlem to check on me. But I wasn’t in trouble. I was in too deep now and Speed knew it.
“How you holding up, James?” I said.
“Doin’ just fine. Just standin’ here soakin’ it all up.”
“Good. You look mighty distinguished in that tux, James—like a man who’s indeed been named UNIA’s Leader of American Negroes. Congrats again.”
“Appreciate that. Maybe now I can get Marcus to comprehend the unique thoughts that us American-born Negroes have—to appreciate our specific aspirations—the complexities of our roots.”
“Takes time, James. He’s focused on his ships for the time being.”
“Speaking of ships, I’m starting to feel like the Yarmouth may be being used simply to fool folks into investing their money.”
“That’s a lot of fools, James.”
“I see no signs of them boats being used for anything more than propaganda—that or for shipping whiskey out of the country for a suitable fee. You can’t tell me that those poor folks down in Alabama invested in the Yarmouth so it could ship alcohol to Havana. They ain’t nothin’ but ships-for-show.”
“You really believe that?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“I’ve never heard you question Marcus this way, James. You losing trust in him?”
“Not in him, but maybe in the way business is being done. Marcus has a lot of no-good people pullin’ at him—tellin’ him to do this and that with the funds.”
“Ships-for-show, huh?” I asked, taking a look over at Knox who was now conversing with a group of young gentlemen.
“For show!” he repeated. “But Marcus needs to watch how he’s handling business overall. Someone from Kilroe’s office actually mailed Marcus a letter telling him that their office has been receiving information from an informant who works at a high level within the UNIA.”
“Why would someone in Kilroe’s office potentially out someone who’s giving them confidential information about Garvey?”
“Who knows? Could be a colored man who loves the UNIA but happens to work in Kilroe’s office. Could be a cleanin’ man simply overheard a phone conversation Kilroe was having, or a mailroom brother who saw a strange Negro talking to one of Kilroe’s assistants.”
“That’s a lot of could be’s, James.”
“Or, maybe Marcus just made the whole thing up because he wants to scare everyone around him into actin’ right. Marcus will do anything to ensure loyalty. Whatever the case, Marcus is more worked up than ever. He’s suspicious of everyone in his immediate inner circle, including me.”
Again I eyed Knox who was casually making the rounds, working my nerves with every step he took. I tried to focus on what James had just said. It made sense in terms of why I’d been being followed. Now if I could just shake Knox loose maybe I could enjoy the party.
“If Marcus isn’t making it up,” I said, “was there any evidence in the letter that proved Kilroe’s office had private information about Marcus?”
“Marcus said there was. He said that the letter included information about potential UNIA transactions that were only discussed during our private meetings.”
“But there were always at least twenty folks at those meetings.”
“Uh-huh. But unfortunately, you was one and so was I.”
“Do you think Marcus has a good idea who it is?” I asked.
“Brother Sidney, I don’t know. All I know is that Marcus and Kilroe are at war, and it’s personal.”
“You think Kilroe had Marcus shot?”
“Yes. ’Cause I think Tyler was crazy. Why else would he have walked in screamin’ and hollerin’ before he shot Marcus? You can get a crazy man to do anything. And Kilroe got him to shoot Marcus.”
“Crazy he was,” I said, furious that Knox was now conversing with Loretta over by the front door. I was boiling inside, but had to keep cool.
“And,” continued James, “Kilroe could have easily promised Tyler a hefty sum of cash and a guarantee of walking out of jail. If Tyler was as crazy as he seemed, he’d a believed anything.”
“But Kilroe would’ve known he couldn’t guarantee that to Tyler—a free walk out of jail. There were too many eyewitnesses.”
“Exactly. So he got rid of him as he’d planned to all along. Think about it, brother. We’re supposed to believe that Tyler jumped to his death while being walked from his jail cell? I don’t buy it. He was pushed to his death and I know it. Never be able to prove it, but I darn well know it.”
As I glared at Knox chatting it up with my wife and Ginger, I thought back and wondered what would have happened had I gone down to the police station immediately after Tyler had been arrested. What if I had demanded to see the patrolman who’d arrested Tyler? What if I’d explained to him exactly what Sleepy and Jumpy looked like—what the truck they’d been driving looked like? Would that have prevented me from having to kill them?
“Kilroe’s a no-good son of a gun,” added Eason, my mind still racing through the past.
Maybe Tyler, Sleepy, and Jumpy had been paid by Kilroe to get Garvey. And perhaps that specific patrolman had been paid by Kilroe to arrest Tyler immediately after the shooting, with Tyler, as Eason suggested, having been told he’d get off. And could it have been that Kilroe not only hired that patrolman but a few other corrupt officers—the ones who possibly threw Tyler to his death while in jail? If that arresting patrolman had been in on it, it’s a good thing I hadn’t visited the station and told him what I’d seen.
I wanted to make sense of that day, but it was all too messy. Besides, Tyler and company could have been working independently or been hired by someone else altogether. Maybe the patrolman had simply been in the right place at the right time and made a legitimate arrest, foiling Sleepy and Jumpy’s ill-planned attempt to whisk Tyler away. Anything was possible. I just found it ironic that I had killed two men whose aim was to murder Garvey—a man I vehemently opposed but certainly didn’t want to see dead.
“Not to change the subject,” said James, interrupting my reverie, “but I ain’t never seen so many white folks in my life. Surprised these pale brothers and sisters didn’t set foot in Harlem, see all them Negroes on the streets, and scoot on back down where they came from.”
“You need to quit, James.”
“I mean to tell you, Sidney!” He pretended to loosen his tie as if it were choking him. “Startin’ to get a little worried up in here.”
“Quit,” I jokingly yelled, laughing at his playful demeanor.
“But seriously, Sidney, you don’t actually think it can ever be this way—so colorly blended—out there on them mean streets? You do know this here is just a fantasy—a sample of what can never be?”
“Go ask Loretta,” I said. “She doesn’t live in our political world. She sees people as people, as most artists do. That’s why I always ask you not to bring up the color thing around her, James.”
“And I don’t. I love the sista. But you see, I know better. These white folks is rare. They the exception to the rule. The rest of ’em out there is doin’ the devil’s work.”
“Loretta doesn’t see it that way.”
“Good. May God continue watching over her.”
“Look, however hard it is for you to believe, she is a woman of c
olor who actually hasn’t had to wrestle with being colored. Her father put a wall around her. Can’t we have some of those types who exist among us—however naïve it may sound?”
“No,” he said.
“No? Why not?”
“Because the ugly hand of bigotry will find her eventually and slap her right across the face.”
“She just wants to paint, James.”
“Our entire movement is rooted in a belief that colored folks should separate themselves from whites. Yet here you and I stand in the middle of a big ol’ mix-pot party. It’s too ironic. It’s unfair to Marcus. It’s also dangerous.”
He took a deep breath—then held up his cup of coffee.
“But tonight is not about us,” he continued. “It’s about your wife. I’ll get back to thinking about Africa for the Africans tomorrow.”
“I’ll drink to that. Because until we get to this ‘all-black society’—the one with an imaginary fence around it that Garvey often speaks of—we have to live in this one.”
“Amen.”
I cared deeply about James and knew he was slowly losing faith in Garvey. And regarding the issue of race, I wanted to make him come around and see things my way. But I wasn’t in a position to express “my way” to him—at least not yet.
“Ya’ll tryin’ to hide from the rest of us?” asked an approaching Claude McKay—his hair straighter than I’d last seen it—his maroon three-piece suit more expensive-looking than most.
“How you doing, Claude?” I asked. “I’m glad you got my invite.”
“Well ain’t this something!” added James. “Great to see you, Claude.”
“What a house, Sidney. Am I actually in Harlem or back in London?”
“Thank you, Claude.”
“I want you both to meet my friend Max Eastman,” he said.
“I didn’t really think you were going to bring him,” I said.
“Of course,” he said. “As I mentioned, he wants to meet the painter. He’s here somewhere. There . . . the tall white gentleman in the grayish-brown suit by the front entrance. He’s flirting with the stunning woman in the blue dress.”
The Strivers' Row Spy Page 18
