“We’ll need someone to drive,” said Strong. “Gerald and Elmore, along with several Legionnaires, took all the Fords to retrieve Prince Mutato and his entourage at the Waldorf. They’ll be back shortly.”
“We don’t have time,” said Grant.
“Then we’ll have to find a guard with an available vehicle,” said Strong. “Let’s go.”
“We don’t have time for that,” said Garvey. “And do you think I want some random Legionnaire to witness your handling of this? One of them might also be a snitch. This is in-house business. You must get to this Webster’s immediately. Reverend Eason can drive you.”
“In what?” asked Eason. “I have no transportation. Can you drive, Sidney?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where Webster’s is, Sidney?” asked Strong.
“No.”
“I do,” said Eason.
“Very well,” said Garvey. “You direct Sidney where to drive, Reverend. The four of you go. Now! Before he leaves.”
We stood, grabbed our overcoats, and exited. I was relieved to be out of the room, even though I had no idea exactly what we were being tasked to do.
With snow covering the ground, each step I took en route to my car left a three-inch-deep footprint in its wake. I looked ahead to my right and noticed the prints that Eason and company had left in front of me.
After about twenty steps I looked back at the various footprints behind us. It was as if they were following me. All of the footprints were a metaphor for what my life had become—following and being followed.
The prints reminded me of the many young, loyal teenage men Garvey had tailing various members of the UNIA. These ambitious youngsters were willing to do anything to curry favor with him. At least one had done just that by following this so-called snitch to Webster’s Restaurant.
The falling snow was difficult to drive in, and it showed no signs of relenting. We made our way slowly down Park Avenue. No one said a word. Strong and Grant sat in the backseat and Eason was up front with me pointing the way.
I took a left on East Fifty-second Street and found a parking space across the way from Webster’s. We waited. I was eager to see the snitch come walking out. Who was he?
“Turn the engine off,” said Strong. “When he comes out, I’ll get out. You three just wait here.”
We waited about twenty minutes before we saw two men exit—one white, one colored.
“It’s Pope,” said Strong. “I knew that nigga was no good.”
“Quick,” said Grant. “He’s ’bout to get in his car.”
Strong got out, walked across the street, and approached the two men from behind. The three engaged in conversation for a bit before Strong grabbed the white man’s briefcase, opened it, and began rummaging through the papers inside. He read a few of the documents, then put them back inside, closing the briefcase and handing it to Pope.
He shoved the white man in the chest, the force knocking him to the ground. He just sat there, afraid to get up. Strong then grabbed Pope by the collar, led him toward us, opened the door, and shoved him in the backseat.
“Drive,” said Strong, snatching the briefcase from Pope and handing it up front to James.
I found my way back to Park Avenue and drove north until we got to 135th Street.
“Park near the pier,” said Strong.
I thought about what was to come. Eason hadn’t said a word. I knew that Strong and Grant were able to sense any disloyalty and would easily sniff me out if I showed the slightest bit of uneasiness. Their commitment to Garvey was stronger than anyone else’s within the UNIA.
“This is good,” said Strong as I peeked at him in the mirror. “Stop.”
“Good ol’ Pope,” said Grant, shaking his head and putting on some thick black gloves as I parked. “How many leases did you help Marcus secure? He credited you for helping him get that restaurant. He probably figured you knew more about real estate than just about anybody in Harlem.”
“I’m gonna ask you one time,” said Strong, also putting on his black gloves. “Who do you work for?”
“I’ve been acting independently,” said Pope, sweating through his shirt.
Strong revved back and landed a heavy punch across Pope’s face, likely breaking his jaw. He then grabbed him by the arm and began pulling him out of the car.
“Ya’ll come with me,” said Strong to the three of us.
We stepped into the blizzard, walked to the front of the car, and watched Strong deliver several blows to Pope’s ribs and face. He fell to his knees and gasped for air.
“Please!” said Pope, extending his arm up to defend himself.
“You gotta choice,” said Grant, joining in. “You either tell us . . . or you will die today.”
Blood was pouring out of Pope’s mouth onto the snow.
“I’m independent,” he said again.
Grant kicked him in the face, thrusting him back. It was a violent kick that could have easily killed him. He now lay flat on his back.
“Who?” yelled Strong.
It took every ounce of will not to intervene, but I decided to wait a bit longer. I knew this could just as well have been me bleeding on the ground and figured it was about at this point where I’d confess if it were.
“M . . . I . . . D,” whispered Pope.
“What’s that?” asked Grant, getting down on one knee and placing his ear near Pope’s mouth.
“Military Intelligence Division,” whispered Pope as his eyes rolled up into his head.
“And you been feedin’ information to that son of a bitch Kilroe, huh?” asked Strong.
“I ain’t never met Kilroe,” whispered Pope. “I just dealt with someone in his office. That man you saw me with.”
“So,” said Grant, “you the one who told Marcus’s sorry bookkeeper to turn them files over to Kilroe? What was that no good nigga’s name again?”
Pope just lay there.
“Huh?” shouted Grant, kicking him in the ribs.
“Uriah!” cried Pope.
“That’s right,” said Grant. “It was Uriah the one turned them books over to Kilroe. Claimed Marcus was cheatin’ ’em out they money. What’d you offer Uriah to turn them books over—a guarantee that he wouldn’t go down with Marcus? Well, it’s you who’s goin’ down.”
Strong bent over and grabbed Pope by the front of his shirt with both hands—lifting him to his feet—holding him up, his useless legs dangling. He was one more punch away from Heaven or Hell.
“Never liked you,” said Strong. “If I ever see your face in Harlem again . . . better yet . . . in all of New York, you’re a dead man. Dead! You hear me?”
Pope could barely muster up the energy to nod his head yes, but did.
“Any other snitches from the MID working for Marcus?” asked Strong. Pope nodded no. His face was so swollen I could hardly recognize him. “You been writin’ a hell of a lotta snitch-ass letters to your bosses, I’m sure. That’s a mighty busy hand you got. A naughty one! You right-handed?”
Pope nodded yes. As Strong continued holding him up, Grant grabbed his right hand and began breaking each of his fingers by bending them back violently until they touched the top of his hand. Pope shrilly screamed for mercy but Grant continued. Eason and I couldn’t help but cringe.
Grant finished his barbaric act, and Strong threw Pope to the ground. He lay there curled up like a baby. I looked down at all the blood covering the snow like splattered red paint on one of Loretta’s abstracts.
“You can go on and tell them white devils at your MID to come and get me,” said Grant, huffing like a rabid animal. “Tell ’em to come and get this tiger! And tell every other snitch in Harlem you know that Marcus can’t be touched. No one can get close to Black Moses! He has a shield of well-trained soldiers surrounding him. Every single one of my men—hundreds—are trained to kill if need be.”
Grant stepped back and held his arms out to the side. He kept them extended, then began slowly circ
ling, looking into the distance.
“YOU HEAR ME, SNITCHES?” he screamed. “COME GET THIS TIGER!”
I could see Pope still breathing and was glad they hadn’t killed him. Still, the event shook me fiercely. It jolted me into realizing how extremely careful I’d need to be from this point forward.
21
WINTER QUICKLY PASSED. IT WAS APRIL OF 1921. I’D BEEN GETTING more pressure than ever from Hoover to check Garvey’s files. With Garvey still in the Caribbean, I decided to try my luck. Strong had joined him on the escapade, Grant left behind to man the offices. He had Legionnaires from his Tiger Division patrolling the building day and night.
I began by rewiring the office lights on the first two floors, which took me the better part of two weeks. Before I could begin work on Garvey’s office upstairs, I had to get Grant to unlock the door. Not an easy task. He and I argued back and forth over the matter.
“Why do you need to get into Marcus’s office today?” he’d asked. “Just leave that room untouched until he returns. This is not about trust, Sidney. No one, including myself, is trusted by Marcus to be in that office when he’s gone.”
“But Marcus himself asked me to rewire the lights throughout the building—including his office. He was adamant about it.”
“You need to wait until he returns.”
I didn’t accept his demand, and finally, through much technical talk and persuasion, he relented. But I did have to agree to allow one of his men to oversee my every move. Amy Jacques was also traveling with Garvey, but I was hoping she’d left the documents in the file cabinet.
It was about seven in the evening. With several bags of electrical equipment, lightbulbs, and two Autographic Kodak cameras in tow—one provided by the Bureau—I made may way up to Garvey’s office. Waiting for me was Grant and one of his young Legionnaires, Clayborn.
“Leave the door cracked,” said Grant, unlocking the door and pushing it forward. “How long is this gonna take? Hours . . . days?”
“That depends on the various problems I may encounter. The whole building has glitches throughout. One from another room may be affecting the power in Marcus’s office, and vice versa.”
He frowned. “Well Clayborn here will make sure you don’t miss any . . . glitches.”
Grant left the two of us alone and headed downstairs. I entered, set my bags down, and grabbed what I needed. I climbed the ladder and began replacing old electrical wiring, sockets, and lightbulbs as Clayborn just sat there eyeing me. He was a huge young man, seeming to take up most of the wall next to the office door, which remained slightly ajar.
After working for about two hours, I stepped down from the ladder and took out a pot roast sandwich and a bottle of root beer from my bag.
“Sorry,” I said, sitting, unwrapping the paper from the sandwich, and taking a big bite.
“It’s okay, Mr. Temple,” said Clayborn, his voice very deep.
“You ate supper yet?” I chewed big, knowing that by the mere size of the youngster, he liked to eat.
“No.”
“If I’d remembered better, I would have thrown a sandwich and soda in for you. Maybe tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow night?”
I nodded. “Office needs more new wire than I’d anticipated. Also need more new sockets, some larger ones.” I guzzled down some root beer. “Whole building’s system was jerry-built back in the Stone Ages it seems. Yeah, this here’s a two- or three-day job, considering I can’t be here ’til nighttime. Got other contracts I have to attend to.”
“Everybody knows you stay real busy, Mr. Temple.”
He spoke to me with such reverence, reminding me that my stature within the organization was, at least, perceived to be one of importance.
“Tell you what, Clayborn, I’ll bring supper for both of us tomorrow night. You like pork ribs?”
“Yes, sir.” He lightly smiled.
“What’s your favorite soda? You like root beer?”
“Orange soda.”
“You got it.”
I finished eating and sizing him up. I imagined he could easily fall asleep right in that chair if given a certain number of barbital to aid him along a bit. And I had a whole bottle full in my bedside drawer.
The next night I arrived with all of my equipment, a bottle of orange pop, a bottle of root beer, and two orders of juicy pork baby back ribs from Sonny’s Pool Hall. Clayborn and I ate before I got to work. Didn’t want the ribs to get cold.
“Best ribs in Harlem, ain’t they?” I asked.
He just nodded and licked his saucy fingers. Then he took a big swig from his bottle—the orange soda inside mixed with three of my mashed-up pills.
I left my food there on the desk and climbed the ladder. “You go on and finish eatin’, Clayborn. I need to get started.”
“All right. Thank you for the supper, Mr. Temple.”
“You’re welcome. Brother gets hungry just sittin’ up here all night waitin’ on me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Clayborn was a nice kid—very respectful. He wore the extra, extra large Legionnaire uniform with much pride.
It took about thirty minutes before he was sound asleep in his chair. But I had to make sure no one was roaming the hallways. Staff members worked well into the night—well past ten. And ever since Garvey had left on his trip, Grant had remained a permanent fixture at headquarters. He actually slept in one of the offices downstairs. The last thing I needed was for him to come barging in while I was knee-deep in Garvey’s books.
Whatever information I found would need to be photographed, as removing anything was out of the question. If the books showed that Garvey had indeed officially owned the Shadyside and Kanawha when he began sending out flyers soliciting folks to buy stock in them, we’d be back to square one.
The Bureau had some of the flyers in their possession. The date on them read “May 20, 1920.” So if the dates on the official sales receipts for the Shadyside and Kanawha preceded May 20, the Bureau would be out of luck when it came to charging Garvey with mail fraud.
I walked over, opened the door, and made sure the hallway was clear. I could hear staffers below and wasn’t sure where Grant was. I’d have to be quick. Returning the door to its barely-open position, I used all of my strength to scoot Clayborn directly in front of it—making it next to impossible for someone to enter. If Grant did return, he’d only be able to yell at Clayborn for sitting in front of the door, giving me time to return to the ladder.
I approached the wall behind Garvey’s desk and removed the Maasai gourd that was hanging there. I turned the gourd upside down and out spilled the keys.
I looked over at Clayborn who was definitely out cold. I tried one key after another on the top drawer of the black file cabinet. Finally, I found one that worked.
I opened the drawer and saw three thick books. The first book listed the names of thousands who’d invested their money in the Black Star Line—not what I was looking for.
I opened the second book and realized it was a transactions book, so I began flipping page after page. There were transactions documented as far back as 1916. Near the back of the book I found final sales transactions listed for both the Shadyside and Kanawh. Someone had written down April 19, 1920, for both. I took one of the cameras from my bag and photographed the page. Now I needed to match that date with actual receipts.
I looked again in the top drawer, but there was nothing. I found the key that opened the middle drawer. In it were what looked like hundreds of large envelopes. They were packed in vertically, so tightly I couldn’t pull any of them out.
I found my screwdriver and wedged it in between a few, managing to create enough space to get my fingers in and pull some of them out—actually tearing a couple in the process, and sending a few flying across the room.
I heard footsteps in the hallway so I shut the drawer, rushed to Clayborn, and scooted his chair away from the door again. I quickly picked the envelopes up off the floor, shoved t
hem in my bag, leaped toward the ladder, and climbed up as fast as I could. If Grant were to see Clayborn asleep, so be it. That would be the end of his short career in the Tiger Division.
But the footsteps passed and there was silence again. I waited a few seconds, then climbed down and struggled to position Clayborn back in front of the door. His wooden chair was on the verge of breaking.
Returning to the file cabinet, I pulled as many envelopes out as possible and stacked them on the desk. I’d never sifted through a pile of anything so fast in my life. Each envelope had something different labeled on it: “Laundry Service,” “Ford Automobile Purchase,” “1920 International Convention,” etc. One caught my attention. It read: “Nemesis.”
I opened it and found several handwritten letters. I quickly read through a few. One was addressed to Madam C. J. Walker—an entrepreneur who’d made her fortune by developing and marketing a hugely successful line of beauty and hair products for colored women. She’d recently passed away.
The letter began: “Dear Madam C. J. Walker, I’m writing to you regarding one W. E. B. Du Bois. As you know, he has done much to disrupt my Africa-centered agenda. This Du Bois is a white Negro who is dead set on destroying the purity of the race. The fact is this Du Bois is not like you and me, Madame Walker. Too much white blood flows through his veins.”
Garvey went on to thank Walker for her past loyalties and asked for her continued support of the UNIA. The letter was certainly disturbing, but there was another that seemed far more important—one that Du Bois would like to see. It was written as a questionnaire, and a scribbled note at the top read: “To be typed and directly sent at the appropriate time to the United States Attorney General, Alexander Mitchell Palmer, and all members of the U.S. Senate.” Another scribbled note read: “Letter to be sent as a last resort, to avoid deportation or imprisonment.”
The first paragraph explained the purpose of the questionnaire. It read: “I write to you as the recognized leader of Africans across the globe. And I believe America’s race problem can be solved quite swiftly and permanently if given the proper attention and resources—and most of all, if assigned the proper leader.
The Strivers' Row Spy Page 20
