“I ask that you help me in my endeavor to be officially named by the United States Government: ‘Director of African Repatriation. ’ I wish to act as the sole director in immediately removing all colored Americans back to their native Africa, to Liberia. Colored America as a whole will certainly follow my orders—especially if given your endorsement. They have grown quite weary of other colored leaders, specifically one W. E. B. Du Bois.”
I was stunned by Garvey’s ignorance and presumptuousness, as well as his willingness to sell out his own people, if need be, to save his own hide—exemplified so clearly in the line I just had to read once more to be sure: “Letter to be sent as a last resort, to avoid deportation or imprisonment.”
If granted such preposterous authority by the government to remove all coloreds back to Africa, millions against their will no doubt, Garvey would be ordering utter chaos. He was banking on them being racist enough to grant him such power. It was my worst fear. Just the thought of my family’s future resting in such a man’s hands gave me chills.
The questions that followed were written in a manner that could only build his case. He asked the readers to explain why they did or didn’t agree with questions like: “With the further intermixing of coloreds and whites certainly in America’s future, is it not time for Africans to return to Africa? Please explain why or why not.”
At the bottom of the page was Garvey’s signature and a line that read: “Please sign and date here and mail to UNIA headquarters.” I took one of the cameras from my bag—the one Loretta and I owned—and photographed the letter.
Refocusing on the remaining stack of envelopes, I finally found one labeled “Black Star Line Vessels.” I opened it and there they were—several receipts for the Shadyside and Kanawha. Payments had obviously been made periodically over a one-year period. But two receipts had statements attached that listed April 15, 1920, as the date of final payment for both respectively. The bottom of both statements read: “Outstanding Balance: $0.00.” There were also two official certificates that verified ownership of both ships.
So Garvey had indeed taken ownership of them a month before mailing out the flyers. I wondered if he had done so by coincidence or on purpose—fully aware of the law regarding the mail service. Either way, he was safe—for now.
With the Bureau camera now, I photographed all of the documents, then managed to get the envelopes back inside the drawer, move Clayborn again, finish my work, and avoid a confrontation with Grant. I made sure the office was clean and packed up my equipment.
On my way out I woke Clayborn and told him he needed to try to stay awake on the job. I told him I wouldn’t tell Grant as long as he could avoid falling asleep in the future. With his eyes barely open, he nodded in agreement and we both exited.
I headed straight for my office and sent a telegram to the Bureau explaining my findings regarding the ships. Of course, a courier would be sent to retrieve the camera in order to confirm my findings. Hoover would likely be impressed with my skills as a photographer but disappointed with what the pictures revealed.
* * *
Later that week I was sitting in my office and received a call from Agent Speed. He was in an angry mood.
“Did you receive my telegram?” he asked.
“No. At least not yet.”
“That’s ’cause you’re never in your damn office.”
“Garvey doesn’t spend his time in my office.”
“Very funny.”
“I wasn’t trying to be.”
“Well . . . seeing as how I managed to catch you by telephone, ignore the telegram when you get it. I’ll just tell you now.”
“Okay.”
“You’re to be commended for the investigative work you’ve done, Q, but I’m not calling to sing your praises. We just received word from Agent 800 that suggests Garvey’s publicity committee has recently printed thousands of circulars for a new ship. The photograph they were ordered to use displays a ship called the Orion. But apparently Garvey has sent word for the committee to scratch the word Orion out and replace it with the Phyllis Wheatley. Does Garvey own the Orion as we speak?”
“I know for a fact that he doesn’t. A Jewish man named Silverstone has been hired by Garvey to broker a deal for that ship. Those negotiations are still under way.”
“So these circulars may go out well before the Orion is purchased. Stay on top of this. Agent 800 will handle confirmation of when the flyers are mailed out. You handle when the sale officially goes through.”
“I’ll notify you immediately when it does.”
“Stay safe, Q.”
I hung up and thought about those words. I knew that staying safe for a man of color was wishful thinking to say the least, regardless of the circumstances and surroundings. In fact, ever since my cousin’s murder, I’d always felt the fleetingness of life.
I reached in my briefcase for the New York Times and thought about the church service Loretta and I would be attending this Sunday. Maybe that was the one exception, being inside a church. Yes. Looking back, it was the only time I’d ever felt truly safe.
* * *
We arrived at 242 West Fortieth Street just in time for service. We were Reverend Adam Clayton Powell’s special guests. It was a lovely church, but I could see why they needed a much larger place to worship. There were hundreds packed in tight. We sat in the front row, as Powell began by thanking a long list of donors and members.
“And thanks to Sister Lolita Jones Jackson. God bless your soul, sister. Sister Jackson has been so diligent in her fundraising efforts, working tirelessly into the night for weeks on end. Won’t you stand, sister?”
Ms. Jackson was a round, middle-aged woman and looked beautiful in her yellow dress and hat. The congregation gave her a big hand.
“And I’d like to recognize a young gentleman whose tireless efforts in helping us with our future church in Harlem have been God-sent. We’re lucky to have such a well-educated, meticulous-minded engineer willing to represent us when it comes to meeting the city’s building codes and zoning demands, and all that other confusing stuff that the Good Lord needs to explain to me . . .”
There was laughter from the congregation and several “Amens.”
“But the Good Lord don’t have to explain it to me ’cause he sent a young man by the name of Sidney Temple instead. I’ve had the opportunity to introduce many of you to him over the past year during his many visits to my office here at the church. He’s a big part of the building team we’ve assembled. He’s been a guiding hand in the development of our soon-to-be new place of worship. And he’s here today with his lovely wife, Loretta. Mr. and Mrs. Temple . . . won’t you stand?”
We stood to a big round of applause.
“Praise God,” said Powell.
We sat and I wondered if the “Good Lord” would forgive me for the double life I’d created. After two years in Harlem, all of it filled with lies and secrecy, it was probably a good thing I was finally sitting in a house of worship. I closed my eyes, and for the first time in my life asked Him to forgive me for whatever sins I’d committed or was about to commit.
* * *
I rose extra early and did my Kodokan exercise in the living room. Loretta was still asleep. Balancing on my left foot and kicking my right leg repeatedly, I thought about the photographed letter I’d mailed to Du Bois. I was sure the Crisis editor would take great stock in learning that Garvey had designs on seeking the government’s endorsement of his repatriation plan.
I was hoping such a letter would further inspire Du Bois to ramp up his efforts and weaken the Garvey movement. Perhaps it would assist in keeping him one step ahead. In terms of keeping him one step ahead of Hoover, I hadn’t met with Agent Mann at Snappy’s in months because he was constantly reneging on me, leaving me guessing what the Bureau’s latest Du Bois agenda was.
* * *
Now doing a series of spinning kicks, I stopped and saw Loretta sitting at the bottom of the stairwell watching
me.
“How long have you been there?” I asked.
She smiled. “Long enough to see what I like seeing.”
“You’re up so early. Can I cook you some breakfast?”
“Go ahead and finish your exercise. I’m enjoying watching.”
“I’m finished,” I said, taking a towel and wiping my face.
She stood. “Guess what, sweaty boy.”
“What?”
“I’ll have some help moving your mother and aunt to Vermont.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ginger wants to come with me. She’s always wanted to visit Canada, so once we’ve gotten them settled in Middlebury, the two of us are planning to visit Montreal, Quebec City, and maybe Halifax.”
“I’d be worried sick about you. Is this safe?”
“Of course it is.” She made two fists and frowned. “We’re two tough broads.”
“Oh . . . okay, okay . . . listen to you . . . with your bad self.”
“That’s right.” She put her hands on her waist and tilted her head to the side. “You want some of this, big fella?”
I just smiled and wiped some more sweat from my brow.
“Ah, before I forget,” she said, playfully clapping her hands once, “where did you put your railroad maps?”
“They’re in the Baby Grand . . . under the seat . . . on the driver’s side.”
“Why there?”
“I don’t know. I took them out of my briefcase one day and never put ’em back. Guess I just like having ’em there now.”
“Well, I’d like to borrow one, Mr. Temple.”
“Halifax is so far east. You’re going to have to purchase a Canadian Pacific Railway map. You two can probably connect with that train in Montreal. I’ll find out. You planning on taking the New York Central to Chicago?”
“Yes.”
“Map is under the seat. Just make sure you put it back when you two get home.”
“Yes, sir!” she sarcastically said, saluting me.
“Before you go, let me teach you some of these kicks. Come here.”
She approached with her fists up again as if she were about to attack me. She then pretended to reenact the routine I’d been doing, playfully kicking her right leg at me.
“You better quit before you fall and hurt yourself,” I said, grabbing and hugging her as we both chuckled.
She was so happy. I imagined the disapproval Garvey would have of her fully integrated life, her belief that she could live amongst her white friends and travel anywhere without reservation. She would never want to live in a separatist society. Nor would I. My aim was still crystal clear. Absolute freedom was the only answer and the dream had to have a chance. Du Bois had to win out.
22
THE HOUSE DIDN’T FEEL THE SAME WITH HER GONE. BUT I STAYED plenty busy. I received a telegram at my office that read, “This is Zeus. Meet me at the site of my worst hangover at nine tomorrow night.”
Those were the only words written down, but it was enough for me to realize the sender was Bobby Ellington. I searched my mind trying to remember the story he’d told me back during training. He’d talked about a graduation trip, about a spot down in the Tenderloin District where he’d gotten drunk. Where was it? “Ah,” I said aloud to myself. “The Kessler.”
Ellington was waiting inside when I arrived. I’d made sure I wasn’t followed, but the meeting was still risky.
“How are you, Bobby?” I asked, sitting down.
“Good, Sidney. I’m only in New York for two days and I’m not getting paid for it. I asked for the time off so I could come see you. The Bureau thinks I’m visiting my brother in Boston.”
“Now you got me worried.”
“Can I get you two something to drink?” said an approaching waitress.
“Do you care what we drink, Sidney?”
“No.”
“We’ll take two lemonades for now,” said Ellington.
“They’ll be right up,” she said, walking away.
“Why in the world did you contact me?” I asked.
“I wanted to talk to you about Garvey still being in the Caribbean.”
“It’s a huge fundraising campaign he’s on,” I said. “He needs money to build his dream colony in Liberia—the one he wants all us colored folk to return to eventually. I’ve received word that he’s being swarmed by massive crowds wherever he goes—Jamaica, Panama, Costa Rica, etcetera.”
“Well, if Hoover has his way, Garvey may be there permanently. He’s working with immigration authorities to deny Garvey’s reentrance.”
“There will be no stopping him from returning,” I said. “Trust me. He’ll pay folks off if need be, or he’ll take a submarine if necessary.”
“Submarine?”
“In fact, he just did that,” I said. “Authorities were trying to keep him away from Colon, Panama, so he traveled underwater.”
“Shit. Well, when he is able to return, assuming it isn’t in a submarine, what ship is he due to travel on?”
“The Kanawha,” I said. “It was being repaired in Havana for weeks but it’s now heading for Kingston to retrieve him.”
“I just wanted to confirm that it was indeed the Kanawha he was due to return on. We got a disturbing tip out of our Florida office. It strongly suggested that several Cuban mechanics were paid handsomely by members of a radical organization out of Jacksonville to rig Garvey’s cabin with explosives. Explosives powerful enough to kill him and his party.”
“What?”
“But,” said Ellington, “officials at the Bureau ignored the tip. They completely turned a blind eye to it—claiming it couldn’t be verified. Now I don’t know about you, but I didn’t get in this business to ignore potential assassination attempts. People may want to see him fail, but do you want him dead, Sidney?”
“No. Well, let me think about it. No.”
“Here you go, gentlemen,” said the returning waitress, setting two glasses of lemonade on the table. “What can I get you two to eat?”
“I’ll have the ham sandwich,” said Ellington.
“Make it two,” I said.
“They’ll be right up.”
“Listen, Sidney. I’m not accusing the Bureau of some conspiracy to have Garvey murdered, but ignoring this news is troubling. Now, the tip may be part of a ruse to send agents on a wild-goose chase. God knows we’ve had our fair share of those, but it could very well be valid.”
“It sure could.”
“You still have time to do something about it—to stop it.”
“You’re a good man, Bobby. I knew it from the minute I met you.”
“You seemed unsure just now when I asked if you wanted to see him dead.”
“I just think he’s devising dangerous plans for our people,” I said.
“Where do you come down on this war that seems to be brewing between Du Bois and Garvey?”
“You’re aware of that?” I asked. “I thought everyone at the Bureau saw them as one and the same.”
“I’m not part of that ‘everyone.’ I think Du Bois is continuing the fight that was born during the abolitionist movement, and it’s unique to American coloreds. I’m assuming you support Du Bois.”
“You’re correct,” I said.
“Then you won’t like this bit of information. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Bureau nails Dr. Du Bois soon for violating the Mann Act. The new agent working at the Crisis is claiming that Du Bois has crossed state lines with a young woman, not his wife, on more than one occasion. Agents plan to follow him whenever he travels in the future.”
“But I’ve heard from my friend, a Mr. Daley, that Du Bois simply travels to his speaking engagements occasionally with a young secretary who handles all of his publicity affairs. That’s no crime.”
“But the agent claims he can prove that the two have a romantic relationship. He claims he can take photographs.”
“I doubt it.”
“Listen, Sidney. The Mann
Act makes it a crime to transport women across state lines ‘for the purpose of prostitution or debauchery, or for any other immoral purpose.’ It’s that last clause—‘for any other immoral purpose’—that gives the government a hell of a lot of leeway. They’re legislating morality by claiming that adultery is just that—immoral.”
“Du Bois and adultery. I doubt it.”
“The agent claims—”
“I got it,” I quipped, upset at the very thought of any of this.
“Okay.” He sipped his lemonade.
“Du Bois aside, I’m curious for other folks in perhaps different situations. What else falls under this huge umbrella of ‘any other immoral purpose’—or are they making it up as they go?”
“How about romantic relations between colored men and white women? The boxer, Jack Johnson, was arrested for violating the Mann Act back in 1912. And the woman he crossed state lines with was his companion. He even married her later that year.”
“Ah, but she was white . . . hence ‘any other immoral purpose. ’ I got it. This is unbelievable, Bobby.”
“I know. And don’t expect any of these practices to change now that Warren G. Harding is president.”
“You said you had one foot out the door.”
“I’m thinking about going to law school. I’ve applied here at Columbia.”
“Law school in New York, huh? Will you practice here too eventually?”
“I’d like to return home to Ohio and practice. I want to help folks who can’t get a fair shake. Meanwhile, I feel the need to get out of Washington.”
“Well, don’t leave too soon. I may need you.”
“I’ll stick around a bit longer.”
“Good.”
He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a slip of paper, and slid it across the table.
“Here is my parents’ telephone number in Hudson. If I do get into Columbia, you can always track me down by calling them. I’m assuming you won’t be getting a home telephone anytime soon?”
“No,” I said, picking up the slip of paper. “It’s all I can do to protect what little life I do have from the Bureau.”
The Strivers' Row Spy Page 21
