The Strivers' Row Spy

by Jason Overstreet

“I thought I covered that. It doesn’t concern you.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “You think a powerful man like that is going down for simply misusing the mail service? Use your head.”

  “Using the mail service to defraud folks out of their money is a serious crime.”

  “Trust me. It’ll take something more attention-grabbing, something he can be directly connected to and can’t wiggle out of or blame on someone else.”

  “Like?”

  “Like violating the new Prohibition law.”

  “I’ve worked on his ships as an engineer. He’s done no such thing.”

  “The documents I have in this briefcase suggest otherwise. They link him directly to Eddie Adams, one of the most notorious bootleggers, murderers, and outlaws in America. Adams was killed last year, so he certainly won’t be around to deny such a connection.”

  “You’ve fabricated these documents?”

  “Yes. They prove that Garvey was rum-running, using his ships to transport the stuff from Cuba to Florida, then working with Adams to make a load of dough.”

  “And?”

  “And the fact that Garvey has been consumed with purchasing ships ever since Prohibition went into effect makes it all the more plausible. It further explains why his financial books have always been a mess. These documents are his death knell.”

  “You’ll never be able to make it stick.”

  “No, I won’t. You will. The documents will soon be planted in his office.”

  “By who? By me?”

  “You catch on quick.”

  “I’ll do no such thing.”

  “My guess is you will.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Look. We know you’ve been an agent with the Bureau since 1919. We know everything about you. We also know that he trusts you.”

  “How have you come to such conclusions?”

  “The United States Federal Government is an awfully big place. We’ve got a spy or two embedded in several departments. The BOI is no exception. You’d be amazed how many so-called loyal Americans will squeal on the government for the right amount of dough.”

  “Go on.”

  “Our inside man says your boss, Hoover, is too young for the job—that the Bureau is growing too fast—that too much is slipping past the wide-eyed George Washington University grad. Our man also tells us that Garvey is too smart for your boss.”

  “Your inside man couldn’t be an actual agent.”

  “Of course he is. And he’s very thorough. I have a photograph of the contract you signed. Several were taken. It proves you’re an agent. You certainly wouldn’t want Garvey to receive one. As you know, he’s got a man or two working for him who’d be more than willing to tear you limb from limb. Oh, and remember that nice picture you took shaking Mr. J. Edgar Hoover’s hand? It’s such a nice picture of you two. He’s a household name these days. Seen his face in the papers on more than a few occasions.”

  “I’ve heard of him.”

  “Still playin’ dumb, huh? Our man took a nice picture of that picture as well. That’s kinda funny. A picture of a picture.”

  “Where are the photographs of said contract, etcetera?”

  Without missing a beat he took a step forward and slid an envelope across the pavement toward my feet. I took a careful step forward and picked it up.

  “Of course you can’t see them in the dark,” he said. “But I’m confident you’ll recognize your pretty face and signature when you get home later and have a look. You look good holding up your Bureau badge, too.”

  “If you’ve got spies throughout Washington, why don’t you have one working within Garvey’s UNIA?”

  “We do. But he can’t do the job I’m asking you to do. He can’t get close enough to the so-called Black Moses. That’s what makes you unique.”

  “Why don’t you just let the Bureau do its job?”

  “We have. For years. Where has that gotten us? And now it may take another year for this trial to ever come about, if at all. We need him off the public scene now. And I’m assuming you do too. Why else would you have become an agent?”

  “What, a Negro can’t be an agent simply because he wants to be an agent?”

  “No.”

  “White men do it every day.”

  “Such are the ways of the world.”

  “I see. Tell me who you’re with.”

  “Look, you stubborn son of bitch! Maybe I’m with the Communist Party. Why don’t we go with that? They certainly have reason to hate that Jamaican pig. Then again, so do a lot of organizations. All I can tell you is that I’m simply someone you’re going to have to deal with. You can call me Timekeeper. It’ll prove to be fitting.”

  “Somehow I don’t think you’re representing the Communist Party.”

  “Why not? Don’t tell me it’s because you believe, as your Bureau does, that Garvey himself is a communist. Anyone paying attention knows that Garvey spouts nothing but anti-communist rhetoric. He’s a capitalist to the bone. He’s certainly on the Communist Party’s enemies list.”

  “Sounds like you’ve just tipped your hand.”

  “Not by a long shot. I’m just paid very well to know a lot. Look, trying to figure out who I’m representing is a complete waste of time. I promise you.”

  “All right, Timekeeper, if I were to agree to do it, how much time would I have?”

  “I’d say get it done soon. And soon means soon.”

  “Then?”

  “There’s a number in the envelope I just gave you. When you’ve done the work, call it. Once we’ve received word that the evidence is in place, I’ll notify my contact within the police department. Oh, I forgot to mention that. Don’t bother contacting the NYPD. We’ve got several of their boys on our payroll. Besides, many a man in uniform would like to see Garvey’s black ass hanging from a tree. With his parading around town surrounded by all that African pageantry, chaos in the streets all the time. Disgusting.”

  “How do I know you’re not with the NYPD yourself?”

  “Why don’t you try and find out?” he asked, threateningly. “I don’t exist. Don’t you get it?”

  “Give me the documents.”

  “You know, Agent Temple, sometimes a man is just stuck. Don’t fight it. Make things easy on yourself and all will return to normal. Of course, you could tell your bosses that your mission has been compromised. That would certainly end your assignment. And who’s to say there’d be any future ones for a colored agent like you?”

  “Garvey going down for rum running would also end my assignment. What’s the difference?”

  “You’re right. Your work on this assignment’s going to end soon one way or another. But one scenario leaves your life at risk with Garvey’s men. Another leaves you a failure who turned himself in to the Bureau with the job left undone. But the last leaves you looking like a topnotch agent who took part in the takedown of a government enemy who was illegally selling liquor.”

  “How would the latter play itself out?”

  “Once you’ve planted the evidence, tell your bosses that you suspect Garvey of rum running, that you’re trying to find evidence and may be close to something. Then, over the next few days, while they wait to hear back from you, the police will get the proper warrant, go in, and take control of the scene. When they find the evidence and make the arrest, your bosses will know that your original suspicions were right. Hell, they’ll think you’re the best agent they’ve ever had. Your fate will be sealed.”

  “I seriously doubt that.”

  “That’s because you haven’t thought it through yet.”

  “I’ll say it again, give me the documents.”

  He slid another envelope toward me and I picked it up, knowing I would never do what he was suggesting. It wasn’t in me. But I hadn’t come this far just to quit either. I wasn’t about to go running to the Bureau and admit that my mission had been compromised. That would effectively end any chance I’d have of c
ontinuing to spy on Garvey if he avoided prison. Du Bois would then be on his own and at the mercy of any schemes Garvey had up his sleeve. The NAACP boss was already rapidly losing popularity among the colored masses, while Garvey’s image as a defiant, uncaged tiger was still soaring. I’d have to figure something out.

  “Don’t overthink this,” he said. “You don’t owe that foreign son of a bitch a damn thing. His time has come.”

  “Have a good night,” I said, turning and slowly walking away.

  “You be careful now, Sidney.”

  * * *

  I walked into the house at about ten o’clock with both envelopes in hand and made my way down the hallway toward Loretta’s studio. She and Ginger were sitting at their respective easels working on distinctly different-looking paintings. Ginger’s was a portrait of an old Native American woman, Loretta’s a piece she’d been working on for weeks, one she claimed was her interpretation of Heaven.

  I chose not to interrupt them and headed straight for the kitchen where I poured myself a glass of wine—one of the last bottles we still had left. I walked out to the back porch and took a seat on the steps. Setting my glass down, I calmly opened one of the envelopes and pulled out the pictures I was hoping not to recognize. No such luck.

  One was a clear photograph of the contract I’d signed back in 1919. Another was of me shaking Hoover’s hand, and a third was of me standing beside him, holding up my official Bureau badge. For the record, it was a badge they never allowed me to take home.

  I took a big drink of wine and sat there for an hour just thinking. It felt like the walls of Harlem were finally closing in on me.

  28

  I SPENT THE NEXT FEW DAYS MULLING OVER MY OPTIONS, NONE OF which put my mind at ease. And with Garvey still traveling the country, I tried to pretend the Timekeeper didn’t exist, tried to fool myself into thinking he might never show his face again. But deep down I knew better. I needed someone to help me plan my next move. I needed to see Ellington.

  I made my way into The Kessler on a Friday in late June. It had become a habit for me to look over my shoulder, to flinch and reach for my gun whenever anyone made an unexpected move.

  The scruffy-faced Latin man staggering near the front door raised my eyebrows, but as I walked by him, he asked for some spare change. I handed him a nickel and made my way inside past several tables. It was nine o’clock and the place was about half full. I spotted Ellington in the back corner and hurried to his table.

  “There you are,” he said, sipping his straight black coffee.

  “Good to see you, Bobby.”

  I sat down and gave the place another once-over. If someone was following me, he hadn’t entered the place yet.

  “Make a note of whoever walks in,” I said.

  “What is it?”

  “I think real trouble has found me. I don’t even feel comfortable using the street phones anymore.”

  “What do you mean? Where did you call my folks from?”

  “I was meeting with a friend, a Reverend Powell, at his office. When we were finished, he stepped out and let me use his private phone. I called your folks and then you.”

  “How are you in trouble?”

  Before I could answer a waitress approached. “What’ll it be?” she asked.

  “I’m fine with coffee for now,” said Ellington, pointing to his cup and asking me with his eyes if I wanted the same. I nodded yes and let him do the talking. “One more coffee, ma’am.”

  “You bet,” she replied, scurrying off.

  Again I scanned the entire place.

  “Look, Bobby, I’ve been approached by a man who’s demanding I frame Garvey for rum running. He’s threatening to blow my cover if I don’t plant some incriminating evidence. He calls himself the Timekeeper. He says his organization has one of our agents on its payroll.”

  “Shit.”

  “He has photographs of my contract. He has pictures of me shaking Hoover’s hand.”

  “Damn. I’m surprised you’re telling me.”

  “The way I see it, if I can’t trust you, I can no longer trust myself. A man’s instincts have to mean something in this world.”

  “I’ve got your back covered,” he said, taking a sip.

  “Too bad I have no idea who’s on the take.”

  “A dozen faces are running through my mind. Agent Speed, Paul Mann, Knox, Long. Could be Agent Peterman out of the New York office, or that son of a bitch Truffle. But those two are focused on other New York assignments.”

  “What about Sloan?” I asked.

  “He’s only worked in New York. Couldn’t have accessed your file.”

  “Right,” I said. “Same with 800.”

  “You’ve gotta get out. Garvey finds out and you’re toast.”

  “You mean give up on everything I’ve been working for? I’m closer to Garvey than ever. He survives this trial and remains in power, Du Bois and the NAACP won’t stand a chance. I can’t have that son of a bitch setting the course for us all.”

  “What? How can you be thinking about that right now?”

  “Because it could very well define how I’m able to live the rest of my life. Garvey’s message can’t be allowed to take hold. It means everything.”

  “Is it worth losing your life over?”

  “I said everything. But hang on. We certainly can’t assume that anyone associated with Garvey would kill me. They might make sure I never walk again, but . . .”

  “But they might kill you and make sure no one ever finds your body. People disappear all the time without the police ever being able to prove who got rid of them.”

  “Perhaps it isn’t until a man is willing to actually die for something that he truly begins to live.”

  “You’re fuckin’ scarin’ me, Sidney.”

  “Look, an America that includes full integration and absolute social equality is the only country I want to live in. I want to feel the way you feel.”

  “How’s that?”

  “At peace, dammit! And worth something.”

  “Man, Sid,” he said, lowering his head, shaking it as if those words saddened him.

  “Free from having to spend every second of the day thinking about the color of my skin.”

  The waitress approached and sat my coffee down. She then tended to an old gentleman three tables down, toward the front of the restaurant.

  “Finish what you were saying,” he said.

  “Sounds like a dream, I know, but I feel obligated to do everything within my power to help that dream become a reality.” I poured a bit of milk in my cup, then a little sugar. “And it’s within my power to remain the eyes and ears of the NAACP at this critical moment in history. Within my power. So far I’ve managed to keep Du Bois well informed of both Garvey’s and the Bureau’s intentions.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve been sending Du Bois letters, anonymously signed of course.”

  “So that’s what you’ve been up to all this time? I’ll be damned.”

  “Now you know.”

  “So if you’re dead set on saving the NAACP, are you actually considering planting the evidence?”

  “Of course not,” I said, taking a sip. “I’m not a damn criminal. I’m just trying to buy some time, hoping this trial will start soon. Garvey is already guilty of something real and I trust he will pay the price.”

  “But is this Timekeeper willing to wait?”

  “He’s gonna have to.”

  “If you go to the Bureau with this they’ll dismiss you immediately.”

  “What if there is no spy inside the Bureau? What if it was Hoover who sent the Timekeeper as an insurance plan in case the trial fails?”

  “No. Get that out of your head. I know how he views you. He thinks you’re ethical to a fault, the kind of man who’d quit if blackmailed. And what would he have to gain from that?”

  “Why would he assume I’d just quit?” I said. “He might think that any Negro with a goo
d-paying job at the prestigious Bureau would do anything to keep it.”

  “All right, Sid, just for argument’s sake, let’s assume it is Hoover.”

  “Let’s do.”

  “He’s damn sure smart, definitely enough to fool me. Shit . . . enough to fool everyone in the Bureau for that matter. Play it out.”

  “First of all,” I said, “it may not just be Hoover. He may be following orders from above. Several folks may be behind this.”

  “Okay. Go.”

  “Hoover knows if Garvey does go to prison for mail fraud he’ll have no use for me anymore anyway.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “No,” I said, “not perhaps. You and I both know he’s only using 800 and me to get Garvey. He’d never have me spy on a white man or simply work out of the offices in Washington like you did.”

  “Guess I just don’t wanna believe that.”

  “Believe it,” I said.

  “Continue.”

  “But,” I said, “Hoover figures if Garvey walks, they’ll need a backup plan, and the rum running evidence is just that. He could never just come straight out and ask me to break the law. So he sends this Timekeeper to make up a story about an inside man. It’s just a ploy. He figures if I do plant the evidence, it was a brilliant plan. If I don’t, at least he tried.”

  “Why wouldn’t he wait to see if Garvey beats the mail fraud charge before sending him?”

  “Because,” I said, “he doesn’t know how long I’ll be around. He knows I’m as far in as I’m ever going to be. I’m in the perfect position right now. He knows I’ve gained access to Garvey’s private files before. He knows that 800 is in real deep too, but has no chance of pulling off such a plan.”

  “Hoover always said 800 was doing an outstanding job, that he was a key reason why this mail fraud case has real legs now.”

  “He is,” I said. “800 has been masterful, but he doesn’t sit around in Garvey’s office talking about Ibsen and Shakespeare like I do. It’s about accessing and planting the evidence in those intimate files.”

  “By the way, just how close are you to Garvey?”

  “Only close in terms of being a core member of his business affairs team. He meets with me one-on-one quite a bit and philosophizes. But I’m certainly not privy to any intimate affairs. For instance, I know he’s rapidly building his own secret service, but I have no idea who’s a part of it. I have no idea what goes on in his private world.”