I walked into her studio and saw that she’d taken all of her paintings. She’d left a few brushes, some cans of paint. An old blue dress shirt I’d given her to work in was resting on a stool. The sleeves were rolled up and it had splotches of paint all over. I picked it up, held it to my face, and just as I’d imagined, it smelled of her lovely perfume. All I could do at that moment was pray she’d come back to me someday. My gut told me she wouldn’t. Still, I had to find the strength to respect her wishes.
I walked upstairs, found one of my hidden bottles of whiskey from years back, dragged myself out onto our bedroom balcony, and began to guzzle away my misery.
Looking out at the dimly lit street, I realized that whoever was watching me was, well, watching me. To them, the entire country was one big Harlem with no good hiding places for a man in my position. Besides, almost half of Loretta’s financial worth was wrapped up in the house and all that was in it. I couldn’t let her lose that, too, regardless of what was to become of us.
So, until I could sell it and head to God knows where, my intention was to keep working like a man is supposed to. I’d still make myself available to Garvey and I’d continue updating Du Bois as best I could. I would remain an agent until the trial and conviction. Then I’d be done.
* * *
After waking up the next morning with Loretta’s paint-covered shirt in hand, I washed up and drove straight to the real estate office on 143rd Street and put the house up for sale. I learned that its value had appreciated considerably. Now I’d just have to wait for someone to make a fair offer.
And wait I did. Months went by as if they were one long, drawn out, miserable, lonely day with nothing but Loretta’s absence permeating every second of it. There’d been no sign of the Timekeeper. Unfortunately, there’d been no sign of a buyer for the house either.
Speed, as usual, had done a lot of yelling through the phone, expressing how frustrating it was that everything was moving at a snail’s pace. But he’d emphasized how sure the Bureau was about Garvey’s ultimate fate. And he’d reiterated the fact that Hoover wanted me to remain in place, to continue operating out of the consulting front and working on the church. He’d expressed how pleased Hoover was with my positioning and how critical it would be for me to remain in Garvey’s good graces if he managed to win his trial. According to Speed, Hoover had said I was “absolutely indispensable.”
The fact that the Timekeeper hadn’t shown his face in months after I hadn’t succumbed to his approaching Loretta didn’t seem to be a simple coincidence. There was no real ultimatum. He was going to wait for the trial like the rest of us. I kept hearing Hoover’s words: “absolutely indispensable.”
I’d done a lot of planning, packing, and praying, none of which had put my mind at ease. I’d also managed to comb the entire house for the most irreplaceable, valuable items. I’d then taken them to a secure storage facility, one I’d hoped no one had seen me enter. Either way, it was money well spent for the time being.
I’d quit shaving, and as the cold winter weather set in, I’d begun to take on the look of a lumberjack posing as a suit-wearing engineer. I couldn’t think of any good reason to worry about my appearance. In fact, I barely had any desire to brush my teeth and wash my socks. But I did.
I’d informed Speed that James had been officially voted out by the UNIA’s convention delegates, expelled for ninety-nine years. He’d since done just as he’d said, started a rival organization. Meanwhile, both Hubert and William had cut ties with Garvey. They, along with most of Harlem’s leaders, were still fuming over his visit with the Imperial Wizard. It had weakened him considerably, but he certainly didn’t show it. Everything he said in the Negro World revealed a man more determined than ever to defeat his enemies and fulfill his promise of Africa for the Africans.
I’d been working closely with a man named Simpson Garfield, bringing him up to speed on the detailed information regarding the Abyssinian I’d compiled over the past few years. We worked from sunup to sundown, along with a slew of other architects, contractors, and advisors who had been brought on board. I was now part of a team of engineers. As I’d need to educate my replacement before moving on, I decided Mr. Garfield fit the bill. He was a short, coffee-skinned man in his forties from Boston, rather quiet, but very detail-oriented.
Because Liberty Hall was right next door to the Abyssinian, I’d run into UNIA members on a daily basis, especially when they were arriving at Sunday’s big gatherings. I’d chatted with many of them on the streets, but Garvey had only sent for me once. Business matters seemed to be unofficially on hold while he awaited word on his trial date. Everyone knew it was coming. Lawyers on both sides were just getting their guns fully loaded. I did learn something significant during our one visit, however: I was still in good standing with him.
“Stay ready, Sidney,” he’d said. “Stay sharp. When this trial is over we’ll raise enough money to make the gods envious. And with it we’ll buy enough ships to deliver every Negro to Africa at once. Not to mention I can quadruple your salary. The U.S. government is kidding itself if it thinks cozying up to Liberia will somehow serve as an impediment to us ever gaining a foothold there. The government elites of both Liberia and America can sip tea and sniff each other’s rear ends all day long. Harding can give them a billion dollars, but it still won’t stop the common man, the Negro in the streets of Monrovia, from pledging his allegiance to the UNIA.”
About a week before Christmas I drove James to the Grand Central Terminal. He was due to catch a train to Cleveland. Both he and Garvey had begun taking separate trips to various cities, speaking to large audiences and competing for their support.
If Garvey was due to speak in Baltimore, James would plan a speech there the following week. If James visited Philadelphia, Garvey did the same shortly thereafter. And so began their battle.
Traffic around the terminal was heavy, and it was getting dark out, but I weaved through the chaos and pulled alongside the curb to let him out. Suitcase-toting travelers were hustling in and out, flooding the sidewalk.
“Sure you don’t wanna come with me?” asked James.
“Next time maybe.”
“Next time will be New Orleans.”
“Always wanted to see New Orleans. I may just do that.”
“That reminds me,” he said, reaching into his briefcase. “When you do make the trip down South, you’ll have a new railroad map to study. Started collecting these a while back and didn’t stop since I know how much you love ’em. Lord knows I done been to enough cities.”
He handed me a stack of brand-new folded railroad maps. There had to be at least ten. I quickly began sifting through them.
“I mean to tell you, James. I sure do appreciate this. How much do I owe you?”
“Not a penny one. Consider it an early Christmas gift.”
“This is one I’ve never seen.” I held it up to read. “‘Canadian National Railway,’ it says. I’ll be darned.”
“Picked that one up in Toronto. It’s a mess of maps in that stack there.”
“Can’t thank you enough.”
“You welcome, brotha. By the way, when is Loretta due back?”
“Not until January,” I answered, putting the maps in my briefcase. “I want her to enjoy Paris.”
“Then I’ll holler at ya’ll when I get back.” He opened the door and stepped out into the noise of cars, trains, and clacking shoes.
“You be safe now, James.”
“Will do,” he said, slamming the door.
On my way home I stopped by a tiny little spot on 137th called Tony’s to grab a hot salami sandwich and a cup of hot cocoa for dinner, hardly a substitute for Loretta’s pork roast or fried chicken, but very good nonetheless.
The folks at Tony’s had become used to me stopping in around seven every night. After about a ten-minute wait, a young Italian woman named Sophia put my sandwich in a white paper bag and sat it on the oily-looking wooden countertop that separated her from
the customers.
“Would you like me to double cup this cocoa for you?” she asked. “It’s real hot.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I hopped up from one of the five counter stools while she doubled it up and then handed it to me.
“You have a good night, Sophia.”
“See ya next time, Mr. Temple.”
Walking toward the Baby Grand, which was parked about ten cars down to the left, I began sipping. I barely missed bumping into a youngster on a bicycle who was trying to avoid a pile of shoveled snow.
There was quite a bit of traffic on the street, but the sidewalk was clear. Just as I was opening the car door, I felt something hard press against my back.
“Don’t move, don’t say a word,” said a voice. “That’s a gun you feel. Just open the door, get in, and scoot.”
He kept the gun pressed against me as I got in and eased my way over to the passenger’s side. He then got behind the wheel. Two more men opened the back doors and got in, each pointing their guns at me.
“Give me the key,” said the man behind the wheel. “And hand that shit to them.”
I gave him the key, and he unlocked the ignition system. He then started the engine. As I turned around, the man sitting behind me snatched the paper bag out of my hand—then the cocoa, spilling a bit on me. He handed both to his partner and began patting my coat before removing my pistol.
“Any more of those?” asked the driver, eyeing my gun.
“No,” I said.
We drove to the end of the block and he pulled over again. He got out, walked around the front of the car, and opened my door.
“Slide over behind the wheel,” he said.
As I did, he got in and shut the door.
“Drive to your house,” he said.
I headed up Seventh Avenue with both hands on the wheel. I’d never seen these three men before. As we pulled up to the gate, I saw Ivan standing there as usual.
“Don’t try anything funny,” said the man. “Which place is yours?”
“Fourth one down on the right.”
“Can you see your back door from here?”
“Yes,” I said, pointing to it. “Right there.”
“I see. You have your porch light on. Good. Okay now . . . just do what you always do.”
I gave Ivan my customary wave as he opened the gate and let us drive through. The alleyway had never been so quiet, never so still. It was dimly lit in spots, as there was a streetlamp behind every fifth house, but they were there mostly for effect, leaving the alleyway rather dark overall. I pulled into the carport behind the kitchen and waited for instructions. The engine was still running.
“Is this back entrance the only one?” asked the man, his gun resting on his lap but still pointed at me.
“No. Our front door faces the southern side of 139th.”
“Why’d you use the back entrance?”
“We never enter from the front. All of the tenants use the alleyway and park in their carports. They all enter the alleyway from Seventh Avenue. That front door is only used for receiving guests.”
“We’re guests.”
I slowly turned and caught a glimpse of the other two. Neither had said a word. They were sitting back with their pistols resting on their laps, their faces expressionless. All three men were colored, each about my size. They were dressed in dark three-piece suits, thick topcoats, their fedoras bigger than the typical ones.
“We just never park out front, that’s all,” I said, turning and staring straight ahead again.
“Where is that pretty wife of yours anyway?”
“She’s in San Francisco. I’m to join her in a few months. She wants to make that home.”
“Does that boy at the gate work there all day?”
“He works from seven in the morning ’til seven at night. Man named George works the overnight shift. He’ll be relieving him soon.”
“Can anyone just come and go through that gate?”
“No. Only tenants.”
“Any more gates?”
“You mean as far as the ones that serve this block?”
“Yes.”
“There are more along 138th and 139th, but they’re for show only. They remain locked . . . unused. But there is another main one on the far-west end of this alleyway that opens to Eighth Avenue. I have never used it.”
“This is an awfully nice place you got here. A secure alleyway, a private carport, and that sign by the gate said, ‘Please Walk Your Horses.’ Don’t see no horses ’round here.”
“All of these private carports were originally horse and carriage stables.”
“Cut the engine off. Let’s go inside.”
32
I AWOKE SEVERAL HOURS LATER THROBBING IN PAIN AS I STARED AT the blurry living room ceiling through my left eye. The other was swollen shut. I began coughing up the blood that had poured into my mouth from a busted bottom lip. I rolled over and saw the three men sitting at the dining room table. They were smoking cigarettes and passing around a bottle of whiskey.
“Looks like he done finally come to,” said one of them, taking a big drink from the bottle.
I noticed another approaching. He reached down and began dragging me over to the table. He picked me up, sat me in one of the chairs, and entered the kitchen. I barely had enough strength to hold myself up. My head fell back, then forward. I was so dizzy. I began sliding down in the chair until I came to a slouch, my arms just dangling to the side, my legs splayed open.
“I think he looks like he ’bout ready to listen,” said the man directly across from me. I was able to make him out as the one who’d sat up front with me. “You ready to finally follow orders, Sidney?”
I subtly nodded my head yes.
“We didn’t get a chance to properly introduce ourselves earlier,” he said, flicking his cigarette ash onto one of Loretta’s expensive dinner plates. “I’m Drake. This here’s Cleo. And the man fetchin’ you a glass is Goat. You sure do have a fine place here. And those are some mighty expensive suits in that closet upstairs. Hope you don’t mind us leaving a mess. We had to . . . you know . . . sweep the place.”
He put his hand on Cleo’s shoulder and the two of them seemed to disappear in the smoke they were exhaling. I felt myself slipping in and out of consciousness.
Goat walked out with a glass and sat it right in front of me. He poured some whiskey in it and handed it to me. “Go on,” he said, nudging my arm.
I took it in my left hand and guzzled it down, the burn actually soothing compared to the throbbing pain I felt throughout.
“Good,” said Goat, sitting down in the chair to my left.
“I’ve got good and bad news,” said Drake. “Let’s start with the bad. Your failure to deliver the evidence caused quite a problem for the boss man with his superiors. The good news: It has given them time to think things over, and now there’s a new plan for dealing with Garvey. You hearing me?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You see, they’ve learned that Garvey is promising big dollars to some top officials to make sure his stay in prison is a short one. And now, the way they see it, Garvey going to the slammer for rum running or anything else just won’t cut it after all. His stay would be so short that he’d figure out a way to keep his Africa plans going from behind bars until he’s released. And the boss man’s superiors can’t have that. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Do you like your superior, Mr. Hoover?”
“Sure.”
“Is Mr. Hoover a smart man?”
“I . . .”
“Don’t answer that. That wasn’t one of the boss man’s questions. It was just me being nosy. By the way, Mr. Banks sends his regards.”
“Who?”
“Boss man! You call him Timekeeper. He said you kept on and on with the fuckin’ questions. Did you find out anything?”
“Nothing important,” I slurred, noticing my briefcase on the floor, all of the items dumped out, in
cluding my new maps.
“Mr. Banks doesn’t like a lot of questions. In fact, he pays us very well not to ask too many, to simply deliver his messages and carry out orders. And in this case, he paid us to keep you alive.”
“Why?”
“So you can kill Marcus Garvey.”
Goat poured some more whiskey in my glass. I slowly picked it up and knocked it back, allowing the words kill Marcus Garvey to sink in.
“All you have to do now is convince us that you can do it. If you can’t, there’s no reason to keep you around. Ain’t that right, Goat?”
“Right,” he said, taking his gun and pressing it against my ear. “You done already embarrassed Mr. Banks with the big bosses. And now they don’t know if they can count on him no more. So this here job’s gonna get done one way or another. Garvey dies or you die. Long as one of those two things happens, Mr. Banks stays employed. And that’s a mighty good thing for us.”
“I can do it,” I mumbled, the words a mere reflex from feeling like my brains were about to be blown all over the dining room wall.
“Good,” said Drake. “But how? And can’t no bullets be involved. If we thought he could be finished that way we’da done it already. We’ve been casing him for months and there ain’t no way in hell to get a clean shot on the mothafucka. He’s like that baby elephant in the wild surrounded by a herd of a hundred giant ones. Nah, this has to be done from the inside. And it has to be clean.”
“I can poison him,” I said, gritting my sore teeth—Goat’s gun feeling like it was cutting into my ear. “I can poison him at our next meeting.”
“When is that?” he asked, motioning for Goat to lower his gun, which he did. I casually sat up a bit and tried to concentrate.
“A big one is being planned sometime before the trial. We’re to discuss all of the logistics regarding who will be in charge of what if he is forced to serve time. I may be asked to oversee all of the Black Star Line affairs.”
“When exactly?”
“I just know it’s to happen before the trial. Probably in a few weeks.”
“Poison him how?”
The Strivers' Row Spy Page 29
