Our Man in the Dark

by Rashad Harrison

  A calm washes over his face. Mathis becomes still. “Man, you are one dimwitted bastard. I’ve been listening to him try and play that thing for weeks now. If he sold it, I would know. It’s in here somewhere. I already took pictures of it when I miked the place.”

  That’s when I realize I’ve been in this room before, or at least seen this room before—in photographs—the night I broke into the agents’ office, but my flashlight was only to able to reveal so much.

  “So that’s why you need the guitar?” I ask. “Because it will be easier to pin one murder on them if you can pin two?”

  “Who’s really the agent in here?” Mathis asks as he turns his back on Strobe and begins to search the closets.

  Strobe watches Mathis, down on his knees and banging at the baseboards, “Funny,” Strobe says, “I was thinking the same thing.”

  Mathis’s frenzied movements stop abruptly. “Got it,” he says.

  The guitar: a blues man’s weapon and companion. This one looks like it could have belonged to Robert Johnson—like it can summon the devil and make him long for heaven. “Look at that,” he says as he carelessly plucks a string. “Like the hunter who keeps the antlers of a deer.” Again, he plucks a string, this time with intent. There’s a look on his face, frustration, I guess, like there’s a song in him that he wishes he had the talent and skill to express.

  “Careful, Mathis,” says Strobe. “Haven’t you ever heard that it’s bad luck to play a dead man’s instrument?”

  “Well, somebody should’ve told Cullworth,” Mathis says.

  “Shouldn’t that have been in a dusty evidence room already?” I ask.

  “It will be. Soon enough.” His eyes wander up to the tuners and then to the fret board and puts it upright. “You see that?” he asks, pointing to the neck. I look closer at the faux-pearl chord marks and then I see it—a haze of rust brown splattering. Dried blood.

  “I know I’m not much of an agent,” Strobe says, “but the guitar doesn’t connect to the girl in our trunk.”

  Mathis goes over to the dresser and opens a cigar box filled with tarnished medals and old coins. After searching through it for a while, he withdraws a horseshoe-shaped ring—faded gold, and an empty setting where the fake diamonds used to be. He walks it outside. I hear the trunk squeak open like a steel casket. When he returns, the ring has blood on it. He places it in the cigar box and gently closes the top. “Let’s go,” Mathis says.

  “My God,” says Strobe.

  The crowd is full of white men, sun-punished and sweaty. Someone holds up a Confederate flag. Another man waves a sign:

  Senator, we DEMAND

  that WHITE people

  keep THEIR CIVIL RIGHTS!

  There is a man on stage in a black suit, speaking with the menace and warning of a tent pole revivalist. “If Lucifer Coon Jr. thinks he can stir up the niggers, then I promise we can stir up the white race to defend what’s rightfully ours.”

  They clap. The few women who are here chew gum and kiss their mates on the cheek. Mathis slams the door behind us. They all turn and stare silently. Pete, sitting in a corner, sees us and begins to stand. Mathis subtly shakes his head.

  “Listen up everyone. My friend here,” Mathis places a hand on my shoulder, “says he saw two white men kill a colored girl.” Mathis scans the crowd. Billingsley and Cullworth sit up front. “Do you see them?” Mathis asks me.

  I pause, conflicted, relishing the opportunity to issue a death sentence on these maniacs, but regretting my proximity to the deed. There must be a better way than bloodying my own hand. There must be a better way. I actually repeat those words to myself over Mathis’s question.

  “Do you see them?” he asks again.

  “That’s them,” I shout, pointing at Billingsley and Cullworth.

  Cullworth springs to his feet. “That nigger’s lying,” he pleads. “We ain’t got nothin’ to do with no colored girl.”

  The crowd watches, sweaty and silent. Mathis looks at Cullworth and smiles. “You see, that’s a lie. Don’t say you don’t have anything to do with a colored girl, because I know that you do. I know you do.” Mathis casually reaches into his jacket, as if going for his lighter, but reveals his pistol.

  The weathered, desiccated orator interrupts, “What kind of white man are you? You come into our gathering with your nigger, pointing fingers. Where is your loyalty?”

  “You can shove your loyalty right up your ass. My grandfather was a Jew.”

  “Who here can vouch for the whereabouts of these two men tonight?” asks the orator. Almost in unison, pleas of “I will!” and “I can!” come from the crowd.

  Mathis raises his hand above the shouts. “Billingsley, Cullworth, say good-bye to your friends. You boys are under arrest.”

  “Goddamnit,” Billingsley stands and kicks over the chair he was sitting in. “We didn’t do nothin’!”

  Mathis puts the pistol to his own head and scratches at his temple with the barrel. “Now, that’s another lie. We found the guitar, boys.”

  Billingsley throws a hateful look at Cullworth. Then they look at the door behind the podium and make a run for it.

  “You see that,” Mathis says addressing the crowd. “They’re running. You saw with your own eyes. I suggested evidence and they ran.” He motions Strobe and me toward the door. “Let’s go.”

  I slow down the pursuit, but we get in the car and quickly catch up to them on the dirt road.

  “Stop,” Strobe screams to them out of the window. They keep running. Lit by the headlights, they appear to be running in place against a backdrop of blackness.

  “Freeze, goddamnit,” Mathis shoots at them with one hand on the steering wheel. “Start shooting,” he says to Strobe.

  Strobe just looks at him.

  “Strobe, shoot, for Christ’s sake. We’re in this together.”

  Strobe is still silent, but then starts to aim his pistol out the window.

  Nothing but the roaring engine, the clamor of gunfire, and the two men trying to run away from it.

  Billingsley, constantly looking over his shoulder to gauge our proximity, looks one last time before his skull pops open like a squeezed plum.

  A black geyser spews from Cullworth’s leg.

  Mathis stops the car, gets out, and walks over to Cullworth with his pistol cocked. Bleeding and sobbing, Cullworth attempts to crawl to his escape. On his belly, legs kicking in the red dirt, clawing and scratching toward the black night, he shouts, “Please.”

  “Please,” he says once more as Mathis fires two shots into his back.

  It was impressive when the police and the press showed up. Mathis and Strobe were astonishingly professional. They prevented the press from photographing me, making sure to cover my head so that they couldn’t get a good picture. They put Candy’s body by a tree near the Billingsley and Cullworth place, being sure to locate the particular item that would tie them to her murder. Mathis and Strobe. They dazzled the small-time police officers with the kind of confidence and air of authority that only an FBI agent can get away with. They declined having their pictures taken. Only Candy’s was necessary. And seemingly, in a flash, it was over. But as they drive me home, I’ve yet to feel any relief.

  Mathis stops in front of my apartment, but Strobe gets out before I do. “I’ll walk the rest of the way,” he tells Mathis. “I’m feeling sick.” Mathis and I watch him walk down the street until he disappears into the darkness.

  I move to get out, but Mathis motions for me to wait. “I am sorry about your loss,” he says. “But don’t feel bad. Something new is right around the corner. Soon you’ll forget it ever happened. In fact, I suggest that you do that as quickly as possible.”

  I think about Candice, and how she fit so easily into the trunk.

  “She left,” he says. “My wife left me and I didn’t even ask why. I was just glad to see her go. The funny thing is I’m not sure if I’m sad about it. I do feel liberated in a sense. Like I’m not burdened with th
e weight of guilt. Now I can see her in a way that I never could. I love her—so much so that I can’t even be sad about my wife leaving. It’s as if she gave Lucinda to me as a final gift, allowing me to have the new one in order to forget the old one. I feel this is the time when I could just run away. Please, John, tell me, is this a punishment or a gift?”

  It’s both. The gift of punishment, I think to myself. He’s talked about his wife and for the first time referred to Lucinda by name, but he hasn’t said anything about the photographs. He says he’s fine with his wife leaving, but I don’t see relief in his eyes. No man is okay with his wife leaving, even if the mistress stays. The point is to have them both. I’m outmatched. I know that. Mathis could wipe me out like a bloodstain on a floor. I’m not much more to him than that. “Thank you for your help, Mathis,” I say as I get out of the car.

  I stand in front of my door and wait for Mathis to drive off. He takes his time but finally does. I want to rest, but I don’t want to go in. I look around frantically, like a child who’s suddenly found himself alone. That doesn’t last too long, as the door seemingly opens on its own.

  “Couldn’t find Lester,” Count says, “but I’m sure he’ll turn up . . .”

  I just stand there.

  “Well, what the hell are you waiting for? Come in, dammit.”

  I walk in and sit on the edge of my bed. Count pulls up a chair and sits across from me. He reaches into his pocket and offers me a cigarette. I accept and he lights up for us both.

  “Let me tell you a story,” he says, sending smoke from his nostrils. “One night, after my place got raided, two white men come in to see me. FBI. They say they know everything about me, and they ain’t lyin’—they do. They list my rap sheet and tell me they got enough to shut me down, but it don’t have to happen that way. All I got to do is cooperate. They want information about that nigger preacher. They want the good stuff. And since I already know someone working for him, it should be easy. They started explaining how this was in my best interest. I didn’t say it at the time, but they were right. I thought, ‘Damn, this could be a fruitful relationship.’ I know it seems like that’s why I kept you around, but that’s not it. You grew on me, little man. We’re more alike than you realize. I guess I didn’t realize just how much until tonight. I decided to wait a minute before going after Lester, just to clear my head, but then I see that you and me have mutual friends. The same two white men—FBI—come to see you. I always suspected it. They got to me way too easily, and your ass gets rescued way too often. You and me are square. I mean that, so I’ll let you live. But you’re into some heavy shit. You brought me nothing but trouble since I met you.” He takes a long draw from his cigarette and holds it for a beat before sending it out above us. “This is the last time we’ll share a smoke. It pains me to say it, but you’ve got a black cloud over your head. And now, I’m asking you kindly to stay the fuck out of my life.” He drops his cigarette on my floor, stands, and then grinds it out with his foot.

  I look at the remnants of the cigarette: a smudge of black ash, an ember flickers before dying out.

  “Okay, Count. I think that’s for the best.”

  “Yeah, I think so too.” He goes to leave but stops himself. “By the way,” says Count. “The preacher is in trouble. They’ve already tried to embarrass him. They’ve tried to scare him. Now they’re trying to ruin him—and you know what’s coming next.”

  Count leaves and I immediately want to go running after him. I don’t want to be alone in here. I made a mistake coming back. I look at the place where I found her, but there are no haunting visions of her body or her blood, just her voice drifting from that reel-to-reel. Even before she died, the whir of the tape reel had already become a permanent presence in my ears, in my sleep, even while driving. I am still listening . . . but I don’t want to hear it. You’re a preacher. You shouldn’t be doing this. Almost a whisper. When I first heard it, I thought she was being coy, but she said it without a hint of irony. That sadness in her voice is too familiar to me. I know that voice. I know that woman. Or at least I thought I did.

  Morning. I’ve seen many nights bleed away into daylight, but I never saw the new day as a gift. I do now. I spent the night in my car. I did not sleep. But now, I am truly awake. A new day, a new beginning. In all my life, I have never been so grateful for a sunrise.

  I’ll be a better man, and I’ll start by being a better accountant. I get in the front seat and drive to work. I don’t bother going inside to change and freshen up. I probably should have stayed home, but today is Gant’s last day at the SCLC. It would look suspicious if I do not show. I must continue as if nothing has happened.

  My euphoria has already faded by the time I reach the office. I look at the front door with a feeling of dread. I can’t go back to my apartment yet; the image of her body on my floor is making a vivid return. So I go in anyway. The office rats are mercilessly scrutinizing, even more than usual. They are silent, except for the occasional gasp, and are nervously avoidant. I enter my office, and all I can think of is the sight of her body and that tree.

  The paper on my desk would suggest that I am crazy, or suffering from some sort of brain trauma, had I not witnessed the mastery of Mathis and Strobe. According to this bundle of newsprint, nothing happened as I experienced it last night. It was some sort of macabre hallucination:

  Agents Gun Down Killers of Woman and Two Negroes

  In a daring display of courage and heroism (gifted to society by Hoover’s FBI) agents killed two men responsible for the death of a woman and a Negro male. . . . While the agents should be applauded, it is disappointing that these men were not stopped before they killed again. Another woman, Negro, was found dead and badly beaten, not far from the killers’ home. Cannot something be done to rein in the hateful butchery of radical Klan types? Their madness only provides fodder for the malignant imagination of Martin Luther King and his ilk. . . .

  Some of the ink has rubbed off on my fingertips. I put the paper down, and notice a brown-red spot on my wrist. I scratch at it—dried blood and dirt—a sad reminder of the night before. There is also a bit on my sleeve. This annoys me. I give myself a look-over and realize that it’s not limited to my sleeve. My tie, my shirt, my suit—all of it covered in the scarlet stain of desiccated blood.

  My equilibrium is assaulted. My vision seems as if it were placed on a seesaw.

  Gant walks in. “John?” he says reaching out to me. I push past him and stumble out of my office into the hall, narrowed by the enclosure of stares. I don’t try to run, that will only make the situation more memorable when they try to recall it days, weeks, years from now. No, I’ll stay calm, gather myself, and stroll out. Gant walks beside me. “What happened, John?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You can tell me, John. Let me help you.”

  “It’s nothing, Aaron. I just had an accident, that’s all. I’ll be fine but, obviously, I think I should take some time off.”

  “John . . .”

  Strange, until now I had considered my limp manageable while at the office—hidden with a graceful bob and bounce—but as I make my escape, the leg feels deadened. I might as well be dragging a slaughtered hog behind me. It doesn’t help matters that as I pass his office, the disappointment and horror on Martin’s face are the last thing I see.

  It’s been three days since I last saw Candice. Though my apartment isn’t big enough to hide from her ghost, I am fearful of what awaits me outside. Three days of wrestling with the image of her on my floor—and the mess, cleaned up so well by Mathis and Strobe. I anticipated havoc and chaos, but it has been painfully silent. No one is looking for me. No one wants to find me.

  Then the phone rings.

  “There are going to be some changes,” Strobe says on the other end. “We’re wrapping this up. I don’t think the operation will be continuing much longer. I’m obligated to let you know.”

  I know he anticipates my curiosity, even protest, but he must not b
e counting on my sheer relief. He hasn’t specified what he means by “changes,” but it does sound nice—an alluring oasis, palm trees and everything.

  “Say something, dammit.”

  I grab a cigarette and light up, squinting as smoke curls toward my eyes. “I’m sorry, Strobe. I’m just used to dealing with Mathis.”

  “I understand . . . but Mathis is gone. Early retirement. If this thing starts up again there will be a new agent in charge. I’ll keep you on file, but I can’t promise that they’ll use you.”

  “That’s fine, Strobe. I’m looking forward to not being used. Is Hoover pulling the plug?”

  “After the other night, does it have to be Hoover to pull the plug? I’ve seen some crazy stuff,” he says. “I expected it—but this is not what I signed up for.”

  “Retirement, you say? At whose suggestion, his or Hoover’s?”

  “Look, I know you and Mathis had some kind of . . . friendship, but he had to be reined in. This couldn’t continue. I won’t allow it to.”

  “Rein in Mathis, huh? Good luck with that.”

  “No, John, keep that luck for yourself. You may need it someday.”

  Strobe hangs up, but I just let the receiver lie on my chest as I lean back into the sofa. I thought I had changed, but I haven’t. It’s over. Here’s my chance to run. I can leave now, but I don’t move. Eventually, the dial starts its staccato wail and I hang up.

  There’s a knock at the door. Police?

  “Who is it?” I call from the sofa.

  “Mr. Estem? I’m a friend of your neighbor’s. The Porters. I’m interested in buying your Cadillac.”

  I didn’t know I had neighbors called Porter—but then I remember the ad I placed in the classifieds. “It’s not for sale!” I’m not ready to get rid of Black Beauty yet. I’ll need her to make my escape when it’s time.