Our Man in the Dark (12 page)

Heat rises from the pavement, blurring everything behind it. Slowly, they begin to materialize: marchers, headed down a road that bisects a seemingly limitless field. I stand in the middle of their procession, watching them as they pass. They are mostly young and Negro, but there are others as well: college-age white boys with their shaggy beards and shades, nuns and white women of various ages, from those with the legs of their denim rolled up to their calves, to those in loose free-flowing paisley housedresses. A young man missing his right leg hurries past me on crutches. My eyes follow him in disbelief, and then I see Martin up ahead in his preacher-blue suit. “Martin!” I call out to him. I hurry to catch up, but I cannot keep pace. Again, I call to him, “Martin! Wait!” This time he stops, as does everyone else.

“Come on,” he says. “Come on and join us up front.”

It takes some time for me to reach him, but when I do, an angry mob appears and begins to throw rocks at us.

“Well,” he says. “You coming or not?”

Before I can answer him, shots ring out. Only his shoulders twitch, subtly. The shots repeat in rapid succession. I do not move.

Martin motions the crowd to move forward.

I am left alone.

But the gunfire continues.

I can't tell where it's coming from. I crouch and then lie down on the ground. The gunfire doesn't stop, and now an incessant ringing accompanies it—over and over and over.

My phone wakes me. Reluctantly, I reach for the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Is your LA offer still good?”

Am I still dreaming? If so, how would I answer this in a dream? “Yes.”

“Good, then I'm coming with you.” Her voice doesn't sound apologetic; she assumes I have already forgiven her.

I head to the office, but it takes a while for me to get there. I'm bouncing around between excitement and incredulity. My cynicism had spread like a cancer; now I find myself smiling when I think of Candy and all the possibilities. Her call saved me from a nightmare; how can I not view it as a good omen?

The door to Gant's office is open. He sits at his desk while looking at the contents of a large black folder and casually nibbling the end of a pencil. As I look closer, I see that he's staring at something far away from whatever is in that folder.

I tap on the door to get his attention.

He looks up but doesn't say anything. It's as if he needs a few moments to recognize me.

“Yes,” he says finally. “What is it, Estem?”

“Sir, I had a question regarding our trip to Los Angeles.”

“Go ahead.”

“I was wondering if anyone would be bringing their wives?”

“Why do you ask? You're not married, are you?” He smiles wryly. “Have you been keeping a secret wife? Why, Estem, I don't know you at all.”

I manage a smile. I speak through a stifled laugh to show that I am a good sport. “No, but I was hoping to invite a friend.”

“
Invite?
Estem, this isn't a cotillion we're going to.” He seems genuinely irritated as he closes the folder.

“Yes, sir, I'm aware of that, which is why I'm asking.”

He stands, placing both palms on his desk. “Martin rarely sees his wife. The same can be said for Young and Abernathy. I'm quite sure they would love to bring their wives along, but these are the sacrifices they made for the movement. It displays solidarity and commitment if we attempt to make the same sacrifices.”

“Of course.” I want to explain the importance of female companionship while abroad, but I don't think a queer would truly understand.

He sits back down. His chair is on a swivel, and he slowly turns his
back to me. “But then again,” he adds, “these trips can be trying, and a certain amount of downtime is required.” He turns the chair to face me again, but he reopens the folder and puts the pencil back between his teeth, letting it rest on his lip as if it were a long wooden cigarette. He removes it before deciding to speak again. “So no one can stop you from
making
friends once we are there. Discretion is the key, Estem. It is always the key. Remember that next time.”

“Understood, sir.” I don't push the issue further. He's given me enough room to maneuver. I'll need to get a ticket on another airline and a separate room. Not the romantic getaway I imagined, but it will have to do.

“Here,” he says lifting a piece of paper off his desk.

I walk over to take it. It's the itinerary for the LA trip. His eyes begin to drift to that place he was visiting when I first walked in. I leave him to his thoughts; that's where he needs to be right now. I am not a mind reader, but I am an accountant; I know the look of calculation when I see it.

Later, I contact Mathis to give him the details. I call him from a phone booth that I would often use to call Candy. Most of the time I couldn't do it from my apartment. Looking around my modest means would rob me of the confidence that is necessary when a man talks to a woman. It's across the street from a pawnshop with abandoned symbols of desperation glittering in its windows. However, the modeling school next to it attracted most of my attention. Seeing those girls—not all of them pretty—saunter after their dreams with perfect posture gave me a much-needed boost of courage. Even before I went into the bank that day, I called her. I wanted to hear her voice one last time, just in case things went horribly wrong.

“Los Angeles. Ambassador Hotel,” I tell Mathis when he answers.

“What room?”

“I don't know yet, but we will have the entire sixth floor.”

He thanks me, but I hang up in his face.

Five days pass, and I haven't heard from her since the wake-up call. I start packing for the trip to LA. Although the flight leaves in a few hours, I pack mainly to keep myself busy and to keep the disappointment from setting in.

A knock at my door interrupts the exciting task of mating my socks.

She has never been inside my apartment before, so I am understandably nervous. I take a moment to catalog the image of her in my doorway. Her wide-brimmed hat is white and tilted at an angle so that only one of her almond-shaped eyes is visible. Her pastel blue dress is sleeveless and shows off her small sloping shoulders. It flares at the knee. Her gloves are short, white, and leather. She holds a suitcase. The suitcase is not leather—maybe pigskin. It's an unusual cloudy rust color, like iodine mixed with milk.

I stand there holding the door open, not saying anything, just taking her in, savoring that contrast of blue and white against her brown skin—a rich and luminous brown, like brandy resting above a warmer's flame.

“Well, aren't you gonna invite me in?” she asks, growing tired of my staring.

“I'm sorry. Come on in. Put your bag down anywhere,” I say.

She enters my place and I tell her to have a seat before I remember that the only options are my bed and a wicker chair that loves to give splinters.

She chooses to stand.

I begin to close the door behind her when I hear a voice far too rough to be Candy's.

“Where are your manners, little man? Ain't you gonna invite me in too?”

I look at the empty space of doorway that Candy once occupied. It is no longer empty and we are no longer alone. Count has arrived.

I don't respond. I just stand there feeling my throat tighten as the realization suffocates me. He doesn't say anything either—he just gives a sly smile with only a hint of teeth. He watches my face, waiting for acceptance and capitulation to coalesce in my eyes.

When he finally sees what he's been waiting for, he walks in without my prompting. His linen suit is eggshell white with ash gray pinstripes. The shoes are yellow and reptilian. He seems better attired for a night
of roulette in Batista's Havana than a Southern summer day. He looks around my place. The yellow stone of his pinky ring flickers as he rubs his chin with genuine pity.

I turn to Candy, but she looks away defiantly.

He goes over to the table where my phonograph rests. The copy of Candy's dance single is still lying next to it. He picks up the record and strokes Candy's image with his index finger. He looks at me and begins to fan himself with it.

“So you're the one,” he says. “Should've known.” He looks over at Candy standing in the small space between my bed and the dresser. It's the farthest away from Count and me that she can get without actually leaving.

He throws the record at me like a Frisbee. I catch it and place it on my nightstand, surprising myself with my careful display.

“Little man, things got pretty crazy the other night, huh.”

“How do you mean?”

“Oh, come on now. My place gets raided and
you
get pinched. But here you are, lookin' sharp, well rested, breathin' free man's air. But it's funny how there ain't no word of it anywhere. Not in the paper, on TV, nothin'.”

“Why would there be? I'm no one special.” The sides of my tongue burn after saying that.

“Look at you. You about to fall on the floor after saying that shit. Anytime one of you Martin Luther cats gets arrested, it makes the paper. Speeding tickets, loitering, lookin' funny, walkin' too goddamn slow—it makes the paper. Now one of you Negroes gets arrested in a cathouse, and nobody says shit.”

“I don't see your point. I just made bond like everyone else, before someone got wind of it.”

“Made bond, huh? Why do I get the feeling there ain't gonna be no court date? You know something, my place has never been raided—never. Too many respectable white men come to my place for a good time. Me and these peckerwood cops got an understanding. So, it's strange that the first time I get raided you're there. And here you are, breathin' free man's air. For a world that's hard as hell on niggers, your black ass sure does get rescued a lot.”

“I don't know about that. I guess I'm just lucky.”

Count grins. “Good. I'm glad to hear that.” He walks over to my window and parts the curtain. Briefly, he takes in the wonderful view of the stairs that lead to the second floor. “Time for me to call in that favor.”

“Sure thing,” I say while crossing my arms. “What do you need?”

He lets the curtain close and turns back to me. “There's this fighter I used to sponsor. Pulled the nigger out of the gutter, and now he done forgot where his loyalties lie.”

“A boxer?”

“Yeah. Got a fight lined up with Boca, but the Eye-talians got to him. Motherfucker's gonna take a dive. Uh-huh. But he don't know that I know, you see?”

“Not quite.”

“
Not quite.
Man, you really need to stop talking like that. People'll start thinking you're queer. I need you to convince him not to take that dive.”

“You need me for that? Why can't your boys take care of it?”

“When did you become a fuckin' reporter? If they see my boys, then they see
me
. I can't be seen talking to Lester before a fight. It'll draw too much attention.”

“That's where I come in . . .”

“Exactly. An upstanding, professional, college-educated Negro like you adds a little bit of polish to my outfit. He'll know that I don't have to use no muscle to get what I want. I can use reason to get him to see how doin' things my way works out in his favor. Tell him it's time to stop being a coward. It's time to be a man. A real man. He's making me look bad. I didn't help his ass just for him to be some organ grinder's monkey. You think all the time and money I poured into him was done just for him to take
dives
? If he's ready to be a real man, then all is forgiven. You give him this to show him I'm serious.” He withdraws a bulging envelope from his inside pocket and hands it to me.

“How do I go about such a thing? Where do I go to talk to him?”

“He trains at a place called Uncle Ray's Boxing Club. People know it. You won't have a problem.”

“What if he doesn't take the money? How do you know these Italians aren't offering him something better?”

All the humor has left his face. His eyes flash, not with anger but with contempt and disappointment.

“I'm offering him the chance to be a man again. What can be better than that?”

I immediately feel ashamed and I don't know why. “If he does take the money, he'll be worthless to everybody—except you.”

He looks at the wicker chair and considers it, but thinks again. “Listen, little man, things happen. I understand. If for some reason you can't get him to do the right thing—”

“Place a bet on this Boca . . .”

“No, goddamnit! You come back with my money. All of it.”

I look at Candy, but she's not ready to make eye contact. She's still holding her suitcase with one hand while the other holds her wrist for support.

“Count, can I ask you a question?” I take a moment to stop looking at her and turn to him.

“Go ahead,” he says.