Our Man in the Dark (24 page)

A few days later, I made a visit to the pawnshop that's next to the modeling school and across from my phone booth. I was looking for the essential tool for my new hobby. Everything was covered with a thin veil of dust—television sets, radios, jukeboxes, record players, even military uniforms, all of it dusty—and I wondered how the pawnbroker stayed in business buying all this junk from people. I thought it must be the jewelry that moves, but then I looked at his glass display case, lit from the bottom with a ghostly pale light. Yes, everything was dusty, except those guns inside; they were shiny, almost brand-new. His biggest sellers, he confessed.

In a dull chrome graveyard of forgotten appliances, I came across something that looked like an antique cigarette lighter, but upon further inspection, I realized it was a miniature camera called a Minox. I removed the slim case, reveled at the small dials for adjusting aperture and speed, and spied the pawnbroker through the tiny viewer. He started with some yarn about two government types coming into the shop and selling old surveillance equipment because they needed to make room for the new stuff. I confess that my mind did wander to my boys coming in with their fedoras tipped at a concealing angle, but then I thought better of it; the pawnbroker had just developed an elaborate sales pitch. There was also a standard camera and an assortment of professional lenses. It seemed an aspiring photographer had hit hard times. The pawnbroker offered me a deal so sweet that I didn't consider pressing my luck.

Then Lester and I continue with the business of following Mathis. Although it takes a few days until he sees her again, when he does, I am ready with my new camera as they leave the motel room.

As Mathis allows his precious cargo to rest in the passenger seat, I press the button and the camera's shutter gives an audible affirmation. It
agrees with me and says yes to everything I decide to document, even the most innocent interactions between Mathis and his girl. But I am patient. And when the young girl makes a bold move, to Mathis's obvious displeasure, and kisses him in broad daylight, my camera is ready.

I'm not sure if I've seen enough. Do I have all I need? I feel a certain amount of relief, pride even, that I've mastered the brand of voyeurism that compels Mathis and Strobe.

We follow him, and when he drops the girl off near Bozley Park, I tell Lester to stay put. I want to know more about the girl—where she lives, what her family and friends are like, what attracts her to Mathis.

I get my camera ready for more pictures. “Okay, Lester. Almost ready. I'll make it quick,” I tell him, but a policeman has tapped his baton on Lester's window.

“What you boys doin' out here?” asks the officer, a middle-aged man with a hard, swollen red face.

I am too nervous to speak. I look at Lester, but he is already formulating an excuse.

“Oh, nothing,' boss,” says Lester. “We just had a call for a cab, and we just waitin' is all.”

“Call, huh?”

“Yessuh.”

“Who's your friend there? And what's with the monkey suit?”

“Oh, that's my supavisuh, is all.”

“Supervisor. . . . What house you say you waitin' on?”

“That one over yonder,” says Lester pointing to small white house on the corner.

“So if I go over there, somebody's gonna say they called a cab?”

“Yessuh.”

He looks at Lester hard. Even though he's outside, his glare mimics the harsh light of the interrogation room. The officer looks at me again. “What's with the camera?” he asks.

I don't say anything and neither does Lester.

The officer looks where Mathis and the girl were, but Mathis has driven off, and the girl is already gone. He looks back at Lester. “Why don't you boys get out of the car,” he says.

Lester doesn't move, and neither do I.

“I said out!”

A strange look comes over Lester's face. He's not as scared as I am, but it's a look that I can only describe as focused desperation. Lester mumbles something that sounds like it would be offensive if it were said clearly.

It must hit the mark, because the officer responds with, “What'd you say, nigger?”

Lester mumbles again.

“Speak up, boy!” He places his head inside the cab, a few inches from Lester's face, not enough time to avoid Lester's right fist.

The officer's chin hits the door as he slides out and begins his nap on the sidewalk. Calmly, Lester starts the car and drives away.

I have blackened out my windows. Only blood-red light fills my apartment, but soon I will see them in vivid detail. The baptism has begun. A small wave washes over them. I remove them from their chemical bath and let them dry. The halide does its magic, and slowly, like conjured spirits, Mathis and the girl appear in my home. The solution stings my nose a little, but I expected that. I bought a book on photography development to guide me through this. I can't have too many eyes on these photos, only the ones I intend.

I have decided to send Mrs. Mathis a bit of entertainment that will double as informational material. Photographs. Shaky, mind you, not quite as crisp as the photos taken by the good fellows at the FBI. I've never been formally trained. Since Mathis has sent recordings of Martin to Coretta, I think, as Martin's friend, I am entitled to employ the same line of attack on Mrs. Mathis. Let's see what kind of man he is. I try to think of this as less like revenge and more like a social experiment. When Mrs. Mathis views that incriminating material, how will he react? Will he cower, or will he be man enough to embrace his actions and his feelings?

I catch myself after thinking that way. I know what I'm doing is risky. I might as well begin chiseling my own name into a gravestone. I offer bluster, but I am afraid. But the fear doesn't dilute my desire to seek a twisted sort of justice.

Right on cue, Mathis calls me after I have developed the pictures. He wants me to meet him. He doesn't tell me why. The fear seeps in quickly; my bravado evaporates. I've gotten too close to him too fast. Has he spotted me? Have I blown my cover? I look around my place, and think of Lester and the cab, all the foolish mistakes I made trying to tail Mathis.
I look at the pictures I developed—I see them less as trophies and more as evidence implicating me. I almost panic, consider hiding all of this or getting rid of it. But then I think better of it. This is something else, nothing to do with what I've seen of Mathis. If he knew what I've done, if he knew what I know, he wouldn't call first: he'd come silently and without warning.

When I arrive at the agents' office, I'm greeted by a confusing smell: cinnamon, lavender, tobacco . . . and fried chicken. The smell triggers my adventurous spirit—though I've never been, this is what I imagine Cuba to smell like. Mathis, with his sleeves rolled up and napkin tucked into his collar, dives into a golden thigh. He gives me a greasy smile.

“Sit down,” he says.

I sit across from him while moving my eyes between him and the chicken.

“Dig in,” he insists, pointing to a white box beginning to darken from oil.

I look at the box and that confident rooster in boots and spurs. It's from the Pick Rick. I've never eaten there because its owner refuses to serve Negroes. He even threatened a black man with an axe handle when he tried to eat there.

“I figured you've never had it, considering the owner's . . . beliefs. But I just had to share this with you. This is damn good chicken.”

I eye him steadily, considering what kind of self-righteous stand I can make over fried chicken. But I remember that I am an FBI informant and the damage has been done. So I grab a piece and take a bite, and—segregation be damned—it's good.

Mathis cleans his bone, wipes his mouth and hands, then takes a drag off one of those cigarettes, sending a cloud of perfumed smoke in my direction.

“What are you smoking?” I ask him.

“Smell great, don't they? Try one.”

I eagerly do as I'm told. There's no writing on the package, only a gold griffin embossed in a signet that could have been used in the Middle Ages.

“Got them off a guy we turned when I was back in New York. A Russian grifter who specialized in forgeries of all kinds—art, checks,
antiques. All of his work had this distinct smell. He was addicted to them. Smoked them all the time. I can see why.”

So here we are, cigarettes, chicken, and fake civility.

“What's going on, Mathis? Do you want to trade high school football stories? Sorry, I don't have any.”

“It's a peace offering, John.”

“Go on . . .”

“I want to apologize for how I acted the other day. I was out of line and should have handled the situation differently. I want to make amends for it.”

“I see. Well, this is a very kind gesture, and I appreciate all of it. But let's be honest. We don't have the kind of relationship where apologies are necessary—from either of us.”

“I felt misunderstood and disrespected. I didn't handle it properly. Then I realized that we just had a communication problem.”

“Again, that isn't the nature of our relationship, Mathis.” I take another languid draw from the cigarette. “From what I remember, you said you wanted it that way.”

“Well,” he says, getting comfortable in his chair, “things change.”

“Yes, they do.”

We sit in silence, the smoke becoming a third being in the room, and then Mathis says, “I've been meaning to ask you something ever since I met you. Why'd you do it?”

Again, that panic and fear that he knows something kicks in like a built-in reflex. “Why did I do what?”

“Why did you take the money?”

When I try to remember the lie I told myself, only the truth comes to mind. The girl, Gant, power, respect, because I could. But then I remember. “I thought our services were needed in Chicago, but they felt otherwise. We had the money—more than enough. I figured I could get something started up there myself since we had a surplus and all.”

“But you didn't go to Chicago . . .”

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

“You've never been to Chicago.”

“So?”

“So it's bullshit.”

“Of course it is, so what? I can say that since we're friends now.”

“I'm just trying to have a conversation with you. Man to man.”

I don't know if it's Mathis's interrogation, my full stomach, or these damn cigarettes, but suddenly I feel honest. “I was tired of being the joke that everyone's in on. I was tired of feeling insignificant and powerless. I mean this is America, and the quickest way to remedy those feelings is to get your hands on some money. But that's my job, isn't it? My hands are on money all day, but the effect never seemed to wear off on me. So there it was, and I took it, because I could, and no one would ever expect I was capable of it.”

I'm embarrassed by my impassioned confession, so I try to change the subject. “Where's Strobe at?”

“Just me and you today.”

I take another draw from my cigarette—it's down to a nub. I want another, but I'm afraid of what I'd have to concede in order to get one. Now that our bond's been fortified, what type of devil's bargain would it be? I grind out the butt in the ashtray, freeing a small dying cloud that carries a new note of ginger and tea.

“Are we done here?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks, Mathis,” I say over my shoulder as I leave the office.

“Don't mention it,” I hear once I'm down the hall.

I'm still thinking of those damned cigarettes when Count calls me after I get home. I don't like being jerked around and made to jump at his every beck and call. But what can I do about it, especially in this situation? There's no turning the tables on Count. Trying to find the dirt on him is a pointless exercise—he's covered in it.

Now here I am, still at Count's, sitting at the bar hunched over my bourbon, while the music of the wailing bluesman behind me taps at my shoulder like a persistent stranger. I look at the door to Count's office. I'm still not sure what went on in there, but I am certain that he's reveling in it.