Our Man in the Dark (37 page)

“But it was your plan. You laid the whole thing out for me, twice.”

“Yes and no. It was my idea, but your plan. You was my consultant. I said let's hit King, and you said no way, it won't work. But then I said what about the queer, and you found a way to pull it off.”

“I don't care how you spin it, this is your fault,” I said.

“I get it. Realizin' how fucked up you are is a hard pill to swallow, but once it goes down, you get numb.”

“She's dead because of you, Count. You could have sent any girl that works to LA. Then Lester would never have laid eyes on her.”

“
Please
. She jumped at the chance to be with him. What woman wouldn't screw a man on the cover of
Time
magazine? I didn't have to convince her—she volunteered.”

“It's your fault she's dead.
You
brought Lester into it, not the agents.”

“Well, you were supposed to be busy with Lester while she was busy with the preacher. But somehow
you
found a way to give that stupid motherfucker quality time with
my
woman.”

“No. You're responsible. You didn't have to let her stay with Lester. You knew how crazy he was. You saw the way he came in here like some one-man army. You could have killed him where he stood. But you didn't, because you wanted to teach her a lesson . . . and so did I.”

The way he looked at his palms, touching as if praying. “You've
already gone too far. You need to stop.”

“Every day that you kept her caged, she died a little. You pushed her. She had to escape. You made it impossible to live. Why'd you let it go so far, Count? Why didn't you stop us?”

He shook his head, smiling, then snapped into a rage, “Because she hurt me.” The crystal ashtray, carved in the shape of an elephant's head, hints of silver for the eyes, went whizzing past my head, smashing into the wall behind me. I made it a point to stay perfectly still. “No one hurts me without getting hurt back. After everything I'd done for her, she chose that dumb son of a bitch over me. She got what she deserved.”

There was a ruckus outside his office—glass breaking, a gunshot, but no confession of pain. I had an idea who might be out there, but I didn't offer any theories. Count grabbed his gun, got up, and opened the door.

Claudel was already on the floor. His head seemed to be looking completely and grotesquely over his shoulder.

“Aw shit,” said Count, running out into the bar with his gun drawn. He looked around. The front door of the place was wide open. He looked out to see if someone was running away, then came back in, closing the door behind him.

“What the fuck is going on? You trying to ambush me?”

“Not me, Count. Maybe it's Candy. Maybe you should go to wherever she is buried, find her, beg her—or get on your knees right now and do it, beg Candy for her forgiveness.”

He put the gun to my forehead. “Just one more word. I dare you. I'll bury you down here, and no one will ever find you.”

I only heard the sound of my breathing as I looked over Count's shoulder and saw Lester appear in the doorway, stealthily, like some jungle animal about to leap upon its prey. Candy never had a chance. Lester and I were involved in a strange kind of dance. I could see him, but I didn't give Count any physical tells. I was proud of myself in that moment—not so much now—because even as Lester raised his weapon, I showed no emotion. I maintained eye contact with Count, and he didn't suspect a thing.

As I told Count to go to hell, he cocked his pistol. I closed my eyes, but not before Lester brought down a lead pipe against the back of Count's head.

Count's body lay on the floor. Lester stood above him, chest heaving, breathing loud punches of air. He swung at Count a few more times. I didn't look. I only heard the sound that it made.

I stared at Count, lying there dead and defeated. The relief I thought would come did not. I feel pity for him to have fallen in such a way. Lester struck the blow. I did not bloody my hand, but I find solace in knowing that I outsmarted him. I wish I could briefly resurrect him, just to the edge of consciousness, so I could whisper in his ear, “I won. I beat you.”

I looked at Lester and drew my pistol. I'd never used a gun before, and wondered if I could even pull the trigger. He had Count's gun in his hand, but was he pointing it at me or just holding it?

“Well, what now? Are you staying or going?” I asked him.

“Looks like I might need to stay.”

“Just remember that gangsters get killed every day by other gangsters. You know you'll be in trouble after this, Lester. May not be any coming back.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Yeah, Lester, it's going to be rough out there. Maybe you should just stay here.”

“Yeah, that may be best,” he said. “I still got to pay for Candy. I know Count already paid for the bigger things, but someone has to pay for the smaller things too. I think I'll stay here.” Lester walked over to Count's desk, felt the leather of the chair, and sat his big frame in it. I remember how the chair let out an exasperated squeak as he spun around in it, like a little boy in a tire swing. When he stopped spinning, he faced me. He was filthy and smelled like week-old mushrooms. Hair wild and wooly, he looked like a madman.

“I been out there in the woods, hiding, and thinking about whether I should just end it all and kill myself. You know how much I loved her and didn't want no harm to come to her, but somehow, being out there in the brush, not hearing no other voices except the ones in my head—memories of what I used to sound like. Nobody telling me what to do. There's something about being out there . . . living how I guess an animal would
live. Things started to make sense. I thought about everything, and I realize this ain't really my fault. I mean it is on one hand, but on the other it ain't.”

I wasn't moved. I just kept the gun on him, wondering if it would even fire or if I could handle the recoil when I pulled the trigger.

“There was this envelope from Count, full of money. I know he gave it to her, but she just kept saying he didn't. So I kept saying don't lie to me, don't lie to me . . . but she just kept on lying. So I hit her in the mouth . . . just to get her to stop lying. I meant to hit her once, but I just kept hitting her and hitting her. Before I knew it, she wasn't lying no more, but she wasn't breathin' no more either. I'm sorry.” He put Count's gun to his head. I knew what was coming next, so I just turned and walked away. I didn't want to see it. I heard the gunshot, and my neck jerked at the sound, then I heard the muted thud of Lester's head hitting the desk.

I didn't look at the outcome. I just walked out into the bar and stepped over Claudel. I looked down at his face. I was wrong for doing that to him. The number of bodies has become comical, but I needed this to happen. I guess Martin and I are alike in that way as well. We both depend on violence to get what we want. I'll never forget how hot it was as I walked out of Count's and into the soul-slowing oven of a day. No one acknowledged me or seemed to care what had just happened. I was just another shadow fighting the sun for existence.

It's sad that it ended this way.

I wake from another nightmare with the strong sensation that someone is watching me.

The room is dark. Only the light from a street lamp makes its way through the curtain. I taste the smoke before I see the glowing ember pierce the darkness, and I realize that it really isn't over. Not yet.

“You're a strange man, John. All this shit coming down around you and you're sleeping like a baby.” The lights come on, revealing Mathis in a chair at the foot of the bed, a pistol in his hand. Unshaven, hair mussed, he smells of cheap liquor. He's still the self-respecting agent with his government gray suit, but it's wet and his shirt is dirty. It's only been a few days, and early retirement doesn't seem to be sitting well with him. “You've got to love these Negro hotels,” he says, grinding out his cigarette. “A white man walks in and nobody asks any questions.”

“Well, that's not what I'd call being inconspicuous, Agent Mathis.”

“I'm the only one concerned about what happens to you. Trust me.”

I toss back the covers and sit up. “So what now, Mathis?”

“I've got a problem.”

“I'm all ears.”

“Someone's been sending photos of me around.”

“A spread in
Life
magazine? ‘Your FBI at Work'?”

“Not those kind. The personal kind.”

“Those are the worst. That's why we should always be careful. Never know who's watching.”

“I hear ya', brother . . . boy, do I ever. But these photos aren't just of me. There's a little girl involved.”

“That's a tough one. Little girls should never be involved.”

“Yeah, but she doesn't deserve this. She's got a father who might get upset.”

“Ain't that the trouble with little girls? They all got fathers.” I see now that the bottoms of his pant legs are wet and muddy.

“Excuse my appearance,” he says. “My wife left me. She used to do all the laundry . . .”

“It shows.”

“And I've been working hard to get your accommodations in order.”

“I think I'll stay right here.”

“I knew you were watching me,” he says, ignoring my statement. “Part of me wanted an audience—I'm glad that it was you. Tell me what you saw. Is she as beautiful as I think, or am I just a fool? When my wife left me, she left a present behind. Photos. I'm sure you know what they showed. I knew it would end eventually, but did you really think I'd let you get to my wife? Did you think I'd let you contaminate our marriage with your twisted mind—and let you just walk away? I was going to let you live, but the last straw was when you sent the same photos to Pete. You almost ruined everything for Lucinda and me,” he says, bringing the barrel to his chest.

“Would it matter if I told you I didn't do it?”

“You're not as smart as you think you are,” he says. “You're the kind of dummy that wears a wig and fake mustache when he wants to go unnoticed—sunglasses and trench coat with the collar up. The kind of dummy who thinks two niggers in a yellow taxi are inconspicuous.”

“I'm an amateur. I know. Even Pete paid me a visit. He wants his daughter, Mathis.”

“So now you're his messenger? You went through all of this to help him? Do you think he's some sort of honorable man? Do you know how we turned him? He sat by and watched Negro men and women get beaten and killed, and he did nothing. He saw men get lynched in the woods, and he did nothing. But you know how we flipped him? He asked his brothers in the Klan to loan him some money so that he could open an auto repair shop, and they refused. That irritated him. So he stole the money from them. He didn't leave. He didn't quit. He stole. That's how we got him. Maybe that's why you're so drawn to him. You two have so much in common.”

“I didn't do it for Pete.”

“For who then? For King? For that dead woman and her black buck? Who?”

“I did it for
me
, goddamnit!” I must lean forward with too much passion, because Mathis's pistol makes sure I stay in my place.

“You're a fool, Estem. Don't you know how I helped you? You and your people. Pete's blown. He's done for. Won't be long until they find
out he's the one who gave us info. And you had the nerve to chastise me about two people. Two murders. That's
police
work. Live or die, the world keeps on turning, parks get built, and the mail gets delivered. We were trying to bring down the Klan—the entire organization—and we couldn't do that with just two murders. The whole Klan. Bringing in Billingsley and Cullworth too soon would have brought down the whole investigation—and it did. The two of you. You and Pete. Two informants connected to two murders? We had to wrap it up. Whoever picks up the ball will have to start from scratch. They'll have to find a new man inside.”

“So if you're trying to bring down the Klan, what were you trying to do to Martin and the SCLC? I know you are not trying to equate the two.”

“All agents are centurions, guardians hired to maintain and preserve stability in this country. That's what all of this is about. Anyone threatening the future success of this country is an enemy of this country.”

“So as far as the status quo is concerned, a nigger hanging from a tree is just as dangerous as a nigger hanging 'round a lunch counter?”

“Ask the ancient Romans about integration. Everything was fine until the Goths wanted their civil rights. This wasn't a figment of Hoover's imagination. King is out there saying that we'll see a Negro president within a generation. Think about that, John. Think about the kind of devastating upheaval that would require. Sure, these things start out honorably, but then they go Cuban, and the next thing you know the Soviets are calling the shots.”