Our Man in the Dark (8 page)

Her place is a small bungalow, a box wrapped in aluminum siding. There's a little bush and a patch of grass to make it seem like a home.

A car pulls up, driven by one of Count's men. She gets out and walks barefoot through the grass with her shoes tucked under her arm. The car drives away once she's inside. A balloon of desperation seems to swell in my chest. For some reason, I think she can put me at ease. I wait a while longer before going to her door. I don't want to startle her.

She's still in her makeup when she answers. The soft punch of reefer lurks behind her. An inviting knee peeks through her silk chartreuse robe.

“Johnny? What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you. I needed to see you.”

“John . . . not now.”

“No. I really came to talk.”

“It's late. I don't feel like talking.”

I know what follows. I'm all too familiar with it. She begins to close the door, but I stop it with my trembling hand. “I'm in trouble . . . I did it for us.”

“Us?”

“I want to be the kind of man you want.”

“You're scaring me, John. Just tell me what you did.”

We stare into each other's eyes for what seems like a very long while. I'm confused by the moment. I don't know if I'm about to share my dark secret or a kiss. I don't know what my next move will be. She must know what I do not, because she places her hand over my mouth. “Don't. Just don't.”

I've said all that I have to say. I leave her house, embarrassed by my dramatic display. Maybe I pushed her too hard, expected too much from her. I came to her and nearly confessed, but she wouldn't let me say anything—maybe on some level, she understood.

I decide to head home and spend the night drinking up a plan.

The next day, I go to Count's before it opens for the evening. I walk in and, at once, I begin to feel uneasy. Pool balls wait silently for a break. There's something eerie about the place without its usual bacchanalia set to music. Like a body with the heart carved out of it, there's an almost gothic stillness.

“I don't fuckin' believe it.”

Count's goons are behind me.

“I know this crippled motherfucker didn't have the nerve to come back here after he left his ass kickin' unfinished!”

“I think he did.”

“Naw, he ain't got the balls.”

One of them grabs my crotch from behind.

“You're right. He don't got the balls!”

I turn around and they slap shoulders and laugh at me. I'm offended, maybe even a bit hurt, but it helps me to remember why I came here, and why I need to get it over with quickly.

“Look,” I say. “I'm not looking for a fight.”

“Then why the fuck are you here?”

“I'm here to see the Count.”

“It's just
Count
, jack. You ain't in Romania.”

“I think that's obvious.” I see them more distinctly now. They've given up the coordinated outfits from the other night. Maybe it was a special occasion. One is tall and young—only a few years older than me—and with a dangerous amount of muscle. The other is middle-aged with a medium build, but I know from experience that he has a knack for handing out punishment. I'm sure that's why Count keeps him around.

“What you want to see him for?” the older one asks.

“I have a business proposition for him. One that could be very lucrative.”

“Lucrative? Motherfucka, you tryin' to set us up? You got them fuckin' cops with you again?” He smiles and seems to enjoy giving me a hard time. Just the good, old-fashioned bullying I'm used to. But the younger one? His hatred is very real.

“I've had enough of this crippled sonofabitch! Fuck the alley, let's kick his ass right here!” says Junior.

“Just calm down,” I say. “What will Count say when he discovers you've prevented him from making money?”

“Punch him in his mouth real good, so he'll shut the fuck up!”

Suddenly a voice, like gravel, seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. “Cool it, boys. Let him pass.” The hoods tense up and spring a leak in their bluster. Count certainly has an effect on people.

Only in mockery, never in actuality, had I studied Count's appearance. His face seems a bundle of contradiction: mouth relaxed, eyes set in a gaze without intimidation or menace, all under the massive bald head of a cyclops. Muscles visible through his shirt, he appears to be both a prizefighter ready to strike and a child eager to shield his favorite toy from the grasp of others.

“You know, I've always pegged you as a strange bastard. That limp. Those square threads. Not to mention that sweet tooth of yours.”

“Sweet tooth?” I'm well aware of his reference to Candy, but since he's playing smart, I decide to play dumb.

“Man with a sweet tooth like yours could end up with a mouth full of cavities. But I'm here to take care of you. Consider me your dentist, nigger.”

“Well, I can assure you that I'm in no need of dental work, but thanks for the offer.”

His office smells like good cigar, and there's a long one spinning smoke from a crystal ashtray on his desk. The desk is large and made of a dark rich wood, most likely mahogany. Its gentle sheen compliments the large leather chair that Count sits in, and the smaller one in which I sit. A small portable bar, gilt handles and mirrored glass, waits in a dim corner behind Count's left shoulder. It's armed with scotch, port, and an assortment of French brandies—the good stuff. Underlining all of this is a large rug that's just loosely exotic instead of specifically oriental.

Something about this place seems deceptively constructed, like a stage setting. I look back at the cigar and notice that the head has not been removed by the merciful handheld guillotine—it's been bitten off.

“Twenty thousand,” Count says, as he lifts the cigar from the ashtray.

“I'm sorry?”

“Twenty thousand.”

“Twenty thousand
what
?”

“Dollars. Twenty thousand of them.”

“Honestly, I'm confused.”

“You don't get to be me without knowin' how to read people. That's essentially all that I do. I decipher the things that people want me to know, but don't want to tell me. And you—well, you're an easy read. You're in trouble. A shitload of it. After my boys cleaned up that alley with your ass, you got the nerve to walk back in here like John-fuckin'-Wayne, and without your mysterious white bodyguards. Business proposition? That means you need me to save your ass, and you want to make it worth my while so I don't kill your ass after I save it. Man, that's a whole lotta trouble. About twenty grand worth. Now I could be wrong. Maybe you're here collectin' donations for Dr. King.”

He taps off ash, then chomps at his cigar with self-satisfaction. I've held many different feelings toward Count: hatred, envy, even fear. But
this new feeling, respect, makes me disgusted with myself. His contempt and pity for me are quite clear, but in his tone, I detect a bit of disappointment, as if he expects more from me. It makes me think of my father and how I look down on him and Count in much the same way. They are both hard, physical men. How they must look down upon me.

I hesitate to tell him my plan, but then I consider the trouble I am in. This is not small-time stuff, no vig for the loan shark, or debt owed to the pusher. I am now a player in the game of political intrigue.

“A man that I work with needs to be taught a lesson.”

“Thought you Negroes were nonviolent.”

“I don't want him hurt. I don't
need
him hurt. I just need you to break into his home and place this where he can see it.” I reveal an envelope from my inside pocket and lay it on the desk.

“Now why can't you do this yourself?”

“Let's just say that I lack the agility.”

“Drop it in the mail. I'm not a fuckin' messenger.”

“The mail? Presentation is everything. The man comes home and sees this letter waiting for him, nothing damaged, no signs of forced entry—he becomes acutely aware of his vulnerability. He knows that his walls and locked doors can't protect him. He knows that he can be gotten to.” I lean back in my chair, feeling as if some spirit had just forced me to speak in tongues. I hope that he can decode what I've said. I'm not sure I'm capable of translating.

He is silent and still, except for the subtle twitching of his eyelids. The twitching stops, and then Count smiles. I speak his language.

I slept well last night. That makes me nervous. I am glad that Count and I came to an understanding, but how easily we reached our rapprochement is unsettling. I've spent a great deal of energy trying to be accepted by Gant and the rest of the SCLC staff—even Martin—with little return on my efforts. Now, I have fallen in with a crime boss with ease, and the agents are waiting for my call.

I feel uneasy as I arrange to meet Mathis and Strobe at their office. When I arrive, the agents don't waste any time introducing me to Bureau efficiency.

“What do you have for us, Mr. Estem?” asks Mathis.

“Well, Gant has a childish scheme to buy buses.”

“Buses?”

“Transportation for the marches, he claims.”

“Are there any other uses for these buses that he may have revealed to you?”

“Such as?”

Strobe looks at Mathis, but Mathis stays quiet.

“Such as transporting communist agitators around to influence labor disputes,” offers Strobe.

Mathis cuts Strobe a look out of the corner of his eye. Even I can see that he has missed the mark.

“No,” I say, “nothing like that. The fact is I haven't . . . well, he hasn't purchased the buses yet. He's waiting for me to return the money.”

“Which you haven't done,” Mathis says.

“No, I haven't.”

Strobe and Mathis look at each other.

“What about King?” they ask simultaneously.

“What about him?”

“Communist activity? Any high-profile communists visiting the SCLC?”

“No, of course not.”

“What about suspicious behavior?” Mathis asks while crossing his legs. “Behavior that might be seen as . . . unacceptable?”

I feel the sting of embarrassment, as if it were my behavior being questioned.

“No,” I say again.

Mathis stays silent while surveying my face. I don't make any attempts to hide my discomfort.

“Listen, John,” he says, leaning in to rest his elbows on his thighs. “It's understandable for you to be nervous. It happens a lot when you're first getting started—I'm including myself as well. Primarily, it is important for you not to lose focus. Stay homed in on the task at hand. I've already expressed the confidence we have in you and your importance to us. We need to monitor any activity that can be perceived as anti-American. When we enlisted your help, we did not expect you to become a hindrance of any kind. If Gant needs you to return the money, then return it. If it means getting rid of that car, then so be it. It's too conspicuous anyway. We—Mr. Hoover and the president—are very curious to see what he intends to do with that money.”

“We need to know that you're a team player, John,” says Strobe.

“Right,” Mathis says, moving closer and now standing above me, “a team player. But know this, John,” he says squeezing my shoulder a little too tightly, “If you drop the ball, I'll have no problem putting you on the bench.”

Feeling defeated after my rendezvous with the agents, I take the long way home. The thought of Gant and the money makes me queasy. I pray that Count works fast and Gant has already resigned in shame. If not, I'll have to suffer through another morning, staring at his smirking face. I drive down Peachtree Street, moving in a straight line past the zigzagging art
deco of the picture palaces. Window down, there is no wind. The air is heavy and humid and seems to trap my anxiety in a dense cloud around me. I've had this feeling before, this phantom weight on my chest.

When the polio struck, the doctors feared that the paralysis would spread to my diaphragm and the other muscles required for breathing. Had this happened, my permanent home would have been that despicable contraption called the iron lung. An airtight chamber, designed to push and pull on your chest through alternating pressure, fooling your body into believing that it is breathing on its own, reminding your brain that you cannot escape. That was the first and last time my withered leg seemed like a blessing.

I'm encased in steel, but this Caddy gives me the kind of mobility I've never experienced before. I know it's foolish, but behind this steering wheel, the barriers of class and race seem porous and decayed. At a stoplight I catch my reflection in a department store window. I smile at the idea of myself as a nomadic warrior, armed with a battering ram and attacking the crumbling walls of a citadel that houses the rumored treasures of the American dream.