The Strivers' Row Spy (20 page)

“Any other snitches from the MID working for Marcus?” asked Strong. Pope nodded no. His face was so swollen I could hardly recognize him. “You been writin' a hell of a lotta snitch-ass letters to your bosses, I'm sure. That's a mighty busy hand you got. A naughty one! You right-handed?”

Pope nodded yes. As Strong continued holding him up, Grant grabbed his right hand and began breaking each of his fingers by bending them back violently until they touched the top of his hand. Pope shrilly screamed for mercy but Grant continued. Eason and I couldn't help but cringe.

Grant finished his barbaric act, and Strong threw Pope to the ground. He lay there curled up like a baby. I looked down at all the blood covering the snow like splattered red paint on one of Loretta's abstracts.

“You can go on and tell them white devils at your MID to come and get me,” said Grant, huffing like a rabid animal. “Tell 'em to come and get this tiger! And tell every other snitch in Harlem you know that Marcus can't be touched. No one can get close to Black Moses! He has a shield of well-trained soldiers surrounding him. Every single one of my men—hundreds—are trained to kill if need be.”

Grant stepped back and held his arms out to the side. He kept them extended, then began slowly circling, looking into the distance.

“YOU HEAR ME, SNITCHES?” he screamed. “COME GET THIS TIGER!”

I could see Pope still breathing and was glad they hadn't killed him. Still, the event shook me fiercely. It jolted me into realizing how extremely careful I'd need to be from this point forward.

W
INTER QUICKLY PASSED
. I
T WAS APRIL OF
1921. I'
D BEEN GETTING
more pressure than ever from Hoover to check Garvey's files. With Garvey still in the Caribbean, I decided to try my luck. Strong had joined him on the escapade, Grant left behind to man the offices. He had Legionnaires from his Tiger Division patrolling the building day and night.

I began by rewiring the office lights on the first two floors, which took me the better part of two weeks. Before I could begin work on Garvey's office upstairs, I had to get Grant to unlock the door. Not an easy task. He and I argued back and forth over the matter.

“Why do you need to get into Marcus's office today?” he'd asked. “Just leave that room untouched until he returns. This is not about trust, Sidney. No one, including myself, is trusted by Marcus to be in that office when he's gone.”

“But Marcus himself asked me to rewire the lights throughout the building—including his office. He was adamant about it.”

“You need to wait until he returns.”

I didn't accept his demand, and finally, through much technical talk and persuasion, he relented. But I did have to agree to allow one of his men to oversee my every move. Amy Jacques was also traveling with Garvey, but I was hoping she'd left the documents in the file cabinet.

It was about seven in the evening. With several bags of electrical equipment, lightbulbs, and two Autographic Kodak cameras in tow—one provided by the Bureau—I made may way up to Garvey's office. Waiting for me was Grant and one of his young Legionnaires, Clayborn.

“Leave the door cracked,” said Grant, unlocking the door and pushing it forward. “How long is this gonna take? Hours . . . days?”

“That depends on the various problems I may encounter. The whole building has glitches throughout. One from another room may be affecting the power in Marcus's office, and vice versa.”

He frowned. “Well Clayborn here will make sure you don't miss any . . .
glitches
.”

Grant left the two of us alone and headed downstairs. I entered, set my bags down, and grabbed what I needed. I climbed the ladder and began replacing old electrical wiring, sockets, and lightbulbs as Clayborn just sat there eyeing me. He was a huge young man, seeming to take up most of the wall next to the office door, which remained slightly ajar.

After working for about two hours, I stepped down from the ladder and took out a pot roast sandwich and a bottle of root beer from my bag.

“Sorry,” I said, sitting, unwrapping the paper from the sandwich, and taking a big bite.

“It's okay, Mr. Temple,” said Clayborn, his voice very deep.

“You ate supper yet?” I chewed big, knowing that by the mere size of the youngster, he liked to eat.

“No.”

“If I'd remembered better, I would have thrown a sandwich and soda in for you. Maybe tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow night?”

I nodded. “Office needs more new wire than I'd anticipated. Also need more new sockets, some larger ones.” I guzzled down some root beer. “Whole building's system was jerry-built back in the Stone Ages it seems. Yeah, this here's a two- or three-day job, considering I can't be here 'til nighttime. Got other contracts I have to attend to.”

“Everybody knows you stay real busy, Mr. Temple.”

He spoke to me with such reverence, reminding me that my stature within the organization was, at least, perceived to be one of importance.

“Tell you what, Clayborn, I'll bring supper for both of us tomorrow night. You like pork ribs?”

“Yes, sir.” He lightly smiled.

“What's your favorite soda? You like root beer?”

“Orange soda.”

“You got it.”

I finished eating and sizing him up. I imagined he could easily fall asleep right in that chair if given a certain number of barbital to aid him along a bit. And I had a whole bottle full in my bedside drawer.

The next night I arrived with all of my equipment, a bottle of orange pop, a bottle of root beer, and two orders of juicy pork baby back ribs from Sonny's Pool Hall. Clayborn and I ate before I got to work. Didn't want the ribs to get cold.

“Best ribs in Harlem, ain't they?” I asked.

He just nodded and licked his saucy fingers. Then he took a big swig from his bottle—the orange soda inside mixed with three of my mashed-up pills.

I left my food there on the desk and climbed the ladder. “You go on and finish eatin', Clayborn. I need to get started.”

“All right. Thank you for the supper, Mr. Temple.”

“You're welcome. Brother gets hungry just sittin' up here all night waitin' on me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Clayborn was a nice kid—very respectful. He wore the extra, extra large Legionnaire uniform with much pride.

It took about thirty minutes before he was sound asleep in his chair. But I had to make sure no one was roaming the hallways. Staff members worked well into the night—well past ten. And ever since Garvey had left on his trip, Grant had remained a permanent fixture at headquarters. He actually slept in one of the offices downstairs. The last thing I needed was for him to come barging in while I was knee-deep in Garvey's books.

Whatever information I found would need to be photographed, as removing anything was out of the question. If the books showed that Garvey had indeed officially owned the
Shadyside
and
Kanawha
when he began sending out flyers soliciting folks to buy stock in them, we'd be back to square one.

The Bureau had some of the flyers in their possession. The date on them read “May 20, 1920.” So if the dates on the official sales receipts for the
Shadyside
and
Kanawha
preceded May 20, the Bureau would be out of luck when it came to charging Garvey with mail fraud.

I walked over, opened the door, and made sure the hallway was clear. I could hear staffers below and wasn't sure where Grant was. I'd have to be quick. Returning the door to its barely-open position, I used all of my strength to scoot Clayborn directly in front of it—making it next to impossible for someone to enter. If Grant did return, he'd only be able to yell at Clayborn for sitting in front of the door, giving me time to return to the ladder.

I approached the wall behind Garvey's desk and removed the Maasai gourd that was hanging there. I turned the gourd upside down and out spilled the keys.

I looked over at Clayborn who was definitely out cold. I tried one key after another on the top drawer of the black file cabinet. Finally, I found one that worked.

I opened the drawer and saw three thick books. The first book listed the names of thousands who'd invested their money in the Black Star Line—not what I was looking for.

I opened the second book and realized it was a transactions book, so I began flipping page after page. There were transactions documented as far back as 1916. Near the back of the book I found final sales transactions listed for both the
Shadyside
and
Kanawh
. Someone had written down April 19, 1920, for both. I took one of the cameras from my bag and photographed the page. Now I needed to match that date with actual receipts.

I looked again in the top drawer, but there was nothing. I found the key that opened the middle drawer. In it were what looked like hundreds of large envelopes. They were packed in vertically, so tightly I couldn't pull any of them out.

I found my screwdriver and wedged it in between a few, managing to create enough space to get my fingers in and pull some of them out—actually tearing a couple in the process, and sending a few flying across the room.

I heard footsteps in the hallway so I shut the drawer, rushed to Clayborn, and scooted his chair away from the door again. I quickly picked the envelopes up off the floor, shoved them in my bag, leaped toward the ladder, and climbed up as fast as I could. If Grant were to see Clayborn asleep, so be it. That would be the end of his short career in the Tiger Division.

But the footsteps passed and there was silence again. I waited a few seconds, then climbed down and struggled to position Clayborn back in front of the door. His wooden chair was on the verge of breaking.

Returning to the file cabinet, I pulled as many envelopes out as possible and stacked them on the desk. I'd never sifted through a pile of anything so fast in my life. Each envelope had something different labeled on it: “Laundry Service,” “Ford Automobile Purchase,” “1920 International Convention,” etc. One caught my attention. It read: “Nemesis.”

I opened it and found several handwritten letters. I quickly read through a few. One was addressed to Madam C. J. Walker—an entrepreneur who'd made her fortune by developing and marketing a hugely successful line of beauty and hair products for colored women. She'd recently passed away.

The letter began: “Dear Madam C. J. Walker, I'm writing to you regarding one W. E. B. Du Bois. As you know, he has done much to disrupt my Africa-centered agenda. This Du Bois is a white Negro who is dead set on destroying the purity of the race. The fact is this Du Bois is not like you and me, Madame Walker. Too much white blood flows through his veins.”

Garvey went on to thank Walker for her past loyalties and asked for her continued support of the UNIA. The letter was certainly disturbing, but there was another that seemed far more important—one that Du Bois would like to see. It was written as a questionnaire, and a scribbled note at the top read: “To be typed and directly sent at the appropriate time to the United States Attorney General, Alexander Mitchell Palmer, and all members of the U.S. Senate.” Another scribbled note read: “Letter to be sent as a last resort, to avoid deportation or imprisonment.”

The first paragraph explained the purpose of the questionnaire. It read: “I write to you as the recognized leader of Africans across the globe. And I believe America's race problem can be solved quite swiftly and permanently if given the proper attention and resources—and most of all, if assigned the proper leader.

“I ask that you help me in my endeavor to be officially named by the United States Government: ‘Director of African Repatriation. ' I wish to act as the sole director in immediately removing all colored Americans back to their native Africa, to Liberia. Colored America as a whole will certainly follow my orders—especially if given your endorsement. They have grown quite weary of other colored leaders, specifically one W. E. B. Du Bois.”

I was stunned by Garvey's ignorance and presumptuousness, as well as his willingness to sell out his own people, if need be, to save his own hide—exemplified so clearly in the line I just had to read once more to be sure: “Letter to be sent as a last resort, to avoid deportation or imprisonment.”

If granted such preposterous authority by the government to
remove
all coloreds back to Africa, millions against their will no doubt, Garvey would be ordering utter chaos. He was banking on them being racist enough to grant him such power. It was my worst fear. Just the thought of my family's future resting in such a man's hands gave me chills.

The questions that followed were written in a manner that could only build his case. He asked the readers to explain why they did or didn't agree with questions like: “With the further intermixing of coloreds and whites certainly in America's future, is it not time for Africans to return to Africa? Please explain why or why not.”

At the bottom of the page was Garvey's signature and a line that read: “Please sign and date here and mail to UNIA headquarters.” I took one of the cameras from my bag—the one Loretta and I owned—and photographed the letter.

Refocusing on the remaining stack of envelopes, I finally found one labeled “Black Star Line Vessels.” I opened it and there they were—several receipts for the
Shadyside
and
Kanawha.
Payments had obviously been made periodically over a one-year period. But two receipts had statements attached that listed April 15, 1920, as the date of final payment for both respectively. The bottom of both statements read: “Outstanding Balance: $0.00.” There were also two official certificates that verified ownership of both ships.

So Garvey had indeed taken ownership of them a month before mailing out the flyers. I wondered if he had done so by coincidence or on purpose—fully aware of the law regarding the mail service. Either way, he was safe—for now.

With the Bureau camera now, I photographed all of the documents, then managed to get the envelopes back inside the drawer, move Clayborn again, finish my work, and avoid a confrontation with Grant. I made sure the office was clean and packed up my equipment.

On my way out I woke Clayborn and told him he needed to try to stay awake on the job. I told him I wouldn't tell Grant as long as he could avoid falling asleep in the future. With his eyes barely open, he nodded in agreement and we both exited.

I headed straight for my office and sent a telegram to the Bureau explaining my findings regarding the ships. Of course, a courier would be sent to retrieve the camera in order to confirm my findings. Hoover would likely be impressed with my skills as a photographer but disappointed with what the pictures revealed.

* * *

Later that week I was sitting in my office and received a call from Agent Speed. He was in an angry mood.

“Did you receive my telegram?” he asked.

“No. At least not yet.”

“That's 'cause you're never in your damn office.”

“Garvey doesn't spend his time in my office.”