The Strivers' Row Spy (26 page)

One was a clear photograph of the contract I'd signed back in 1919. Another was of me shaking Hoover's hand, and a third was of me standing beside him, holding up my official Bureau badge. For the record, it was a badge they never allowed me to take home.

I took a big drink of wine and sat there for an hour just thinking. It felt like the walls of Harlem were finally closing in on me.

I
SPENT THE NEXT FEW DAYS MULLING OVER MY OPTIONS, NONE OF
which put my mind at ease. And with Garvey still traveling the country, I tried to pretend the Timekeeper didn't exist, tried to fool myself into thinking he might never show his face again. But deep down I knew better. I needed someone to help me plan my next move. I needed to see Ellington.

I made my way into The Kessler on a Friday in late June. It had become a habit for me to look over my shoulder, to flinch and reach for my gun whenever anyone made an unexpected move.

The scruffy-faced Latin man staggering near the front door raised my eyebrows, but as I walked by him, he asked for some spare change. I handed him a nickel and made my way inside past several tables. It was nine o'clock and the place was about half full. I spotted Ellington in the back corner and hurried to his table.

“There you are,” he said, sipping his straight black coffee.

“Good to see you, Bobby.”

I sat down and gave the place another once-over. If someone was following me, he hadn't entered the place yet.

“Make a note of whoever walks in,” I said.

“What is it?”

“I think real trouble has found me. I don't even feel comfortable using the street phones anymore.”

“What do you mean? Where did you call my folks from?”

“I was meeting with a friend, a Reverend Powell, at his office. When we were finished, he stepped out and let me use his private phone. I called your folks and then you.”

“How are you in trouble?”

Before I could answer a waitress approached. “What'll it be?” she asked.

“I'm fine with coffee for now,” said Ellington, pointing to his cup and asking me with his eyes if I wanted the same. I nodded yes and let him do the talking. “One more coffee, ma'am.”

“You bet,” she replied, scurrying off.

Again I scanned the entire place.

“Look, Bobby, I've been approached by a man who's demanding I frame Garvey for rum running. He's threatening to blow my cover if I don't plant some incriminating evidence. He calls himself the Timekeeper. He says his organization has one of our agents on its payroll.”

“Shit.”

“He has photographs of my contract. He has pictures of me shaking Hoover's hand.”

“Damn. I'm surprised you're telling me.”

“The way I see it, if I can't trust you, I can no longer trust myself. A man's instincts have to mean something in this world.”

“I've got your back covered,” he said, taking a sip.

“Too bad I have no idea who's on the take.”

“A dozen faces are running through my mind. Agent Speed, Paul Mann, Knox, Long. Could be Agent Peterman out of the New York office, or that son of a bitch Truffle. But those two are focused on other New York assignments.”

“What about Sloan?” I asked.

“He's only worked in New York. Couldn't have accessed your file.”

“Right,” I said. “Same with 800.”

“You've gotta get out. Garvey finds out and you're toast.”

“You mean give up on everything I've been working for? I'm closer to Garvey than ever. He survives this trial and remains in power, Du Bois and the NAACP won't stand a chance. I can't have that son of a bitch setting the course for us all.”

“What? How can you be thinking about that right now?”

“Because it could very well define how I'm able to live the rest of my life. Garvey's message can't be allowed to take hold. It means everything.”

“Is it worth losing your life over?”

“I said
everything
. But hang on. We certainly can't assume that anyone associated with Garvey would kill me. They might make sure I never walk again, but . . .”

“But they
might
kill you and make sure no one ever finds your body. People disappear all the time without the police ever being able to prove who got rid of them.”

“Perhaps it isn't until a man is willing to actually die for something that he truly begins to live.”

“You're fuckin' scarin' me, Sidney.”

“Look, an America that includes full integration and absolute social equality is the only country I want to live in. I want to feel the way you feel.”

“How's that?”

“At peace, dammit! And worth something.”

“Man, Sid,” he said, lowering his head, shaking it as if those words saddened him.

“Free from having to spend every second of the day thinking about the color of my skin.”

The waitress approached and sat my coffee down. She then tended to an old gentleman three tables down, toward the front of the restaurant.

“Finish what you were saying,” he said.

“Sounds like a dream, I know, but I feel obligated to do everything within my power to help that dream become a reality.” I poured a bit of milk in my cup, then a little sugar. “And it's within my power to remain the eyes and ears of the NAACP at this critical moment in history. Within
my
power. So far I've managed to keep Du Bois well informed of both Garvey's and the Bureau's intentions.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I've been sending Du Bois letters, anonymously signed of course.”

“So that's what you've been up to all this time? I'll be damned.”

“Now you know.”

“So if you're dead set on saving the NAACP, are you actually considering planting the evidence?”

“Of course not,” I said, taking a sip. “I'm not a damn criminal. I'm just trying to buy some time, hoping this trial will start soon. Garvey is already guilty of something real and I trust he will pay the price.”

“But is this Timekeeper willing to wait?”

“He's gonna have to.”

“If you go to the Bureau with this they'll dismiss you immediately.”

“What if there is no spy inside the Bureau? What if it was Hoover who sent the Timekeeper as an insurance plan in case the trial fails?”

“No. Get that out of your head. I know how he views you. He thinks you're ethical to a fault, the kind of man who'd quit if blackmailed. And what would he have to gain from that?”

“Why would he assume I'd just quit?” I said. “He might think that any Negro with a good-paying job at the prestigious Bureau would do anything to keep it.”

“All right, Sid, just for argument's sake, let's assume it is Hoover.”

“Let's do.”

“He's damn sure smart, definitely enough to fool me. Shit . . . enough to fool everyone in the Bureau for that matter. Play it out.”

“First of all,” I said, “it may not just be Hoover. He may be following orders from above. Several folks may be behind this.”

“Okay. Go.”

“Hoover knows if Garvey does go to prison for mail fraud he'll have no use for me anymore anyway.”

“Perhaps.”

“No,” I said, “not perhaps. You and I both know he's only using 800 and me to get Garvey. He'd never have me spy on a white man or simply work out of the offices in Washington like you did.”

“Guess I just don't wanna believe that.”

“Believe it,” I said.

“Continue.”

“But,” I said, “Hoover figures if Garvey walks, they'll need a backup plan, and the rum running evidence is just that. He could never just come straight out and ask me to break the law. So he sends this Timekeeper to make up a story about an inside man. It's just a ploy. He figures if I do plant the evidence, it was a brilliant plan. If I don't, at least he tried.”

“Why wouldn't he wait to see if Garvey beats the mail fraud charge before sending him?”

“Because,” I said, “he doesn't know how long I'll be around. He knows I'm as far in as I'm ever going to be. I'm in the perfect position right now. He knows I've gained access to Garvey's private files before. He knows that 800 is in real deep too, but has no chance of pulling off such a plan.”

“Hoover always said 800 was doing an outstanding job, that he was a key reason why this mail fraud case has real legs now.”

“He is,” I said. “800 has been masterful, but he doesn't sit around in Garvey's office talking about Ibsen and Shakespeare like I do. It's about accessing and planting the evidence in those intimate files.”

“By the way, just how close are you to Garvey?”

“Only close in terms of being a core member of his business affairs team. He meets with me one-on-one quite a bit and philosophizes. But I'm certainly not privy to any intimate affairs. For instance, I know he's rapidly building his own secret service, but I have no idea who's a part of it. I have no idea what goes on in his private world.”

“And that's the world that really matters.”

“Ultimately, yes,” I said.

“Back to this theory of yours. So if it is Hoover, and you were to go in right now and tell him about the Timekeeper, what would happen?”

“Since the trial is still looming, and he knows I might be needed if Garvey eventually walks, he'd probably say, ‘Sidney, call this Timekeeper and set up a meeting. Then lie to him and tell him you've planted the evidence. When he leaves the meeting we'll have some agents follow him and take him into custody.' That's what he'd probably say. They'd then pull off some fake arrest. The entire thing would just go away and I'd be back on the job.”

“You think he thinks you'd be dumb enough not to wonder about the Timekeeper's associates, not to assume they'd still be out there ready to go to Garvey with your contract?”

“Yes, I think he thinks I'm that dumb. I think he thinks Negroes in general are that dumb.”

“So if you truly believe all this, why not just go in to headquarters?”

“Because it's more likely that—”

“That this Timekeeper has nothing to do with the Bureau, and if you go in you'll simply be dismissed because they can't have an agent working for them whose cover has been blown, whose contract has been shown to Garvey. It's that simple. They can't risk having Garvey's men beat you into submission, having you rat out Agent 800 and everyone else involved. The entire operation would be in jeopardy.”

“In that scenario, you're right,” I said, looking at the front door. “There's also another colored agent. His code name is 22X.”

“So he'd be in danger too.”

“If you say so.”

“You know, Sidney, maybe this guy's with some radical Southern outfit.”

“Maybe. But that hardly narrows it down. How many of those are there? Too many to count. What's the word on that former assistant district attorney, Edwin P. Kilroe?”

“I only know what you informed the Bureau of some years back, that he and Garvey had been at each other's throats.”

“Maybe he has a hand in this,” I said.

“It's plausible. But all of this guessing will only drive you mad, Sidney.”

“I just can't allow this Timekeeper to get in the way of protecting Du Bois.”

“The fact that you've been anonymously spying for him all this time makes sense. Before I left the Bureau, something had become quite clear. Every attempt Hoover and company made at trying to get Du Bois failed. No names of potential Du Bois funders or, as Speed called them, ‘Reds,' could be gathered. Agents could never nail him for crossing state lines with a young woman either. You protected him.”

“And I must continue.”

“You're crazy, Sid.”

“I also sent Du Bois a picture of a letter I photographed. Garvey wrote to several senators and the attorney general asking if they'd give him the authority to lead us all back to Africa—Liberia to be specific. I don't know if Garvey ever actually sent the letter, but still, I sent the photograph to Du Bois. I also warned Du Bois of Garvey's plan to loan Liberia two million dollars.”

“Maybe Du Bois forwarded this information to the right person in Washington. It could explain why the State Department recently proposed giving Liberia a five-million-dollar loan. Secretary of State Hughes even has the support of President Harding. Of course, Congress will have to approve it.”

“But,” I said, “is the proposal officially on the table?”

“Yes. But I'm not sure when it's to be voted on.”

“If they vote yes it might very well end any chance Garvey has of brokering a deal with Liberian officials. You're right. Perhaps Harding and Hughes are doing it in exchange for Liberia's cutting off negotiations with Garvey, further weakening his promise of Back to Africa. He doesn't deliver on that promise, he loses credibility.”

“To think you could be behind all this, Sidney.”

“To think.”

“Now I just wish you'd get out.”

“You sure got out at the right time. How are things going at Columbia?”

“Challenging. I pray I can get through all the muck.”

“While you're at it, pray for me and wish me good luck.”

* * *

The next day the headlines in all the colored papers read,
GARVEY MEETS WITH KKK'S IMPERIAL WIZARD
. The news sent shock-waves through the streets of Harlem. Even the most ardent supporters of Garvey were taken aback by this move. And as I sat in my office with James and Reverend Powell, I tried to imagine how he'd ever be able to explain it.

“I'm dumbfounded,” said Powell. “No self-respecting leader has ever pulled such a reprehensible stunt. I believe my entire congregation will find Mr. Garvey's sit-down in Atlanta with that enemy of a man the last straw. It can't be explained away either.”