The Strivers' Row Spy (27 page)

“He's been traveling the country for months,” James said. “And according to his telegrams, things have been going well. His visit to California was a bang, and everyone figured he'd take the South by storm as well. But this will cause a different kind of storm. To actually concoct some crazy idea of meeting with the Imperial Wizard of the Klan is a shock to the system. I couldn't have imagined it in my wildest dreams.”

“He's strategizing somehow,” I said. “He must have a new idea.”

“It sickens me,” James said. “I think it's just his last attempt at convincing Washington that he's no threat to the white man.”

“It'll have the opposite effect,” said Powell. “Folks in Washington will be suspicious. It reeks of a
he's-up-to-something
move.”

“You right,” said James. “White folks, especially those who fear Marcus, will think it's a good ol' case of an enemy tryin' to get to know his opposition a little better—up close and personal, if you will. Mm, mm, mm! This just boggles the mind. My God, what an overreach. Discretion has never been Marcus's greatest strength.”

“We'll see how he's received when he gets back to Harlem,” Powell said, folding one of the newspapers and standing. “You ready to get to the prayer breakfast, Brother Eason?”

“Let's hit it.”

“I'm sorry the conversation turned from the church to Garvey,” I said as James and I stood.

“It couldn't be avoided,” said Powell, the three of us walking to the door. “This morning, every restaurant, barbershop, and church in Harlem is filled with chatter about this news.”

We stood in the doorway, both of them with their backs to the street as I looked out.

“Speaking of the church,” said Powell, “I'm quite pleased with the progress we're making. Thank you for all your hard work, Sidney.”

“You're welcome.”

“Loretta doing all right?” asked James.

I heard him but the car parked across the street had my attention. In it sat the Timekeeper. He looked squarely at me and put his thumb up, obviously asking if I had done the job yet. I subtly shook my head no.

“No?” asked James. “Her spirits were sure up last time we spoke.”

I watched the Timekeeper drive away and drifted off for a second.

“Sidney?” asked James.

I just stood there.

“Everything okay?” Powell asked. “Look like you've seen a ghost.”

“What is it?” James asked, this time grabbing my shoulder and jarring my limp body.

“Sorry, James. I was . . . I was . . . Loretta is doing just fine.”

“Good,” he said, releasing me. “Why don't you go home and get some sleep. I'll holler at you later this evenin'.”

“Sounds good.”

“NO!” I yelled, sitting up in bed, my body covered in sweat.

“What is it?” asked Loretta, abruptly waking up and grabbing my arm. “What is it, Sidney?”

I sat there breathing heavily, gathering my thoughts. The nightmare had felt so real. And now that I was awake, my reality provided little comfort.

“Tell me,” she said. “You're soaking wet.”

“It was just a dream.”

“Was it about the baby?”

“I don't remember.”

She pulled me close. There was little left in life that felt decent or pure, so I clung to her in that moment. She felt so warm, so safe. I didn't want to think anymore. I wanted to let go and lose myself in her, to let that virtue she possessed wash over me.

I placed my hand behind her head and gently led it to the pillow. It was the first time we'd made love since losing our son, so passionately, both of us giving of ourselves completely.

* * *

I parked on West 138th Street and walked about half a block toward the construction site. It was muggy out, the sky was gray, the sidewalks were relatively empty, and the street traffic was light.

As I approached, I tried to imagine how the new church would look sandwiched in between the two town houses in front of me, one made of yellowish brick, the other of reddish. Once complete, the property would be nearly flush against the sidewalk, so close to the street that those driving along might feel as if they could reach out and touch the front door from their cars.

I took a moment to appreciate how the work was coming along. The concrete foundation had been poured; in fact it was barely dry. Now things would really begin to take shape. I sat my bag down and took out my camera. I wanted to capture this phase of construction then continue photographing at different stages until the project was complete. It might be nice to look back on someday. I clicked the camera a few times.

“Hello there, Sidney,” said a voice I recognized.

I stopped and turned to my right. Sitting behind the wheel of a parked black Ford, smoking a cigar, was an olive-skinned man of about fifty. He had a gray mustache and was wearing a black suit, black fedora, and thick, dark-rimmed glasses. I couldn't tell if he was Italian or colored but knew he was the Timekeeper.

“Just stand there and try not to look directly at me,” he said. “Keep your eyes on that church you've been working on. It's me, your friend, in broad daylight. You didn't think I'd disappeared now did you?”

“No.”

“Good ol' Sidney. You think any of Garvey's boys are watching you right now?”

“Always a possibility.”

“So you don't have any news for me?”

“No.”

“Not good.”

“I need more time. I haven't been able to gain access to his office yet.”

“It's already late August. That means I've given you damn near eight weeks. I guess I didn't make myself clear enough that night. Why are you waffling?”

“Aside from the fact that I'm an agent, not a criminal, it's just what I said . . . I need more time.”

“If you're telling me you can't frame that son of bitch because you're trying to hold on to your dignity, it's a little late for that. You're already a traitor to your race.”

“I don't see it that way.”

“You've already poisoned your soul. And don't think for a minute that you're any better than me.”

I glanced at him then refocused on the site.

“Keep your eyes on the church.”

“Why do you fear Garvey so much anyway?” I asked. “What exactly do you gain from seeing him out of power?”

“What have you gained by spying on him? Wasn't it your job to help bring him down? He's more powerful than ever.”

“I'm just an agent who's been tasked to report on Garvey's actions.”

“Then do what it takes to remain one.”

“And you're wrong,” I said, clicking the camera. “He's not more powerful than ever. He's in trouble with his own people now.”

“That Klan visit won't change a thing.”

I glanced his way again and saw him flick his cigar. “Look, the way I see it, outing me to Garvey does you no good. You need me to do a job for you. You need me to do it for you now, and you'll need me to do it for you tomorrow, or the next day, or the next month. You need me. Garvey walks away from this trial, you'll still need me . . . even more so.”

“You think you're smarter than me? Think again.”

“I'm just confident about how close I am to Garvey. No agent has ever gotten in so deep. That has value. You can't find anyone else who's able to get into his office—to find his hidden keys and know which one unlocks which drawer. UNIA headquarters looks more like a military base these days. Anyone but me would have a better chance getting into the Oval Office.”

I knelt down, began rummaging through my bag, and took another quick look at him.

“You've got it all figured out, huh?” he asked, taking a drag from his cigar. “You better think about your safety.”

“I'm just asking you to let the trial take place first, that's all. A little more time.”

“This is the last time I'm going to pay you a visit. Forget about the trial. Do the job now or face the consequences. You hear me? That nigger ain't worth you losing any sleep over nohow.”

“Your easy use of that word puzzles me. In looking at you I'm gathering you must have some Negro blood in you. But let me guess. You've always been able to pass?”

“I've just always known my place. I'm an American who wants to keep things just the way they are, and the organization I represent intends to do everything in its power to protect real Americans.”

“I'm a real American.”

“Then prove it,” he said, throwing his cigar to the ground. “Plant the evidence and call the phone number I gave you. You're trying my patience.”

He started the engine and drove off. I picked up my bag and headed for the site, still wondering how much longer I could get away with calling what I hoped was his bluff, not to mention how smart it was.

* * *

The next day Garvey took to the stage at Liberty Hall, fresh off his national tour. As I walked down the stairwell into the massive basement where all of the Liberty Hall gatherings took place, I saw Agent 800 standing near the bottom step with his arms folded. I joined him.

The place was packed to the rafters and everyone waited with bated breath to hear Garvey tell of his exploits. I took one look at the platform and saw that it was filled with several high-ranking UNIA officials, including Reverend Eason. And of course all of the typical grand ceremonial décor was on full display.

As Garvey stood and approached the podium, the audience erupted. He calmly waited for the cheering to die down, but sprinkled in were groans of disapproval. He held his perfumed handkerchief up to his mouth, collected his thoughts, and then began.

“Thank you! Thank you all! Please! Please! Be seated! Let me begin by telling you how proud I am to see you all taking part in this Third International Convention. It's good to know that the naysayers out there haven't managed to break our spirit.”

There were mostly cheers, but the angry shouts could not be ignored. A battle of emotions was brewing.

“I want to respond to all of the fuss going around about my meeting with the Klan. Every paper I read seems hell-bent on misrepresenting the encounter. So let me set the record straight. As you all know, I've never been one to run from my enemies.”

Quite a bit of the crowd stood at this point, but more than a few remained seated. I'd never seen so many of his supporters hold back their enthusiasm. But none of it appeared to ruffle him. He gripped the sides of the podium and spoke with great intensity.

“But the Imperial Wizard is not my enemy. He wants what's best for his people and I want what's best for mine. In fact, the Klan simply represents the invisible government of the United States.”

Agent 800 and I looked at each other upon hearing those bold words, each of us raising our eyebrows. We were probably thinking the same thing: Whatever good feelings Garvey had been trying to create between himself and President Harding's government had vanished into thin air.

“No . . . my enemies are over at the NAACP. They're over at the
Messenger
. They're all over Harlem. In fact, many of my enemies are sitting behind me on this stage. Don't think I'm blind to that fact. But I'll get to that in a minute.”

He was referencing his executive council. None of them budged, but a hush came over the crowd. I was focused on James. Everyone in the building was aware of how outspoken he'd been about Garvey while he was traveling. But I was certain James welcomed the potential showdown. Several in the audience were probably behind him anyway. He sat there patiently as Garvey continued.

“Regarding this Klan issue. You are well aware that I've never had any intentions of joining the white man. That is the dream of that other so-called Negro and his ring of circus clowns over at the NAACP. And if I have no intentions of joining the white man, there's no harm in talking to them. Listen up! Let not my words be mixed up. America is theirs. Africa is ours. Yes, I said it. Print that, Mr. A. Phillip Randolph . . . Mr. William Du Bois! I said this in New Orleans and I'll share it with you: This is a white man's country. He found it, he conquered it, and we can't blame him if he wants to keep it. I am not vexed with the white man of the South for Jim Crowing me because I am black. I never built any streetcars or railroads. The white man built them for his own convenience. And if I don't want to ride where he's willing to ride then I'd better walk.”

Disapproving hisses could be heard throughout. I wondered why he was going down this road, seemingly doubling down on his losing hand. A. Phillip Randolph had recently called him a “half-wit, low-grade moron,” and the more he spoke, the more I wondered how many others would soon agree.