The Strivers' Row Spy (3 page)

He hung up the telephone. “Sidney, the Bureau has never hired a colored agent. Earlier today I interviewed a man by the name of James Wormley Jones, a soldier. Was stationed in France. I may hire him. Do you have any clue as to why I would even consider hiring him as the first-ever colored agent since the inception of our Bureau?”

“No.”

“Loyalty.”

“I see.”

“The Bureau of Investigation wants men who care about what's in the best interest of America first. Jones obviously understands this—he was willing to die in a war. And I am quite certain that you, in your eagerness to enlist back in 1917, were willing to die as well. I can only imagine the pride these men must feel today as each returns to a hero's welcome across the country. I didn't fight in the war. I was already employed at the Justice Department at a very young age and was exempt from the draft. I regret that.

“Fighting in a war,” he continued, “and surviving it, allows a man to brush aside the kinds of regrets a typical man becomes entangled in throughout life—regrets about trivial failures and whatnot. A willingness to die for this nation is the ultimate badge of honor. And I've examined the details of your life enough to believe that you possess such a badge.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hoover.”

He began jotting something down. The man had mentioned my willingness to die, and he was right. I'd do so for Du Bois. And had I gone off to war, I certainly would have made a good soldier. I would have tried to show the same bravery that American soldiers from past wars had. Men like General George Washington.

The image of him leading America into battle on horseback was imprinted in my mind, had been ever since I was six years old and Momma had read a story to me about Washington at Valley Forge, then about his exploits throughout the rest of the Revolutionary War. The image resonated with me. I had been fascinated by him ever since.

“You love America, don't you?” he asked, looking up from his writing.

“Very much.”

Hoover cleared his throat and suddenly took on an even more serious demeanor.

“Two months ago you were quoted in, of all things, an issue of your college newspaper, saying that you believed Marcus Garvey was, quote, ‘undermining the American Negro agenda.' I actually have a copy of the paper right here.”

He picked it up from his desk, leaned forward, and handed it to me. “Go ahead and skim through it. Take your time and make sure it rings a bell.”

I began thumbing through it, looking for the article. It took me a moment to digest his comment.
Wow
, I thought,
one remark about this Garvey individual had been the impetus behind their bringing me to Washington. This had nothing to do with Du Bois after all.

“Take your time, Sidney.”

I found the article and began pretending to read, trying to collect my thoughts. I'd read this article many times. Loretta had brought it to me, excited beyond words to see my name in print. I did know some things about Garvey. I'd been reading about him off and on since he'd arrived from Jamaica in 1916.

He was a powerful orator and operated out of Harlem. I'd read some of his remarks and took exception to his seeming disrespect for Du Bois, who'd been fighting the fight here in the United States, literally, before Garvey was even born. Based on what I'd read, I had myself convinced that Garvey was committed to destroying Du Bois, the NAACP, and everything it stood for.

Garvey's arrogance and seemingly quick dismissal of too many American colored leaders was upsetting. I didn't know if he appreciated the unique nature of the Negro American struggle compared with the struggles of coloreds in other countries, including his own.

My dislike for Garvey wasn't just about his politics but also about his approach to leadership. He was flirting with becoming a demagogue.

Based on what I'd read and heard from others, Garvey detested and was jealous of Du Bois because of his New England background, Harvard education, and close relationships with whites. The last thing our people needed was a conflict between two of its own leaders.

And Garvey would definitely have success if his aim was to rile up angry colored folk. Spying on him for the Bureau would actually mean spying on him for Du Bois as far as I was concerned.

“Yes, I remember making a statement to my college newspaper,” I finally said, returning the paper to him.

“Just how familiar are you with Mr. Garvey?”

“I know nothing about him. I made that remark because a Middlebury newspaper reporter showed me a quote Garvey had made before coming to America regarding light-skinned folks in the West Indies.

“The quote seemed insensitive. I had never heard of Garvey so I flippantly made the remark, knowing that I was two months away from graduation. What I actually said was ‘If Garvey truly has a problem with light-skinned coloreds, that attitude has the potential to undermine the American Negro agenda, especially considering how many people are light-skinned.' They took my quote out of context.”

Hoover retrieved a file from his desk drawer and stood. “One minute,” he said, heading for the door and exiting.

One minute turned to five so I stood and began pacing back and forth, trying to get the circulation going in my legs. I also took some deep breaths. Maybe he'd been simply leaving the room to share info about me with colleagues—to get second and third opinions about my answers.

Lying to Mr. Hoover about not knowing anything regarding Garvey was easy and important—especially if I intended to continue playing the apolitical character he seemed to like. But all the reading material Professor Gold had provided me with was enough to keep me well informed about the up-and-coming leader and soapbox orator. Nevertheless, I was actually telling Mr. Hoover the truth about the quote I'd made to the paper: They
had
taken my quote out of context.

“Here you are, Mr. Temple,” said Irene, walking in and handing me a glass of water. “Was told you might be thirsty.”

“Thank you.”

She scurried off and I sipped. I walked over and took a closer look at the photographs hanging on the wall to the right of Mr. Hoover's desk. Some were group pictures, others of individuals—perhaps government officials or college professors who had influenced him. All of these men, some dressed in military uniforms, likely had leadership roles of some sort. And leadership was something Garvey was craving.

Glass still in hand, I downed the rest and began pacing again. I understood Garvey's desire to unify and strengthen coloreds throughout the world, but I was convinced his approach was dangerous.

Catching me in mid pace, Hoover reentered and took a seat. I eased my way back to my chair, setting the glass on his desk.

“We're just about finished here, Sidney. Just a few more items.” He put the file away, made a note on a large desk calendar, then looked back at my file, which he'd left open on his desk.

“Apparently this Garvey, who until recently was an unknown figure, is quickly becoming known to the greater public. How do you think this classmate—college reporter—knew about the quote Garvey'd made?”

“I have no idea.”

But I did know. The past November of 1918, the
New York Times
had reported on a meeting Garvey had led with five thousand people in attendance. That report had introduced Garvey to America.

A student reporter began investigating him, looking into his Jamaican past, his rise to a position of leadership in America. I guess since I was one of the only colored students at the school, the reporter came to me with all this information and asked for a response to the quote.

“Are you familiar with Max Eastman?” asked Hoover.

“No.”

“He heads up the
Liberator
. It's a socialist-leaning magazine in Greenwich Village. He previously ran the
Masses
, in which he repeatedly railed against the United States's involvement in the war. He stood trial under provisions of the Sedition Act.

“We also have every reason to believe he's a Marxist. Although, I must say, to his credit, he's been able to sniff out any agents we've ever sent to infiltrate his businesses. But perhaps a colored agent wouldn't draw his suspicion.”

Now I was truly confused. Was it Garvey or Eastman he wanted me to follow? Maybe it was someone else altogether. I was through trying to predict this young fellow's intentions for me.

“I'm due over on the Hill here shortly, Sidney.” He paused and cleared his throat. “The Bureau does not provide formal training for its agents, and again, our agents have no congressional authority to carry a sidearm, though most of them carry a weapon for their own protection.

“Besides, I intend to change all this authority, no authority nonsense. We will eventually have a training academy for physical work and classroom study. In the meantime, I'd like you to follow a few of our experienced agents out in the field for some on-the-job training. You could say I'm going to throw you to the wolves for three weeks, Sidney. You'll also have to pass the official security clearance.

“James Wormley Jones and two other candidates will also be in the field with you. You'll be under the direct supervision of an Agent Lexington Speed—a decorated war man. He prides himself on doing rigorous physical training, even when he's out on assignment for weeks at a time. God knows I'd like for his work ethic and discipline to become the norm around here—to rub off on some of our less fit individuals.

“Anyhow, Agent Speed will be putting you four through his physical routine each morning. It won't be easy. He'll also be observing how you handle yourselves in the field. You'll likely be in some rather tense situations, ones that will test your mental mettle.

“Based upon Speed's evaluation, I will render my decision on whether you have the makings of a covert agent—assuming you even want to work for us at that point. You may have shown a willingness to die, an apolitical nature, and demonstrated high scholastic achievement, but those characteristics alone do not make an effective undercover agent.

“Besides that, many of the agents we hire have extensive military or police backgrounds. They've been schooled in weaponry, evidence gathering, etcetera. So, if hired, you'll be a unique case. But let's be clear, I say none of this to discourage you.”

So I was in, or almost in. Into what, however, I knew little more about than I had when I'd stepped on the train for my first trip to Washington, D.C.

I
TOOK A TRAIN TO
P
HILADELPHIA THE NEXT DAY TO MEET
L
ORETTA
at her childhood home, a nice three-bedroom in West Philadelphia. Her father had been a renowned Baptist preacher for some forty-plus years. Now that he'd passed, Loretta was without either parent; her mother had died of cancer ten years earlier. Her parents owned their home, and now, with no siblings, Loretta had inherited it.

Her intentions were to sell immediately and reinvest in a home of our choosing. She wanted to get out of West Philadelphia and start a new life in a place where I could find work and she could focus on her painting. The resources from selling the house would certainly allow her the time and freedom to do just that.

Before heading to Loretta's, I hailed a taxi to Leonard's Gun Exchange—a place owned by a man the cab driver had recommended. I needed a pistol. I had no intentions of being a sitting duck during my assignment and knew I'd eventually want a gun in the privacy of my own home. The exchange went quickly, and I purchased a Colt M1911
.
I liked the fact that it was small, easy to conceal. When and where I would learn to use it was the great unknown, but I felt safe just having it.

As the taxi eased down Locust Street, the red brick three-story Queen Anne house with a wraparound porch came into view. Loretta's father's prized possession—a beautiful, gray 1915 Chevrolet Baby Grand Touring—was parked out front. I thought about having to lie to Loretta about my activities in Washington but felt justified in doing so, forced to compartmentalize between home and work. Now I needed to come up with a believable story about why I'd be returning to D.C. in two weeks.

The driver stopped and I retrieved my belongings from behind the seat. Making my way up the sidewalk lined with gorgeous mountain laurels, I entered the house, sat my suitcase down, and climbed the stairs to the second floor. As I walked the hallway, I stopped for a moment, noticing a childhood photo of Loretta standing next to her mother.

They were the spitting image of each other, both a shade darker than my caramel-colored skin. I leaned in closer to get a better look at how her mother so lovingly had her pulled in close, snug against her leg. Loretta appeared overjoyed, her big grin showing a few missing teeth.

I reached the back room and stopped at the doorway. She was standing there like a statue; shoulders drooped, arms just dangling. With paintbrush in hand, she stared at a blank canvas.

“Hello, lovely lady,” I said.

She looked up, half smiled, then approached me. We embraced for several seconds without saying a word. Felt like I was absorbing some of her hurt.

“It has seemed like forever,” she said into my chest.

“God, you feel so good.” I rubbed her back and touched my nose to the top of her head. “Smell so good too.”

“My other half is home.”

“Yes.”

“Now maybe I can finally sleep. I'm exhausted, Sid.”

“That makes two of us.” I took her hand. “You have every right to feel tired. We don't have to talk right now. Let's just go lie down. I'll rub your wrist the way you like.”

We lay down and slept soundly for the next fifteen hours, thus avoiding a conversation about D.C. for the time being.

* * *

Waking before Loretta the following morning, I made eggs, toast, grapefruit, and coffee for the two of us. I sat down to read the
Philadelphia Inquirer,
moving aside the dozens of art books she'd been reading. I buttered a slice of toast and took a big bite. Just as I opened the paper, into the kitchen she walked.

“Good morning, Love,” she said.

“I hope you slept well,” I replied, giving her a kiss.

A good feeling always ran through me when she called me “Love.” It never got old. The morning brought about a renewed spirit in both of us. She was sad about her father's death, but he had been suffering ill health for about five years, so the blow was perhaps less shocking to her.

“Look at you already reminding me why I'm so lucky,” she said, a bit of morning rasp in her voice. “Tucked me in last night, making me breakfast this morning. What's next?”

I lifted my eyebrows suggestively and bit down on the edge of my toast, freeing my hands to pull out her chair.

“Here, sit, sit, sit,” I mumbled, the toast hanging from my mouth.

She took a seat and began scooping her grapefruit with a spoon. I noticed that the tired around her eyes was gone. She looked radiant, her long, wavy black hair resting against her milky-looking nightgown with an elegance that added to her alluring presence. I loved her angular chin, her long, thin limbs and narrow shoulders.

“How was Washington?” she asked.

“It was awe inspiring.” I poured her some coffee. “The Public Buildings Commission is indeed going to hire several engineers and architects over the next few months. They would like several of us to come back in two weeks and attend twenty-one days of training seminars, Commission meetings, and lectures.

“We will be visiting several future building locations and participating in what they call group feedback sessions with civil engineers from all over the country. The Commission is trying to find a way to come up with only the best and brightest ideas.”

” Wait,” she said, chewing, “this sounds like a bigger deal than you originally made it out to be.”

“It does, doesn't it?”

For some reason, I felt like I needed to continue convincing her. That's what happens when you're telling a bald-faced lie.

“It's a unique situation,” I continued, sitting. “They want to begin building several neoclassical government office buildings in what they are calling the ‘Pennsylvania Avenue Triangle
.
' ” I paused to gauge her reaction but she was simply listening. “You don't want any sugar on that grapefruit?” I asked.

She shook her head no, sipping her coffee. “I spent a lot of time thinkin' of D.C. while you were gone,” she said.

“Good. And?”

“Well . . . ya know . . . I think I can see myself living there.” She paused. “Or can I?” She playfully contorted her mouth and raised one eyebrow. “Yeah . . . I think I can. Sorry, Love. Continue.”

“Okay.” I forked and fiddled with my eggs. “Well, they are paying for my trip back to Washington and all accommodations. Any potential hire is predicated on how the training goes. But it sounds encouraging.”

“It sounds important, too, Sid . . . like an opportunity to be on the cutting edge of something.” She sipped. “Sounds very exciting.”

“Well, we should hold back our excitement. They haven't offered me a job. Again, the training will determine everything.”

“I will have plenty to do while you're gone. At least you'll be here for the next two weeks. We can spend that time getting the house ready to sell. Oh . . . what about all of the loose ends back at Middlebury?”

“Well, I left the guesthouse spotless and packed all of our things. Professor Gold said he'd arrange to have our items sent once we get settled. Mary was really missing you. They want to come see us as soon as we get situated.”

“You know what I'm going to miss the most about them?” she asked.

“What?”

“Those snowy winters when the four of us would hunker down inside by the fireplace. I will never forget how they took us in as family, Sid.”

“Me neither.”

“I truly believe Middlebury is the most beautiful place on earth.”

“It is,” I said.

“And . . . I figure . . . at least . . . Daddy got to see it before . . . you know . . .”

“Right.”

I watched her fiddle with her grapefruit and could tell she no longer had any interest in it. She set her spoon down, and we both sipped our coffee and were quiet for a while. Figured I'd wait for her to continue the conversation.

“Just a special place,” she finally said. “Middlebury. Inspired so much of my work. Those autumn colors are magic.”

“No . . .
you're
magic.”

“Thank you,” she said, placing both hands on her lap. She looked at me but it was more like she was looking through me, her dark brown eyes transfixed, obviously on the past.

“Sweetie,” I said, bringing her back to attention. “How are you doing with the funeral now over . . . with all the extended family gone?”

“Ya know . . . I feel empty and full at the same time—empty in my head and heart, full in my artistic soul. I guess Daddy's death leaves me wanting to paint images that have no clear identity. I find myself moving in that direction.”

“Well, you can certainly be proud of your figurative pieces.”

She turned and looked at the painting of her father on the wall behind her.

“That one in particular,” I said. “It captures him . . . his strength. And it captures the Vermont scenery just as well as any Charles Heyde piece. You're amazing.”

“Thank you, Love.”

She stayed fixed on the painting for a moment. Then she turned back around and there were tears in her eyes. I got up and approached her, taking her hand as she stood. I wrapped her in my arms, and she began to cry softly.

I could never take her father's place, but I could certainly be the rock she would need. And I knew that, in time, she could find joy again. In the meantime, all I wanted to do was protect her. Of course I had now convinced myself that being an agent wouldn't get in the way of that. Hell, I had convinced myself that it would
better
enable me to protect her. After all, I was now an armed man.