The Strivers' Row Spy (30 page)

A
T
UNIA
HEADQUARTERS THE NEXT DAY
, I
EXPLAINED TO
A
MY
Jacques that my battered face was a result of my having accidentally fallen from a ladder at the church. Seemingly embarrassed by my explanation, she explained that Garvey was in Detroit. But I didn't care. I'd simply entered the building to satisfy Drake, who was parked about a half block down.

He and his sidekicks had left the house on foot at three in the morning, but as I'd pulled through the gate onto Seventh Avenue at around nine, there he was, parked in a cream-colored Oldsmobile with brown trim, just waiting to follow me. Goat and Cleo were probably resting up back at their base, waiting to relieve him when it was time to rotate shifts.

I said good-bye to Amy, and with the Oldsmobile following in the distance, drove straight to the church, now a tall, massive shell of two-by-fours with a makeshift roof attached to keep out the rain or snow. Waiting near what would soon be the front door was a young man wearing khaki pants, gloves, and a very thick brown topcoat.

I figured he must be the lucky one assigned to be my new best friend because all of the other workers shuffling about—the ones carrying slabs of wood, saws, hammers, etcetera—I'd seen before. As soon as I opened the car door and stepped out into the cold morning air, he approached.

“Let's make this real simple,” he said, reaching out his hand, which I shook. “Name's Bingo Jones.” He handed me a sheet of paper. “Just stand here and act like you're reading these work orders to me.”

“Okay.”

“I'll be at your side all day, every day, but we don't have to speak unless it involves the job. I'll do my part and act like the ambitious young engineer-in-training, and you just go about your business as usual. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“When's the meeting?” he asked.

“In two to three weeks—late December, early January. The specific day is being nailed down. Garvey's traveling constantly. And because this will be the last business meeting he oversees before the trial, he wants to make sure all the key players are in attendance—lawyers, architects, accountants, investors . . . even some Liberian land developers are expected.”

“Good. Let's go to work.”

Nothing eventful happened the rest of that day. I spent most of it leaning over a large, schematics-covered worktable, advising laborers, collaborating with other engineers, and trying to stay warm by drinking a lot of hot coffee.

Bingo sat close by and pretended to make notes on the architectural drawings for the church ceiling. He was quite the actor. But when the two of us were alone for a brief moment, he acted like the serious agent he was and searched me from head to toe, doing his best to make sure I hadn't slipped something under my coat.

The following days went along in much the same fashion, save for the fact that Bingo spoke more and more freely to the other workers, having convinced them that he'd graduated top of his class at Tuskegee. Maybe he had. He was a well-spoken young man, no older than twenty-five, and in many ways reminded me of myself, both in looks and temperament.

How in God's name he'd found himself smack dab in the middle of some plot to assure Garvey's assassination was hard to figure. In fact, the Timekeeper, Drake, Cleo, and Goat were also educated-sounding, refined men, save for the cursing and slang when they were angry. Whoever had recruited them was most assuredly paying each top dollar. It was all I could guess.

But then again, colored Americans as a whole were lost, still scrambling about, fighting amongst themselves for the scraps left over from Reconstruction. What else could be expected from a people stripped of their native languages with no respected language to replace them, devoid of specifics about their African roots, legally denied an education, whose souls were still being ripped out, whose collective mind was still haunted by thoughts of whips tearing at the flesh of kinfolk?

I pondered questions like this as I lay in bed each night, alone in the house, my mind exhausted from trying to figure out an escape. Drake had dumped out my briefcase on that first night but had left all of the items on the floor, even the new maps James had given me. My gun was all they'd wanted.

But during their sweep of the place, they hadn't discovered my storage spot under the slabs of wood in my closet. My second gun, the holster, etcetera was still stored there.

All this being the case, I'd begun studying the new maps religiously, each with dozens of updated routes just as James had said. In fact, the railroad system as a whole had improved dramatically in a short time and was so much more elaborate that the old maps I had under the car seat were now useless.

But even with these new ones at my disposal, they only allowed me to dream of a way out. The more I lay there and examined the dizzying lines, the more I was reminded that America's wide-open space was inaccessible to me. Still, I was hoping against hope that something unexpected would occur and provide an opening for me to slip through—a brief moment when the Timekeeper's hired eyes were not fixed on my every move.

December twenty-second was no such day. With a light snowstorm having set in, I motored up to the gate bright and early. Ivan stopped me with a big smile as he pulled the gate open.

“Mornin', Mr. Temple. Just need to let you know that the undercover police will be staked out across the street and around the corner until they catch who they're looking for.”

I was listening to him but looking across the way. A police car was parked right behind the Oldsmobile. Two white officers were inside and Drake was standing by their driver's-side door. He reached inside and shook both their hands before heading to the Oldsmobile as they drove off, each officer flashing me a serious look. Cleo was behind the wheel of the Oldsmobile. Drake went to the passenger's side and got in.

“They done spoke to me real clear,” continued Ivan. “So ain't no need to be suspicious of that Oldsmobile being there all the time, mainly at night. I guess a couple of our tenants along 139th have been robbed, real close to this here gate, not the other.”

“By the way,” I said, “what's the brotha's name who works that Eighth Avenue gate? I've never used it.”

“For this block?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That gate's for them west end tenants anyhow, Mr. Temple. But his name is Howard. Then, at night, a man named Leonard relieves him.”

“I see.”

“But back to them houses that done been robbed. Has your front door been damaged?”

“No,” I said, as Cleo opened his door, got out, and stood there, squinting at us through the snowfall, obviously trying to hear our conversation.

“Anyway,” said Ivan, “they want all the residents to know they're safe. No need to worry. Just keep your front door locked. That's the only way they can get in, especially as long as them police are watching over the gate with ol' George at night.”

“That's awfully reassuring,” I said, eyeballing Cleo. “Thank you, Ivan.”

“My pleasure,” he said, turning and waving at Cleo who waved back. “You have a wonderful day, Mr. Temple.”

I decided to make a left on Seventh this time, then another immediate one onto 139th. I wanted to see the vehicle parked near my front door. With the Oldsmobile tailing, I slowly passed a plum-colored Chevrolet with two men inside. The Oldsmobile briefly stopped and Drake engaged them.

Obviously, their job was to watch my front door around the clock—to make sure they could see anyone who might come knocking. There'd likely be no one, save for maybe James, perhaps Ellington, and, of course, the postman. As soon as he dropped my mail off, these men would certainly filter through it. The last thing I wanted was them intercepting a letter from Momma or Professor Gold, revealing the Vermont address.

Driving along 139th, I studied the row of houses to my left, most of them filled with Strivers' Row tenants I'd never met. I wanted to stop the car and run to bang on one of their front doors for help. Passing one similar set of stairs after another, one similar set of windows after another, reminded me that the row was simply one block-long continuous building with no spaces separating each house. In fact, each home was distinguishable only by its unique set of curtains. It was the first time I'd thought about the disadvantages of living in such confined quarters.

On a whim, I drove straight to the real estate office to see if there was any news on the house sale. Not a good idea. Just as I parked, the Oldsmobile pulled up right beside me, so close that I couldn't open my door.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” asked an angry Cleo, his pistol pointed right at me—his voice surprisingly squeaky and high-pitched. First time he'd spoken to me.

“Hold on!” I frantically replied, holding my hands above the wheel. “I'm simply seeing if there's any news about my house.”

“You go from the house to the church, nowhere in between, unless Bingo's with you. Thought this shit was crystal clear.”

“I was simply . . .”

“Fuck simply! I almost
simply
put your ass to sleep for good. I'm itchin' to kill you, fool. I don't have a dog in this fight. I'm just paid to pull this trigger if the plan looks like it's going bad. Drive to the church mothafucka!”

I did just that. An hour later Bingo drove back with me to the real estate office. I could only hope that he and the others had no interest in stealing the money I'd receive from selling the house. Time would tell.

With him sitting beside me while I spoke to the sales agent, I learned that there'd been an offer made for $9,000, a thousand more than we'd originally paid for it. I accepted, signed the necessary paperwork, and was told that the deal would be final within days.

As we headed back to the church, I eyed the gun Bingo held on his lap. There was never a moment in the car when he didn't have it there, ready to use if I so much as sneezed the wrong way.

“Why are you-all willing to shoot me in broad daylight?” I asked.

“Because we can. No one gives a fuck about you, at least no one that matters. Lotta no-name niggas get shot and killed every day. It would suit me just fine to splatter your brains all over that car door window.”

“There's no need to do that.”

“We'll see.”

“I need to pull over right here and mail a letter.”

“Then do it slowly. You yank that wheel even a lick, I shoot.”

As I calmly pulled in front of the post office, he tightened the grip on his gun.

“Hand me the letter,” he said.

I reached inside my coat pocket. As soon as I pulled the envelope out, he snatched it away. He read the address. It was a letter to a nonexistent person in Los Angeles. I was just trying to see what I could get away with.

“You got another envelope you can use?” he asked, tearing it open.

“I can buy one inside.”

“Good.”

He began reading my note to a fictional college friend in which I asked how his family was doing and apologized for not staying in touch. I mentioned my intentions of moving to San Francisco and the possibility of our being able to visit each other more often.

“What's in your briefcase?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

He grabbed it from the backseat and began rummaging through the contents. He'd find nothing of interest unless he was suspicious of writing paper, pens, a few novels, and a bag of peanuts. But I took note. I'd have to be careful about what I kept in there from now on.

“What you got on you?” he asked, reaching over and patting me down, checking under my suit jacket.

“Nothing. You can search me from head to toe. There's nothing.”

“Let's go,” he said, putting his gun in the holster under his topcoat. I hopped out and he followed. There'd be no way of mailing Professor Gold or anyone else a letter anytime soon.

Fortunately, using the mail service to correspond with James wouldn't be necessary. He was there waiting to see me when we returned to the church. In fact, he headed our way before I'd even finished parking.

“Who is this?” asked Bingo, as James neared my car door.

“My best friend.”

“You better make him feel real comfortable with me. Make him feel like he can talk openly. He better not act the least bit suspicious of anything.”

“How am I supposed . . .”

“Figure it out,” he snapped, reaching under his coat.

There was no time left to discuss the matter, so I gave James a wave and rolled down my window.

“I ain't been here but a minute,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Them boys inside said you'd be right back.”

“You're back!” I said.

“Not for long. Nonstop travel, brother. And I see you still ain't shaved a lick. I gotta razor over there in the car.”

“It suits this cold weather,” I said, rubbing my scraggly beard.

“Who we got here?”

“Oh . . . this is Bingo Jones. Bingo, this is Reverend James Eason.”

“Good to meet you,” said James, reaching across my chest and shaking his hand. “Bingo, huh? All right. All right.”

Bingo didn't say a word. But his steeliness spoke to me loud and clear. It only confused James—that along with my unusually reserved demeanor. He probably expected me to hop out of the car and give him a hug. Instead, I just sat there, waiting for him to speak. He began looking up and down the street, then at the church.

“Looks like ya'll been mighty busy 'round here. My goodness it's done gone up quick. Praise God.”