The Titanic Plan (29 page)

“
You’re out of your mind, Mr. Haywood.”

Haywood broke into a huge grin as if Archie had just paid him the highest compliment possible. “That’s what they tell me. No matter, I always seem to get what I want.”

“
Not this time. Good evening again.” Archie started away again when Haywood blithely dropped, “Sue Mann.” Archie stopped cold and turned back to Haywood. “You’ve been asking about her,” Haywood said.

“
You know who she is?” Archie asked.

“
As a matter of fact, I do. But for me to give you that information, I need to get the information we’re interested in from you. Fair deal.”

“
You keep talking about a deal. What is the deal, Mr. Haywood? Will you tell me who killed Mick Shaughnessy?”

“
You will know who Sue Mann is, where to find her, and who is responsible for the death of Mick Shaughnessy. All of the above. You just have to help us a little bit.”

Archie looked at Emma and Haywood then slowly began shaking his head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t make deals with enemies of the United States.”

“
A shame,” Haywood shrugged. “But let me make this clear: we are hardly enemies of the United States.” Haywood reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded broadside. He slid it across the table toward Archie. “This is a little token of our appreciation for coming to see us. We figured you might be a little hard to convince so we decided to give you a bit of the puzzle you’re trying to piece together. To show we’re serious.”

Archie unfolded the cheaply printed broadside. It was for a lecture entitled
America’s Great Challenge
. The address at the bottom of the sheet said
Marshall’s Hotel, 129 West 53rd Street
. Haywood tugged an old engineer’s watch from his pocket, clicked it open, then said, “If you get there within the hour, you should discover something that will make this whole trip worthwhile.”

“
I’m sorry, as I told you, I’m not interested in your proposal, Mr. Haywood.”

“
Fine,” Haywood answered, then picked up the broadside and stuffed it into Archie’s coat pocket. “Go back to your clean, safe world, Butt. Ignorance is bliss. It would probably be too much for your system if you began to see who is really acting with honor and who is playing fast and loose with the truth.”

“
Good evening to both of you,” Archie said, taking a quick step away and scampering out of the bar. On the sidewalk he gulped a breath of fresh, cool air, flushing the café’s smoke from his lungs. He traipsed the two short blocks to the edge of Washington Square where several hansom cabs were lined up, waiting for late night fares. Archie climbed into one.

“
Where to?” the cab driver asked.

“
Penn Station,” Archie answered. The cab driver snapped the reins and his horse started clomping over the cobblestone street. Archie felt the broadside in his pocket and pulled it out, ready to toss it. In the dim half-light he reread the boldface of the lecture’s title: “
America’s Great Challenge
.” Archie leaned forward and showed the cab driver the paper. “Is this address nearby?”

“
You want to go there?” The driver seemed puzzled.

“
Yes, I think I may want to go there first.”

“
You sure?”

“
Yes. I’m sure.”

“
Whatever you’d like. But you know, that’s San Juan Hill.”

“
Cuba?”

“
Cuba?” the cab driver smirked. “Niggertown.”

CHAPTER 32

S
ometime in the future, New Yorkers would travel to 63rd Street near Amsterdam Avenue to attend a concert at
Lincoln Center.
Before a performance they would admire the majestic Chagalls hanging in the lobby of the new
Metropolitan Opera House
. On the evening of June 5, 1911, Archie’s cab bumped down a pot-holed, garbage-strewn street that would one day be center stage of the Met. The cab stopped a few blocks south, at an old five-story brownstone. “129 West Fifty-Third,” the cab driver said, “where no smart white man would ever set foot.”

Archie paid the fare. As the cab pulled away Archie noticed four young black men eyeing him suspiciously from across the street. He turned his attention to the massive brownstone. The building stood in contrast to the rest of the street – it was cleanly scrubbed and brightly lit, handsome amid a row of crumbling tenements.

“
Good evening, sir,” a young doorman said, trotting down the steps to greet Archie with a careful smile. “And welcome to the Marshall’s Hotel. Can I help you?”

Archie held out the broadside that Haywood gave him. “I was told this event might be of some interest to me.”

“
Well, there’s always something of interest at the Marshall’s. Step this way.” The doorman gestured toward the entrance. Archie hesitated. “Don’t be shy, sir.” The doorman took Archie’s arm, led him up the stairs and ceremoniously swung open the hotel’s wrought iron doors. The clamorous energy that buzzed through the hotel lobby hit Archie like a bracing spring gale. The vast room was as ornately decorated as any upscale New York lobby. Its dark hardwood floor gleamed under the layers of wax that coated it; the numerous plants – tall ferns and mini-palms – were green and lush; the walls were brightly painted in reds and blues, accented by gold leaf along the molding. And then there were the people: Negroes of all sizes and shades – tall and tan as caramel, dark and dusky as coal. The men were fastidiously dressed in pressed white shirts with stiff collars. They wore tight vests under stylish coats that were long and slim and hugged the contours of their bodies. The women seemed to glow with a radiance Archie had witnessed only once before, when he visited a backwoods church in Georgia. But here the sacrament of the Holy Ghost transmuted into something earthy and sensual, pulsating with a spirit that was far more of this world than of the next.

“
The lecture is down the hall,” the doorman said to Archie.

“
Yes,” Archie mumbled, completely captivated by the scene.

“
Let me show you the way.” The doorman guided Archie through the lobby to a hallway. Archie heard music coming down the long corridor. He recognized it – ragtime – but he had never heard it played like this: wild and looping, with a syncopation that was subtle and sophisticated, yet deliciously vulgar. He peeked through an open door into a dancehall chock full of men and women jittering to the pulsating rhythms. Most were colored, though scattered amid the sea of dark faces were several white women enwrapped in the arms of their Negro partners. Archie watched those couples, their dance steps synchronized, their bodies wedded close, undulating to the driving tempos like some ecstatic, feral beast.

“
The lecture is in our other room, sir,” the doorman said, gently tugging Archie’s arm.

“
Yes,” Archie replied absently. “The other room.”

The doorman led Archie across the way and opened the door to a second room. It was a large restaurant rearranged to serve as a lecture hall. The room was full of Negro men and women, mostly middle aged, and dressed in sensible suits and dresses. They were listening to a tall, distinguished black man who spoke with a charismatic passion. “…Yes, we hear calls to turn our attentions toward Mother Africa,” the man said in a rich, rumbling baritone voice. “Yes, we are beckoned by the birthplace of our proud and great race, called to return as a long lost orphan is summoned home. But, my friends, I believe however proud we should be of our noble heritage and the trials we have survived as a people, these beckoning calls from that great continent reach us only as echoes across the centuries. We hear them as romantic clarions of a great African culture that has, like a powerful tree, spread its seeds to take firm root in new soil.”

Archie was overwhelmed by the power with which the man spoke. He seemed familiar, but Archie didn’t recognize him as any famous Negro leader. Then the realization dawned: the man at the lectern was the same man he had seen with Belle at the
Liberal Club.

“
It is my fervent belief,” the man continued, “that the task of the responsible Negro in America today is not to look back to Africa, but to work for the day when the panoply of American races and cultures fully accepts and includes the colored man as it includes the Italian, the Irishman, the German and the Jew.

“
Many of you know I have had a fortunate life. I have been privileged, born in the North of free parents and sponsored to be one of the few of our race to attend a University. I was the first colored man to graduate from Harvard. I have been a professor, a lawyer, and honored to serve as Dean of the Howard University law school. I have also worked in government, serving overseas as a representative of America.

“
I talk of myself, not out of pride, but from the perspective of a Negro who has tasted some of the rewards America has to offer. Still, because of the color of my skin, I cannot eat at certain restaurants, I am not welcome to rest my weary head in certain hotels – the Marshall’s truly being the exception – and, despite my achievements, I cannot gain employment in the majority of respectable businesses, private or public.

“
It is my contention, my friends, that America can realize the great ideals it was founded on only when it taps the lifeblood of our colored race. Our great race must be recognized as what it is: a strong, beautiful tree in America’s vast and varied forest. And just as a great tree can offer cover and abundance, so our race can, has, is, and will continue to be, one of the great assets to this country. We are out of Africa, my brothers and sisters, but we are no longer
of
Africa. The American Negro is just that: American. It is here we were born and where we live; it is here we will fight until we gain full freedom and equality. And it is here, in this land, we will flourish. As the good Lord is my witness, I have dedicated the rest of my living breath to see that the Negro race will be accorded its proper status as good and proud Americans. Thank you.”

The man bowed his head slightly. The audience jumped to their feet and broke into wild, enthusiastic applause. The doorman was carried away and shouted, “Yessir, that’s right,” as he clapped. Archie too applauded and at the same time thought that, despite his color, of course Belle would be drawn to this obviously brilliant and dynamic Negro.

“
What’s his name?” Archie asked the doorman.

“
Richard Theodore Greener,” the doorman said, pronouncing the name carefully, “Ain’t he somethin’?”

“
Yes,” Archie agreed. “He is something.”

The applause died down. Greener was surrounded by a mob of admirers. He was comfortable within the tight crowd, modest without being meek, friendly without being overly solicitous. Archie was a little jealous. He knew that the only thing that held this brilliant man back from achieving even greater things was the color of his skin. Archie wanted to approach Greener and offer his own congratulations. But he felt out of place, like an interloper who had stumbled into a secret society that wasn’t meant for him.

“
I’d like to meet him,” Archie said to the doorman.

“
He’s right there,” the doorman answered, pointing to the front of the room.

“
I’m not sure that would be appropriate. Perhaps I can have a word with him in private.”

The doorman nodded. “Yes, sir. I understand.”

There was a flurry of “Good-byes” from the front of the room and Greener quickly exited through a rear door that went through the kitchen.

“
I’ll find out what room he’s in, sir. Perhaps you can have a word with him there,” the doorman said.

At the reception desk, Archie again grew intoxicated by the lobby’s spirited atmosphere.
If only the White House had this much energy, the President wouldn’t be in so much trouble
.

“
Room 271, sir,” the doorman said. “I’ll show you the way.”

“
That’s okay, I’ll go myself.”

“
As you wish. Up the stairs two flights and half way down the hall.”