Dark Stain (34 page)

Darton’s face was beaming approval of his own analysis. “Besides, Bill, if we get rid of the girl, we run the risk of the police or the F.B.I. becoming a real danger. The sensation the press has been working up would force a full inquiry. Good detective work might trace a murder back to Aden’s men, to Aden himself, to the white couple I’ve got out there. We can’t risk killing her.”

Bill thought: Now he’s worrying about Aden; he didn’t worry about Aden when he hinted I blackmail Aden the last time; now he’s on the make; he’s got authority; he’s the gauleiter, the bastard. Bill hadn’t interjected any comments. What was there to say? Darton was in charge, the bastard, the red bastard, spouting a new theory to match his new position. “I guess you’re right,” Bill said.

“I forgot to show you the leaflets.” Darton left the table, walked to the wall. There were piles of green leaflets tied in stacks, a few loose leaflets on the floor. He picked one up, brought it over to Bill. “We printed one hundred thousand of these.”

Bill glanced at the leaflet. “This isn’t the poem that woman read.”

“No. We printed fifty thousand of the poem. Read it.”

“Proud of your work?”

“Read it.”

Bill lowered his head, reading:

This leaflet was signed, “The United Negro Committee.” Bill smiled up into Darton’s face. “The cops won’t let you hand it out. Or the poem either. This calls for an insurrection.”

“That so? We’ll manage. I’ve given Baumgartner full instructions. Aden’s men’ll call for every damn leaflet tonight.”

“How’ll you hand ‘em out? Chuck ‘em from the roof tops?

“They’ll manage. We’ll flood Harlem tonight and tomorrow.”

“I wish you luck.”

“Let’s see Aden. We’ll get my car. First, though, we’ll have some lunch. A good lunch’ll fix you up. Damn you, you look pooped. Didn’t your wife let you alone last night?”

Aden was glad to see them. He was a man of fifty, hooked of nose and thin of nostril, with a black mustache and a pointed short black beard. He wore a round red cap on his grizzled hair. “Come in, gentlemen,” he invited. Bill wondered if Aden was a Mohammedan. He wanted to ask Aden. Christ, he thought; this was the queerest day. Maybe Aden was Haile Selassie; Aden had the same hooked-nosed face as the Lion of Judah, the kike of the kikes.

Aden ushered them into a room with a dozen straight wooden chairs lined against one wall. There was a big mahogany desk without any papers or pencils on it. Framed photographs hung everywhere. Aden pulled two of the chairs forward, then seated himself at the desk.

“You don’t know Bill Johnson by name,” Darton said. “But he’s the contact to Big Boy.”

Aden smiled. “Big Boy has painted your portrait in glowing colors. I should have recognized you, Mr. Johnson.” He spoke with an actor’s flair for the flowering word.

“I hope you have enough influence to calm Big Boy,” Bill said. “I saw Big Boy this morning. He’s really upset.”

“I know. I have sufficient influence.” Aden accented
sufficient
as an actor might. His red cap no longer seemed so stupid to Bill. The cap, the ringing voice, the bearded Haile-Selassie-ish appearance were, he guessed, useful devices to impress Negroes. The red cap was the color of another life; the ringing voice showed the salvation road.

“He was very upset,” Bill said. “He called me ‘South. You South,’ he said.”

Aden waved a slim black hand. “I would not concern myself with Big Boy’s moods. The bigger the ox the more readily managed.” And he laughed, his teeth very white, his beard seeming pointier than ever.

Darton began to outline the problems brought up by the Buckles girl; the distribution of the leaflets in preparation for Monday. Bill yawned, studied the photographs on the wall behind Aden. They were all photographs of colored men, Gandhi, Juarez, the Mikado, Chiang Kai-shek, Haile Selassie, Frederick Douglass, African princes, Indian maharajahs, Japanese admirals. Bill only recognized Haile Selassie, Gandhi, and Aden’s own photograph. He lit a cigarette, smoked, examined the photographs again and paid no attention to what Darton and Aden were saying.

“Harlem is ready for its day of judgment,” Aden said. Bill began to listen. Aden timed each word. “The Negroes are confused and angry, Mr. Darton. In the main, I approve of your plans. There is one exception.”

“What is that?”

“The matter of the girl. Permitting her to ‘escape’ would be dangerous, insofar as my people are concerned.”

Darton was frowning. “How’s that?”

“Marian Burrow, for example, has lost her morale. The police have intimidated her. If the girl ‘escapes,’ Burrow would be even more unsure of herself. After all, she telephoned us about the girl. Her morale is bad. Miller has spoken to her twice — ”

“What for?” Bill asked. “Damn that Jew!” His mouth was ugly, the lower lip pushing the upper into a crooked line. It was the Jew cop who’d jinxed him all along.

“We’ll give her some money,” Darton said. “Give her enough to get out of the city.”

Aden inclined his head. “I would like to discuss Petrie. As I told you yesterday, Petrie is one of my most devoted followers. Prior to sending him up to the H.E.L., I instructed Petrie carefully. I explained the Buckles girl was a spy, an enemy of the Negro people. Petrie believes me implicitly. He has been with the girl ever since — ”

“We’ll give him a bonus, too,” Darton interrupted.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Mr. Darton, you don’t understand. Petrie believes this girl is a dangerous enemy. If I consent to release her, he will be puzzled — ”

“Look at it this way,” Darton argued. “We get rid of the girl. Then what? Every detective in town and the F.B.I.’ll be on our necks. Why can’t you tell Petrie that we have to secure ourselves? He’s been out there. He’s seen the white couple I’ve got there. He must have doubts as it is — ”

“No,” Aden said. “I explained to him that the white couple were good whites.”

“Good whites?”

Aden smiled. “As you and Mr. Johnson are good whites.”

“Come again,” Darton said.

“We regard Hitler as a good white man. I am fond of Hitler.” Aden’s teeth gleamed in his black beard. He held up one hand above the desk. “Any white man who can arouse the whites to slay each other in such quantities must win my friendship.” The face wasn’t stately now, the eyes were predatory. “If only another Hitler arises after this war, I predict that the colored peoples of the world will come into their own. And it will not be necessary for a colored leader to cooperate with good white men like yourself, Mr. Darton, or your friend.” He folded both arms across his chest. He had made his point and he knew it. Bill was sickened. He couldn’t trust himself to look at Aden. Christ! he thought; the South had the one tried-and-true patent for treating all these niggers. So that was what this nigger in a red hat was praying for. More Hitlers, more white wars, until the day came when the niggers’d raise the banner of a nigger world. The whole damn organization was crazy; Hayden was playing with T.N.T. Use-the-blacks-to-destroy-the-blacks was T.N.T.; God knew there was only one way, the Ku Klux way: To wipe out the niggers like the black rats they were. To smash them everywhere. In Japan. In India. In the U.S.A. Burn them out. Reduce them before it was too late.

Darton was saying, “I see your point. But the girl’s release will get us the kind of propaganda that you want. As I see it, her story in the press will be a setback to all those whites and Negroes agitating for Negro and white unity — ”

“I oppose such unity!” Aden said angrily. “Of course! Negroes must learn that the Ten Commandments of the white man, the Thou-Shall-Nots were put over on them as part of the Uncle Tom religious plot to hold them in slavery. He who kills the most gets the most.”

“For the time being,” Darton said. “We agree on this unity question. We’re fellow travellers.” And he grinned.

“When would you release the girl?”

“Tomorrow. Sunday. In time for Monday’s headlines. There’s no argument between us about the money. Why not send Petrie a wire? Let him come here. Johnson and I will drive out — ”

He pulled copies of the two leaflets from his pocket and gave them to Aden. “Your men can pick up the bundles at the shop. Any time tonight.”

Aden fingered the leaflets but he didn’t read them. “Otherwise,” Darton said. “I’m not going to see you for awhile. At least, not until after the riot. I may repeat myself but you understand — ”

For the first time Aden spoke nervously. “The riot — Many Negroes will be hurt — ” He no longer was acting.

“Negroes must learn that he who kills the most gets the most,” Darton quoted but in so low a voice Bill hardly heard him. Darton’s eyes were glowing brighter than a drunkard’s. His hairy hands seemed a-crawl with energy. They weren’t still a minute. They tapped on the desk. They closed into fists.

They unclenched. They knotted and dropped at his sides, lifted to his knees. Bill was fascinated by those hands. Those hands had somehow lifted Monday into the room. Those muscular hands, it seemed to Bill, had already put the stolen trinket in the Negro boy’s fingers, had already choked the cry of anger out of the Negro customers, had already smashed the first plate glass. “I may repeat myself but you will understand. The 1935 riot was unplanned. The hearse was the crowning coincidence — ”

“I’m not sure of the hearse,” Aden said.

Bill listened, staring at Darton’s ceaselessly moving hands. This long day, this long day, Bill thought.

“I’ve thought it over,” Aden was saying. “A half dozen of my people in the store will be enough.”

They rehearsed the details. Two of Aden’s followers would locate a Negro child unaccompanied by anyone. They would seize the child and shout that they had caught him stealing. When the assistant manager, or the manager appeared, they would give him the candy that they would claim the child had stolen. The manager would believe the two adults. “The initial action,” Darton said, “is simple. The manager leads the kid away. Your people begin to yell that a Negro kid’s being attacked. The store’ll be wrecked in a half hour. The time should be as close to noon as possible.”

“I’m not sure of the hearse,” Aden said again. “I’m against a hearse. I’m against pickets. There are too many police in Harlem. Any hearse — pickets would be arrested.”

“We can cut the pickets. And I can manage the hearse without your help.”

“How?”

“I’ll hire a hearse to drive up and down One Hundred and Twenty-Fifth Street. Money’ll fix the undertaker.”

“You risk having the undertaker later describe the man to whom he rented his hearse,” Aden reminded him.

“It’s worth the risk. Your followers are going to work up hundreds of Negroes in the store. I want them to see the hearse when they leave the store. Your followers will yell the hearse has come for the boy. It’s an important detail. We need it to set our riot off. How much money do you need?”

“Three thousand.”

Bill gazed at Darton’s living hands. Only the hands were real to him, the fingers long and powerful, the brown hairs curling like tiny grasses on the wrists. Only the hands were real. The details of the riot, the arguments, the photographs on the walls, the red cap — these were all properties as unreal as the bills Darton was now counting out on the desk.

“Aden has a one track mind,” Darton said to Bill as they walked down Lenox Avenue. “He’ll do anything to stop nigger-white unity. He wants a riot as much as us. A riot’s rehearsal for the global race war that’ll follow this war. That’s his opinion.”

“He’s dangerous. It’s dangerous using these bastards.”

“Perhaps.”

“What’s his background?”

“He began as an African nationalist. ‘Africa for the Africans.’ In 1934 he met the Filipino, De Guzman. De Guzman’s in jail now but he was fairly effective as Filipinos go.”

“Never heard of him.”

“De Guzman worked for the Jap Black Dragon Society. He organized the Pacific Movement of the Eastern World here in the states. Hell, let’s forget it. Bill, do you ever get depressed? I do sometimes. Suppose all our work ends up with the world’s niggers and yellows on top? Hell! Let’s drive out to Long Island and see our girl friend.” He laughed suddenly, immoderately. “Have you seen her picture in the papers? It’s an attractive bitch.”

“Are you — ”

“Think I’d let a nigger rape a white woman?”

But Darton took his time about getting started. “We’ll wait a few hours until Aden’s nigger gets his telegram and blows out. How about a drink?” They went into a bar on Seventh Avenue. The bartender was a Negro, the customers were all Negroes. Hostile eyes followed the two white men. Darton led the way to a red leather booth in the rear. They sat down, empty booths on both sides. Darton whispered. “Every white face belongs to a detective in one of these places. Unless you wear a brassiere.”

“What’s the idea anyway?”

Darton roared. “The hell with you.”

“You’re crazy.” Bill’s nerves stretched thinner with excitement. This was the reckless Darton whom he had talked to the night he had called for the valerian bombs. He blinked at the Negro waiter marching up to them.

“What’ll it be?” the waiter asked.

“Rye highball, ginger ale,” Darton said.

“Same.” As the waiter left, Bill added, “Why did you come here? Don’t hand me any of our highbrow explanations either.”

Darton poked his forefinger into Bill’s chest. “We must identify ourselves with the tempo of the times we live in.”

Bill laughed. “I never heard rape called tempo before.”

“We’ll go out to Long Island — ”

“Leave me out.”

The waiter returned with a tray. He was a tall Negro with a freckled yellowish skin. He fixed their drinks, eased away. Darton resumed the conversation. “I don’t like to drive alone. You’re coming! Why don’t you want to come?”