Our Man in the Dark (18 page)

“Someone like communists,” I offer.

“Yes,” he says nodding, “like communists.”

There is a moment when nothing is exchanged between the three of us except looks and the occasional blink.

“Since your duties have changed somewhat,” says Mathis, “we'll be willing to increase your stipend by two hundred dollars.” Mathis goes over to a file cabinet and opens the top drawer.

“Wait,” says Strobe. “I want to give it to him.” Strobe withdraws an envelope from the drawer and walks over to me. “Here,” he says, “take the money.”

I want to tell him where to put that money, but then I remember that most of that money is Count's money. I take the money from him and stand to leave.

“'Atta boy,” Strobe says as I walk out.

I get in my car and toss the envelope in the passenger's seat. I need that money, but I haven't decided if Mathis and Strobe will get much in return. I'm in no position to judge Martin, nor would I. Preachers and women of loose morals tend to have an affinity for each other, and Martin is no exception. I hate to admit it, but Strobe had a point when he referred to the “weaknesses” that Martin and I share. Ever since our late-night discussion, I felt a connection with him. It's pleasing to know that someone else has seen it as well.

Martin and I had run out of things to talk about that night. It was past
2:00 a.m. by then, and I'm sure the novelty of chatting with the help had worn off. The conversation had grown stale, as it so often does among men. When that happens, the only thing left to discuss is women. But there would be no macho banter. His mood had already retreated to a dark place.

I looked at his face. Guilt and shame had resurfaced. He appeared as troubled as he had a few hours before.

“A wife can either make or break a husband,” he said, but not to me. I was just one of the many shadows in that room. “Part of me acknowledges that I allow myself to indulge in my weaknesses because of her strength—when I am weak, I have her strength to fall back on. When I am falling, she is standing. She understands sacrifice. She understands the importance of the struggle and that all of its participants—those involved directly and indirectly—must accept a higher level of discomfort and disappointment than they would normally. She has to anticipate a high degree of sadness and pain—and accept it.” His thumb absently traced the bottom of his wedding ring. He smiled to himself for a moment and then let out a sound that combined a sigh with a laugh. “I knew things had gotten out of hand when President Kennedy called me out to the Rose Garden, presumably to discuss my suspected association with communists. However, the conversation quickly shifted from socialism to sex. He asked me about rumors regarding my sexual habits and could I confirm or deny them. The irony that my interrogator was John F. Kennedy was not lost on me. So I said, ‘Mr. President, I'll be happy to answer that, but first, promise me that you'll address the rumors I've heard regarding your sexual habits. Can you confirm or deny them?'”

He laughed, so I laughed too. I felt embarrassed when he suddenly became serious again.

“It's sad that that was the last time I saw him alive. I've often viewed sex as an escape from the pressures of the world, especially the movement. I am by no means a perfect man. I have looked at the gifts that God has granted me and spat!” His eyes became wide, bright, and lit with a prophetic fire that could have belonged to John Brown or John the Baptist. “Do you see, brother? There is a dark beast that hides in us all. No one is exempt—no one. The beast is strong . . . but he is a
fool.
And I have embraced the struggle to suppress it. I have made a conscious effort to
accept the challenge when he surfaces, and wrestle him to the ground as Jacob did with the angel.”

A startled look seized his face, as if he didn't expect to see me sitting across from him. Without saying anything, he stood up and put on his jacket and hat. I stood up as well. Both of us seemed to be avoiding eye contact. He walked ahead of me and hit the light switch. His office went dark, but the light was on in the hallway, so I could still see him in silhouette.

He turned his head just enough to line up his chin and shoulder. “Most people let the beast in them run amok, John. And they merely shrug their shoulders at the damage left in its wake. America has let that beast run wild. I may not be morally perfect, but we are on the right side of morality. We need to remind America of its moral obligation to accept the struggle within itself. It's not one fight, but many fights that need to be fought. It's America's duty to live up to its promise, in practice and principle, and to accept that challenge whenever it is presented.”

I nodded, but he did not see me.

My nights have been restless and without event. I still have no idea what has become of Candice or Lester. I've been avoiding Count, and he hasn't sought me out. That makes me nervous. I decide to talk to him in person before my absence makes me look guiltier than I am.

I arrive there early, before they open for the night. Before walking in, I center myself, take a deep breath, and let my eyelids droop slow and heavy. I run my hand over the bulge coming from my breast pocket. I hope it isn't too noticeable. I've brought protection just in case Count gets out of hand. Maybe I can reason with him and appeal to an aspect of his nature that is not atrophied and hardened.

I feel there is something amiss when Count's men let me enter without difficulty or hostility—the closest thing to hospitality for them. I smile, but no one smiles back. Count's henchmen, Claudel and Otis, have taken a defensive stance. Count, seated at one of his tables, simply leans back in his chair. Then I see Lester. He acknowledges me with a nod and then turns back to the task that I have interrupted.

“Like I was sayin',” Lester says to Count, “you need to leave Candy alone. She's mine now.”

“Listen to this shit.” Count looks at me and laughs. “She ain't yours. The reason you have her is because
we
let you borrow her, motherfucker.” Count winks at me. “Ain't that right, little man?”

I'm scared—no, embarrassed—for Lester. He has no influence outside of the ring. Count may have inferred that we are on the same team, but he's the master of a sport in which he's the only player.

“Me and him don't like you comin' in here all ungrateful and whatnot. Especially when your big dumb ass is only alive 'cause I allow it.”

“She's with me now 'cause she wants to be mine. But she's afraid you'll stand in her way. She wants to open up her heart to me, but she's sacred of
what you'd do to her.”

“Goddamn, this dumb bastard is a riot. Did you practice this shit? Did you stare at your stupid face in the mirror, cryin' and snivelin', ‘She want to be with me but she scared.'” Count laughs, then moves his hand from under the table, revealing a pistol that's been aimed at Lester this whole time. “You damn right she's scared. But she ain't scared of what I'm gonna do—she scared of what she gonna do without
me
. How she gonna take care of herself? You? A washed-up boxer? I feed her. I clothe her. I take care of her like she's my child. You just babysitting, nigger.”

Lester takes a moment to weigh the logic of what Count has said.

Claudel and Otis seem as if they are ready to make a move, but Lester gives them a brief look that promises a lifetime of pain. Lester tries the same look on Count, but he does not seem intimidated. More like hungry and aroused.

“You and me already been through somethin' like this before,” Count says. “It didn't work with Etta and it ain't gonna work now. You know how this ends, Lester—with a win for me and you kissin' the canvas.”

“You just stay away from Candy. Just let her be.” Lester turns suddenly to me. He startles me, and I step back, putting too much weight on my bad leg. I almost fall, but he grabs my collar—for menace or support, I cannot tell.

“Mr. Estem. Keep him away from her. I know you care for her, even though she don't want you like she want me. There's still a place in her heart for you.” He grabs my shoulders, straightening me up. “I really am sorry 'bout all this,” he whispers. He gives Count one more threatening look and walks out.

Claudel and Otis relax their shoulders in relief.

Count places his pistol on the table and stares at me.

I lean against the bar, still littered with beer bottles, shot glasses, and dirty ashtrays. “Well,” I say smiling, “at least Lester didn't take a dive . . . not exactly. I tried to talk some sense into the man before he threw away his life by crossing you, but he's hard to get through to, as you can see. I thought you should hear it from me before you heard it somewhere else.”

Count sits quietly with his index fingers and thumbs forming a triangle. His men look at each other and smile.

“Just thought you should know,” I say again.

“You thought
I
should know?”

For some reason, I nod a little too eagerly.

“There isn't a thought in that peanut head of yours that I don't allow to be there.”

“Tell 'em, Count!” shouts Claudel or Otis, I can't tell which.

Count stands up and begins to unbutton his shirt. “When I give you a list of chores, you'd better check 'em off like a good little boy.”

Again from the goons, “Yeah, like a good little boy.”

“Look at my back.” He removes his shirt and shows me a patchwork of scars across his shoulder blades. “A white man did this to me when I was a boy. Caught me tryin' to steal chickens to feed my family. I still thank him for it, though. Changed my life. 'Cause that's when I learned to stop tryin' to make it in his world—I learned I have to make my own. You are in my world now. I'm a
hunter,
and boy, you are scarin' the game away. You know what that means? You takin' food out of my mouth! You causin' me to starve. And starvin' . . . that's a
slow
death. Is that what you want? You want me to die a slow death?” He folds his shirt neatly on the table. He then grabs his pistol and cocks it at my temple. “Is that what you want? For me to die slow? 'Cause I don't wish that on you. I want you to die quick as hell.”

“Count, I apologize. I apologize.” He takes the gun away from my temple and pushes me with his free hand. Hard. My back hits the floor.

“Who do you think you're talkin' to?”

He answers his own question with a kick to my ribs.

“If you did somethin', you damn sure did it for yourself.”

A heel in my abdomen.

“I take you in, try to show you the ropes. I lent you my girl and she comes back loaned out to somebody else!”

I roll over. The contents of my breast pocket put pressure on my chest. I remember what I've brought for him in case something like this might happen. I turn over, yielding something that should quell all this violence.

“I still have your money,” I groan, holding up the swollen envelope the agents had given me.

Count slaps the envelope out of my hand. Bills scatter everywhere like falling leaves. “It's all my money,” he says as he steps on the hand that
had held the envelope.

I receive a stomp to my braced leg. It's not from Count, which I would have accepted, but from one of his minions, which I cannot accept.

“Get up,” Count tells me.

I think about that night in the alley while I struggle to my feet. I made a promise to myself after that first encounter: given the opportunity, I will hit back—and hit harder.

“Are you Otis?” I ask the one who kicked me.

“Nah, I'm Claudel, faggot.”

I grab a beer bottle off the bar and I swing it across Claudel's head. That first swing causes a dull thud like a slab of meat hitting a butcher's block. Claudel is dazed and stumbles back. The second swing causes the bottle to crack. He falls to his knees. The bottle breaks in half on the third swing, forming sharp, jagged edges. I continue to swing. Swings four through ten slice his face; lacerations drool blood.

Otis points his pistol at me, but Count fires a warning shot with his own gun.

“Let it be, Otis,” says Count.

My foe lies defeated. I stop when the blood comes. Claudel writhes on the floor and holds out a pleading hand, while the other tries to stop his face from bleeding. I'm in a mind-numbing haze of exhilaration. Never have I felt
this.
An overwhelming feeling of contentment brings me to tears.

Count comes to me, embraces me, and kisses me on my forehead.

“Welcome home, little brother. Welcome home.”

I sit at the bar with Count and sip whiskey to stiffen my leg and loosen the knots kicked into my stomach.

The rag Claudel holds to his face is already soaked with blood.

“That ain't right,” Otis whispers to Count, “sittin' there havin' drinks with the man after what he just did to Claudel.”

“I don't need you to tell me what's right, Otis. Now go take Claudel to
have his faced looked at.”