Our Man in the Dark (3 page)

Count has created an amusement park full of funhouse mirrors, a place where she can indulge in make-believe and see limitlessly different versions of herself. Trying to decipher what is real must make her dizzy and any attempt to escape futile.

The allure of money and its hold are undeniable. I would love to strut for her and let her have a glimpse of the man I've been hiding away. I have tried persistence, but never money. I've never tried it because I've never had any. This is tragic considering that every day I track its movements. I know money's habits, I know where it breeds, where it rests, and where it feeds, but it remains elusive. Like a frustrated hunter, I lose its scent somewhere. I look around my meager surroundings. No sign of it here. My apartment is almost unbearable. A simple one-room box. I've made no attempt to decorate it. Part of me still senses that there are better things in store for me, and this is not where I want to leave my mark.

Money—no; but power, or something like it, may be within my reach. My idea for a march in Chicago makes sense. Martin, Abernathy, and Young would bring me into the hierarchy once they saw that I was thinking about the long-term advantages for the movement and not just the colorless duties required of my job. I'm just a hopeful pledge, but it could be my opportunity to join their exclusive fraternity. But obviously, I'm
being foolish to harbor such aspirations and optimism; Gant would never allow that to happen.

It'll be morning in a few hours, but I'm not quite drunk enough to sleep so I go to work on my own supply.

I walk my scotch over to the window and light a cigarette. Looking out into the Atlanta night, black with heat, I take a drag and notice that the smoke has taken on a new characteristic. Behind the charcoal and stale tobacco mingled with the bite of menthol is a fourth note: the earthy smell of hand-worn bills.

I sit at my desk, disheveled and nursing a hangover, when Gant calls me into the conference room. There's a strategy session with some volunteer law students and Martin's executive staff, and Gant needs me to pay attention while he dedicates himself to charming the room. As I stand, I feel gravity weigh on my brain.

Andrew Young, executive director, leans to his left and whispers something intently in Martin's ear, talking emphatically with his hands. Young has the good looks of a soul singer, and his loosened tie gives him an air of detached cool. Ralph Abernathy, SCLC secretary-treasurer, has the unfortunate luck of being seated in close proximity to Gant. Abernathy nods lazily, his hound dog cheeks swaying subtly as he struggles to appear interested while Gant recalls a story about running into Adam Clayton Powell, Jr., in the Caribbean. The rest of the group discusses the horrific attack on two people, a white woman and a colored man, killed savagely on the outskirts of the city.

Martin picks up that thread of conversation. “What do we know about those two?” he asks, addressing his staff. “Were they romantically involved?”

Abernathy ponders the question while Young gives his ready answer. “Not sure. The details are sketchy. The talk is that they were headed down here for Freedom Summer, but we should stay silent on it until we get more info.”

My mind drifts through a foggy attempt at understanding Candy and her unwarranted attachment to Count. Do civil rights activists hold any sway in afterhours juke joints? If she could see me now, here, with the
prominent leaders of the movement, challenging America to live up to its promise, she might aim her adoration at me, the more appropriate target.

My attention shifts back to the meeting when I hear Martin mention the president and the plans for an aggressive push for voter registration among Negroes in rural areas. Martin looks at me but quickly shifts his eyes when I nod at him. He leans back in his chair, unbuttons his collar, and puts his hands out in front of him as if preparing to frame an argument. He is about to speak when I interrupt him. “Since we are on the subject, I think it may be a good idea to have a march in Chicago. Housing and job discrimination are horrific there. We could organize and split costs similar to the March on Washington. CORE and NAACP could—”

Gant's eyes grow wide. “Estem, please . . .”

Martin gives me a pitying smile. Then Young jumps in. “We're not on that subject
exactly,
but the idea has merit,” he says, his voice trailing off.

“It's John Estem,” offers Gant.

“The idea is sound, John, but CORE and N-double-A-C-P are out of the question—that'll be a three-way fight for control. And we really can't afford to take on a solo project up North, especially in Chicago. With Daley's machine? No. We don't have the resources politically, and we definitely don't have them financially. . . . You'd think the bookkeeper would know that.”

Everyone laughs.

“Well, Mr. Young, actually, there is a surplus—”

“Hold on one second, Estem,” says Gant. “Could you start working on those contributors' statements of deductibility? I think we have it from here.”

My headache shifts to my pride. “Of course,” I move to rise, and my brace rattles as I stand. I know everyone has heard it, but suddenly I am invisible. I leave the conference room, turning to peek inside one last time. “There's a
surplus
?” Martin asks before I close the door.

I head back to my office and look at the form letter waiting to be sent to past contributors: “
Dear So and So . . . Thank you for your contribution. This letter is to remind you that your donation may be completely tax-deductible, but please check with your financial advisor . . .”

I open my desk drawer looking for names to match with donations,
when I notice a check. It has already been cleared by the bank. It's written out to one of the charter companies we use for buses. The signature line bears the imprint of Gant's rubber stamp. I am the one who applied it.

Gant taps on my door. It's partially open, and I reflexively tell him to come in before I realize that I am still holding the check with the delicacy and admiration of a stamp collector.

“Well, Estem, I guess you're full of surprises, huh?”

“I'm sorry, sir. I was out of line.” I place the check back in the drawer face up on top of everything so that I can see it.

“There's a pecking order you have to respect here, John. The architects don't want to hear design strategies from the bookkeepers. That sort of thing requires subtlety and finesse. You should learn it, Estem. I admire your ambition, but you have to trust me. I know how these things work.”

“I understand perfectly.”

“There's something else I need to talk to you about. I want to apologize for the other day.”

“Apologize? That isn't necessary.”

“No, it is. You were just doing your job. So I hope there are no hard feelings.”

“Sir, there were never any hard feelings.”

“You've got an eye for detail. I like that. Which is why I need your help.”

“Help? Of course.”

“First, I need you to close that account. Discretion is key here, Estem. We'll bring it into the fold
gradually.
Martin may tell them what they should do, but the balance sheet tells him what he can do.”

“I'll get right on it.”

“Estem, what I really need you to do—and this is very important . . .” He looks concerned.

“Yes, sir, I'm listening.” Maybe I've been too hard on him. He's finally realized that he can no longer neglect my talents and usefulness. He needs me.

“I need you to pick up my suit from the cleaners. Martin's giving a press conference at First Baptist. The pants should have a sharp crease and a one and one-quarter-inch cuff. Here's the ticket. Can I count on
you?”

“Why can't Susan take care of this?”

He looks down at his breast pocket, adjusts the fold of his handkerchief, then looks back at me, “This sort of thing needs a man's eye.”

While alone at night, I often hear a ringing in my ear. I thought it was just a case of tinnitus, but now I realize that it's the sound of some sort of internal alarm clock designed to snap me out of my complacency. What would it take to set up in Chicago? Nothing fancy, just an office and a few donations of food and clothing to impoverished children and the sullen men on the unemployment line. That would get some attention, wouldn't it? Then Martin, impressed with the groundwork I've laid, would see the pressing need to come to Chicago and assist me.

Gant leaves. I wait for his footsteps to become faint before I open my desk drawer. There is nothing suspicious about this check. Nothing at all. I have many more just like it. At some point, all of the checks written on behalf of the SCLC end up in front of me. This check has many brothers and sisters resting undisturbed in my office. I begin to wonder if they would be bothered by the addition of one more.

I turn the radio up. Otis Redding should be heard nice and loud. I think the purr of her engine adds a nice accompaniment. She's not brand-new, but she's new enough, and the strong smell of the leather seats has already prompted me to reminisce about how I acquired her.

The bank teller was a mousy little thing. Her eyes bounced between the check and my face long enough for the gentleman behind me to begin clearing his throat. She told me to wait a moment while she went up a set of stairs that led to an office with large windows for walls. It was a clear box with a dapper old man inside, who seemed to hover above us, deciding who did and did not receive their money. The mouse's white horn-rimmed glasses tilted toward me, as did the old man's double chin. I considered making a run for it—then I remembered that I don't run. A fast-paced limp is unforgettable, and I imagined I wouldn't have too much company in the lineup. I decided to stay put and learn the old man's verdict. She descended the stairs and returned to her station. She nodded, smiled, and said my name, “Mr. Estem,” with a tone of approval
that extended the sound of the last letter. I don't blame her for being concerned. Ten thousand dollars is a lot of money. I don't know if it was the amount of the check, the fact that I am a Negro, or a problematic combination of both. She was Negro as well, but no one judges like family.

The experience was far more pleasant when I bought my new car, a Cadillac Fleetwood, only slightly used. It was previously owned by a doctor who rarely drove. The salesman was a young Negro with a broad smile and processed hair that was parted on the left. He insisted upon calling me sir, but he wasn't pushy. He only laughed knowingly as I stared at an ad featuring a white-gloved woman seated in the front seat of their latest model. She stared back seductively as the tiltable steering wheel, shot with the blurred effect of motion, reminded me of a wagging tongue.

He talked about the engine and directed my attention toward the body and its aesthetics. The grille looked like a smile of menace or pleasure or both, and the car's long lines conjured the image of a woman's fully extended legs upon a sofa. Yeah, she could make it to Chicago just fine. I thumbed through the brochure, having already decided on a name for my new baby: Black Beauty.

She rides smooth as I drive down Auburn Avenue. I pass the Royal Peacock and slow to the speed of a parade float so that the patrons waiting to see Ike and Tina can see me first. I drive past the Palladium and La Carrousel and repeat my stunt, even though I know my final destination is Count's.

I pull up in front of Count's and notice the neon lights reflecting on the car's hood. A poster outside reads:
COUNT'S
,
FEATURING CANDY
. In the picture below, she covers half her face with a lavishly ornamented hand mirror, revealing only a heavily mascaraed eye that shines with lupine brightness.

My visit to the tailor has blessed me with a midnight blue suit: single-breasted and narrow-legged. I think the gray trilby adds some dapper mysteriousness. Inside, the shadows of the energetic crowd leap from wall to wall, and some men watch me with jealousy and admiration as I approach the bartender.

“Candy around?” I ask.

“Nope.”

“When will she be around?”

“Don't know.”

I reveal a roll of money, pull off a twenty, and hand it to the bartender.

“So, when will Candy be around?”

“I said, I don't know.”

Listen to those bar toughs chuckle.

“Keep it,” I say. “It's only money.”

Hours go by and still no sign of her.

I was a fool to call and tell her I'd be here tonight—she probably skipped out to avoid me. I think of Chicago, driving down Michigan Avenue in the Caddy with enough room for her to stretch out those long brown legs. But that's a fantasy; here's where reality sets in, making itself nice and comfortable. I feel ridiculous in this suit, drinking alone. I'm stupid for even thinking that she'd come with me. Like so many nights before, I pick up my bruised pride and start for home, but this time I'm stopped by a vision.