Our Man in the Dark (9 page)

I've come this far. Further than anyone thought. Smarter than anyone knew. The agents will tighten the screws. So will Count. But I know I'll come out on top. I'm already feeling better.

I pull up to my apartment and notice a large white Buick parked across the street. I squint at the driver's seat, but it's vacant. I get out and place my hand on Black Beauty's hood. I feel the warmth of her engine. I head for my apartment, but I am not alone. I look at my small porch, darkened by the awning above it. Someone is waiting for me.

I'm surprised to see Count going solo, and not accompanied by his men. Depending on the news he brings, I may be happy to see him.

“Let's have a talk,” he says, motioning to his car waiting across the street.

“I didn't know you worked so fast,” I say, once we are inside.

He doesn't respond.

“I'm sorry to say, I don't have your money yet . . . but soon.”

Count interlocks his fingers and gives his knuckles a loud crack. “Maybe it's a setup, I say to myself. Maybe I go in there and somebody's waiting for me. Maybe you told this somebody that he shouldn't be so welcoming.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and withdraws the envelope intended for Gant. “Maybe there's a finger inside this envelope and it's pointing at me. The way you been eyeing my girl—this would be the perfect chance to get me out of the way. But no, that ain't your style. First you have to make use of your enemies, then you get rid of them. For you it's more fun that way. So forgive me for invading your fucking privacy by taking a peek.”

“That's fine, Count. I understand. A man in your position should take precautions. I hope your fears have been abated.”

“‘Forget about the money,'” he reads. “‘They're on to us.'” He folds the letter down the middle and looks at me. “I really start thinking now,” he says. “Was Little Man putting pressure on somebody and now he's backing off? No, that can't be it. 'Cause then where do I fit? Then I realize,
no
, somebody is putting the screws to
him.
You're trying to convince somebody that the man they answer to wants to call it off. But that's your mistake. You don't really know how their game is played. Whoever they are, this probably ain't their style. You're just pointing the finger at yourself. ‘Forget about the money'—man, you been watching too many
movies.”

He's right, and he may have saved me from embarrassment. What the hell was I thinking? The letter was lacking in so many aspects, but above all, in credibility and authenticity. I have no idea how communists and homosexuals conspire with each other.

“So why don't you tell me what's really going on?” asks Count.

I struggle with the idea of telling him about the money and Gant. I'm not sure what to do, but that lasts only briefly.

“I stole a bit of money from work. Now my queer boss is putting some pressure on me.”

“Queer?”

“Yes. Communist too.”

“No shit. A queer. How much?”

“Twenty.” I've overstated the amount that has me on tilt, but I think I know where Count is headed.

“Goddamn. Either I'm right about you or I'm really fucking wrong.”

“They want the money back. They don't know it's me for certain, but they are beginning to look my way.”

“They already got the cops involved?”

“Certainly. That's why they were in the alley the other night. They wanted to bring me in for questioning.”

“You cooperate? Make a deal? Tell them you'd get the goods on somebody big if they'd look the other way?”

“Of course not. I played dumb.”

Count looks out of the window and lets his rough voice leak out. “Exactly, motherfucker—you
played
dumb.”

“Look, the money wasn't exactly clean to begin with.”

“Okay. Now I see. You needed a dirty hand to give it a wash. What happened to the money?”

“Spent some of it on women . . . at your place . . . so you already have a cut.”

“Hey, man, you can keep the guilt trip. Ain't no such thing as free pussy.”

“Then there's the car, of course.”

“Guess that explains the new Caddy. Hell, even I don't have a Cadillac,” he says almost to himself. “What's your story, man? How does an accountant get himself in this kind of shit? You think I'd be doing this if I'd gone to college?”

I don't have an answer for him, so I just look out of the window at the green stucco of my building, still luminous in the night, like the aftermath of a lab experiment gone awry.

“Look, young blood, this type of aggravation is bullshit. Cops and queer bosses.
I'll
give you the money.”

“Count, that's very generous of you, but I can't.”

“Generous, my dick. You
will
pay me back. With interest. Fifteen points,” he says.

“Fifteen points?”

“I know that's strong medicine, but it'll go down easier than you think. We could learn a lot from each other. I'm looking for associates that are more . . .”

“Stimulating,” I offer.

“Right. Stimulating. Don't get me wrong—Candy's no knucklehead, but she ain't exactly gonna cure cancer. Claudel and Otis have to take turns breathing, so that the other can chew gum.”

“Claudel and Otis?”

“The gentlemen that roughed your ass up.”

So those are their names. I wonder which one is which.

“It's not every day that I get to rub shoulders with an honest-to-God white-collar professional. Now, your collar ain't so white, but it'll do. I'll even let you work some of that money off by doing me some favors.” He beams a wild grin at me that sends a chill down my back.

I think Count is finished, so I make an ill-considered move to get out of the car.

“I'm not done with you yet,” he says looking at his jeweled pinky, gleaming even in the darkness of the front seat. “There's something I want to show you.”

We drive for a while. Eventually, we come to a neighborhood that looks as if it were designed by one of those Xerography machines. All the houses appear to be the same single-story structure, a hodgepodge of
brick and aluminum siding.

“Count, what are we doing in Bozley Park?”

“I know what you're thinking—two spooks at night in Bozley Park, that definitely means trouble. But don't get nervous. We won't be long. I just brought you here to paint the picture. Look out the window. Look around you. What do you see?”

Bozley Park consists of ten or fifteen houses. None of these people are wealthy by any means. Blue-collar workers live here: plumbers, welders, janitors who call themselves maintenance managers, and the like—not upper-crust professionals. I see two posts, black and white, sunken into the earth, and fortified with cement. A clear symbol of the barrier between the races. Just one block over—just past those posts—is Bozley
Place.
That's where the Negroes live.

“Now imagine black families living in these houses, with their black children playing in the yard.”

“That's ridiculous,” I say. “It's still too segregated.”

He smiles at that, “Whoever heard of one of Dr. King's men not having any faith? I know all about Bozley Park, and I think it's time they came face to face with integration—and you're gonna help me do it.”

Favors
, he says. Do I deserve such generosity?

Within a few days, Count makes good on his offer. Thanks to him, I've returned the money and kept the Caddy. Now that I'm indebted to him, I can empathize with Candy's situation. He's not shy about giving you exactly what you ask for and being perceived as your savior. It gives the illusion that he is protective of you, that there is something in you worth saving. When his true nature appears, brutal and mercenary, you'll be blinded by the memory of him coming to your rescue.

However, for now, I'll embrace the relief. I enter Gant's office with an unusual jauntiness, as if I've pulled off a job well done.

“Mr. Gant, those funds are now available.” I give him a slight deferential bow of the head.

“Good, Estem, good. Forgive me for saying so, but I was beginning to get worried. Especially with that beautiful new Cadillac of yours.”

We both laugh.

“How many buses can you get for a Cadillac?” I joke.

Gant smiles. “Five? Ten? I have no idea. I'll probably never know. I'm out of the bus business.”

“Sir?”

“Yeah, looks like I got ahead of myself with that bus idea. We're not going ahead with it.”

My jaw narrows.

“Guess I made the mistake of thinking above my pay grade. This place has a way of setting you straight. But I'm sure we'll find other uses for the money.” He rests his forehead in his hand while massaging the temples. “Estem, how do you feel about your job with us?” he asks without looking at me.

It takes me a moment to respond. I'm too preoccupied with what has happened, and wondering if I could have anticipated it. Gant removes his
hand and looks at me, so I give him an answer. “Yes. I'm very happy here, sir.”

“Are you sure? Something about you seems so . . . unsatisfied. Are you unsatisfied, Estem?”

“I wouldn't put it that way, exactly.”

“You strike me as being ambitious, Estem. Is that fair to say?”

“I guess every man, to a certain degree—”

“It's the ambitious ones that you have to watch. They can be pulled away by so many dark forces. You understand what I mean by dark forces, don't you?”

“I can't say with certainty.”

“It's a matter of allegiance, Estem. It's about knowing whose side you're on when everybody appears to be on the same side. I'm sure those knuckleheads at the NAACP and CORE would love to have any of our people.”

“Yes, sir, I'm sure they would.”

“Estem, I've decided to give you a promotion—make you my right-hand man. Not that you aren't already. But you'll have a new title: assistant financial director. It has a nice ring to it, don't you think?”

I feel a headache coming on.

“You won't be receiving more pay, unfortunately. As you know, we just don't have it in the budget. But you will have greater responsibility in the SCLC. More weight will rest on your shoulders. I'll need you to accompany Martin and me on a trip to LA. Are you game?”

At this point I can only nod.

After work, I head home, already feeling the burden of my new thankless title. I go about the business of removing my brace when I realize I badly need a drink. However, not badly enough to go through the ordeal of putting my brace back on. I hop over to my refrigerator to see what I have: just beer, which I don't like all that much. Staring at the beer, I begin to realize that when I thought I needed a drink, what I really needed was a
woman. Not just for the evening, but for an undetermined extended stay. Someone to help me with my brace. Someone to complain to about my promotion in title only. Someone—

My phone rings. It's Mathis.

“John, we shouldn't have to contact you.”

“I apologize.”

“Meet us in five minutes.”

His tone is all-business, and it makes me slightly nervous. I feel that my performance during our first meeting was a failure, and I worry that I will let them down again. I resign myself to the notion that I must not reveal my apprehension and I should always be direct and forthcoming.

I meet them at their office. The somber atmosphere is intimidating.

“What do you have for us?” asks Mathis.

“I've been promoted,” I tell him. “I'm thinking about getting a larger apartment.”

Strobe takes a step toward me. Mathis raises his hand.

“Congratulations,” says Mathis. “It seems the year has been good to you. What do you have for us concerning communists?”

“Nothing at the moment. But once I return from my trip, it's possible that things might pick up.”