The Strivers' Row Spy (22 page)

“Are you gonna read much longer?” asked Loretta, setting her book on the end table.

“No, I'm finished for the night.”

“I hope your mother and aunt are adjusting to their new little home. Ginger and I had such a fantastic time moving them in, and the four of us took daily long walks around the grounds. The maples looked more beautiful than ever. And your mother told me she intends to take that walk every day.”

“That would be good for her.”

“The entire trip was a joy, hopping from train to train in order to get to some remote town on time just so we could then catch another connecting train to get to the next city. Is that confusing enough?”

My mind was elsewhere, but still I answered: “Yes.”

“But I'm dying to show you Canada now. So picturesque. Once we left Quebec City, the trip really became a visual odyssey. It was an event just trying to figure out how those engineers managed to carve through so much thick, woodsy, mountainous terrain in order to stretch the railroad all the way to Halifax.”

“We must go. I'd love to see it. Which town did you enjoy the most?”

“Believe it or not, it wasn't in Canada. It was Portland, Maine, of all places. We passed through it on our way back to New York and slept at this delightful place called The Inn at St. John. It was quite charming, completely Victorian in décor . . . the ocean so close, the clean, crisp air. Delightful. It was as if that little inn was made for you and me. I felt such a connection to you while staying there. And now I know why.”

“Why?”

“I'll always remember The Inn at St. John as the place where I first knew.”

“Knew what?”

“Well . . . you know I went and saw Dr. Wade today, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well . . . are you ready to be a daddy?”

I just lay there staring at her. The news caught me completely off guard. I had not granted myself the time to even think of such a possibility. I realized how consumed I'd been with work—how detached I'd been from Loretta. But the news got my heart racing.

“Don't pull my leg, Loretta.”

“No, I'm serious. I'm several weeks along. Toward the end of the trip I began feeling a bit sick to my stomach. So I scheduled the doctor visit upon our return and today I received the news.”

“Oh, my God,” I said, reaching over and touching her stomach.

“You happy, Love?”

“I'm the happiest man in Harlem. Why didn't you tell me earlier?”

“I wanted it to be the last thing you heard today before falling asleep. Maybe tonight will be the first time in a long time that you sleep through the night without tossing and turning, a night in which you'll have nothing but wonderful dreams.”

“I need that. Body has grown too used to these damn pills and the doctor said not to take more than one a night.”

“Listen to him.”

“I can't believe I'm going to have a son.”

“Hey! I want a girl.”

“Then one of us will get what we want.”

“That's right.”

“My God, you've made me a happy man, woman.”

“I can tell.”

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” I said, kissing her repeatedly. “I'll be right back.”

I hopped out of bed with the youthful exuberance of a five-year-old and headed downstairs to make us both some hot tea. I returned to find her smiling from ear to ear. We sat in bed sipping from our cups and coming up with possible names for our future child. It was hours before we fell asleep. What a night!

O
N A
S
ATURDAY IN
J
ULY
, L
ENNOX
A
VENUE WAS BUSTLING WITH
colored artists displaying paintings, playing instruments, and reading poetry along the sidewalks. Rife with the smells, sights, and sounds unique to Harlem, it was the biggest street festival I'd witnessed since arriving two years earlier. Thousands, it seemed, walked up and down the avenue, taking in the art while snacking on everything from fresh fruit, peanuts, and pastries to caramels, dried sausages, and Cracker Jacks.

Loretta and Ginger led the way as Peavine and I talked about his family and ambitions. I'd invited him along for the day because I'd sensed something missing in the young man's life. He seemed to be drifting along aimlessly, only latching on to Garvey's movement out of happenstance.

“Touching brass jumpstarts my heart,” he said, the two of us stopping in front of an ashy-handed trumpet player who blew hard enough for even lower Manhattan to hear him. “I want to be him, Mr. Temple. Look at him with his eyes shut, his right fingers dancing, and cheeks 'bout to pop. He's feelin' somethin' we ain't—traveling somewhere we ain't been—a place only that horn can take you.”

“Maybe you can play like that someday.”

“I need to go to Chicago. I need to learn from these new cats, Joe King Oliver and Bill Johnson. They done brought a style of music up to Chicago from New Orleans—this thing called Hot Jazz. I heard 'em play here in Harlem last year. I ain't been the same since.”

“What would it take for you to move to Chicago?”

“Ah, Mr. Temple, I sleep at a different spot every night as it is. I got me a livin' system. Ain't got no livin' system in Chicago.”

“Where's your family?”

“I been livin' on the streets since I was twelve . . . some eight years now. Ain't got no family. This music done become my kinfolk.”

We continued listening to the trumpet player, then squeezed our way through the thick cluster of onlookers before catching up with Loretta and Ginger about a half block down. We gathered around a young poet who was reading his poem with the kind of experienced voice reserved for a man twice his age.

Folks clapped with enthusiasm. I stood in line and purchased a copy, learning that the young man's name was Countee Cullen. The poem was entitled, “I Have a Rendezvous With Life.” I couldn't help but think of my favorite poet—my friend, Claude—who was preparing to head overseas again—to Russia. This time I wondered if he'd ever return.

The four of us continued on, walking past several restaurants, the food on full display and being sold from carts right there on the sticky sidewalk. We stopped again to watch several painters at work. Placing my hand on Loretta's belly and lightly rubbing, I looked up and around, north and south, trying to take it all in, wishing all of colored America could take part in this rare moment of collective freedom and gaiety.

The sounds of brass and banjos. The smells of fried catfish, buttery collard greens, and banana pudding. The sights of ebony old men with canes, young brown girls chewing bubble gum, jubilant cocoa couples walking hand-in-hand—an angelic array of Harlemites bathing in a sea of artistic tranquility.

* * *

A huge part of my job that Hoover and company simply had to accept was playing the so-called “waiting game.” There was no speeding up the clock either. Undercover work is a slow, tedious grind. In situations like mine, the agent's sole task is to remain intimately attached to the target. The Bureau wanted Garvey bad and knew he was stepping into a trap, but his step was a big, slow one, and he hadn't been snagged yet.

We had to be one hundred percent certain that he'd broken the law before any move could be made. And more time meant more one-on-one meetings with Garvey, my least favorite thing. The tension was always suffocating. But here I was—again—sitting in the office I'd searched just a few months back. I could hear Speed's recent words ringing in my ear.

“I don't care if you have to sit in his office all day and discuss the fucking unique and varietal shapes of African Pygmy dicks! You stay in Garvey's lap, Q! We're close here to nailing the fucker.”

I watched Garvey studying an elaborate architectural drawing of the future UNIA headquarters he intended to construct in Liberia. Leaning against the wall behind him were rolls of drawings that hadn't been opened yet. I assumed they were sketches of other buildings, ones that would serve as the original landmarks of this undeveloped city he was dreaming up.

“Sidney, you ever read Edward Wilmot Blyden?” he asked, running his hand along the drawing, trying to flatten it out. As usual, he wasn't making eye contact.

“No,” I answered.

“He is the father of Pan-Africanism. He, like me, was born in the West Indies. But he moved to Liberia and actually became editor of the
Liberia Herald
. At different points he was the Liberian ambassador to France and Britain and was the president of Liberia College. He is my hero. You have any heroes?”

“My mother.”

“Why not me?” he asked, placing coins on each corner of the stubborn paper to keep it from rolling back up.

“Well, I . . .”

“Don't bother answering that. I know you're a careful man. You're still studying me. Take your time. It took me years to decide that Blyden was my champion. Perhaps when I die you will crown me your king.”

“The fact that I'm sitting in this chair should tell you how certain I am that you're the most powerful Negro in the world.”

“Well, then! Enough said on that topic. Do you think we are wise to be in negotiations to purchase this boat, the
Orion
? Is it a quality ship?”

“I think it's in decent condition, but with limited access, I've only given it a brief inspection. When will you take official ownership?”

“Soon, but the U.S. Shipping Board is being difficult. Cyril Briggs and his African Blood Brotherhood have convinced them that I don't have the funds. Anyway, you do realize it's more grand than our other ships?”

“Yes, it's a luxury ocean liner,” I said. “I toured more than
just
the engine room during the brief time I was allowed aboard.”

“Yes, a luxury boat, which means it will not be used for transporting goods, although that is a critical part of this shipping business. Negroes from America to Jamaica to Africa need to be able to trade products with one another exclusively. We must cut out the white man. Fend for ourselves.”

“So you see the
Orion
as the first ship you'll use to begin ferrying folks back to Africa?”

“Yes,” he said, jotting something down on the elaborate drawing with a pencil, examining it as if he were the architect himself. “But, Sidney, nothing is coming easy these days. The powers that be tried to make it impossible for me to reenter the country. Now they're making it difficult for me to stay here. And the number one culprit behind all of this is that mulatto, Du Bois.”

“I didn't realize he was part of the powers that be,” I said.

“Come again.”

Realizing I had instinctively countered his point with sarcasm, I quickly walked my comment back.

“Du Bois only wishes he were part of the powers that be. But God knows he's willing to kiss whoever's rear end in order to become so.”

“Good point, Sidney. Nevertheless, who knows what lies he's feeding the government about me. One of the reasons I respect Blyden so much has to do with his statements about these yellow types of people. Blyden died years ago, but were he alive today, he'd have plenty to say about Du Bois and Cyril Briggs—two white Negroes of the worst sort. They're both likely behind this movement to have me thoroughly audited.”

“But Briggs, like you, is from the West Indies. Correct?”

“And I'm not proud of that fact. He's a fool. He keeps trying to convince me that Marxism should be the ideology we adopt. Nonsense. Capitalism will be the economic system under which we govern in Africa very soon. But we must mobilize quickly. The government is squeezing me from all directions.”

I could sense his uneasiness and urgency, an awareness that his movement might finally be going under. He turned and reached for another one of the drawings. He began unrolling it, positioning it directly on top of the other. Again, he placed coins on its corners.

“Sidney, it's important for the man who's examining my dream boat to feel the same conviction about our Africa agenda as I feel. Such conviction will guide the work you do.”

“Understood. I will inspect it thoroughly. I hear everything you're saying. I feel Africa in my bones.”

“You know, Sidney . . . I was treated like a god wherever I traveled in the Caribbean. Thousands swarmed me at each and every stop. And now I return to America, only to be challenged by these second-rate Negroes like Cyril Briggs, A. Philip Randolph, and Chandler Owen. But I'll show them all the reach of my power.”

“Your power cannot be questioned.”

“And it will be on full display in a few weeks, once our second International Convention of the Negro Peoples of the World begins. I understand that Du Bois is readying himself to leave for France soon again. So while we're having our convention, he will be attending the second Pan-African Congress. That is a convention of dreamers. Ours is a convention of doers. Where would you rather be?”

“Here, of course. I'm a doer.”

“I know this,” he said, scribbling something on the drawing. “So was Blyden. And he knew the dangers of having uppity white Negroes like Du Bois in power. When speaking about the importance of all Negroes returning to Africa, Blyden once said, ‘The Negro leader of the exodus, who will succeed, will be a Negro of the Negroes, like Moses was a Hebrew of the Hebrews—even if brought up in Pharaoh's palace—no half-Hebrew and half-Egyptian will do the work.' He also said, ‘When I am dead, write nothing on my tombstone but . . .
He hated mulattoes
. '”

“He made himself clear, didn't he?” I said.

“And I will make myself clear. I've said this before. Du Bois is not a real man of color. He is a little Dutch, a little French, a little Negro . . . a mulatto. He is a monstrosity.”

He still wasn't looking up, but just in case he could see me, I nodded my head to suggest I agreed. But my hatred for Garvey had never been more intense. I wanted to reach across the desk and pummel him. Instead, I just glared at him as he continued making notations.

“Du Bois's NAACP will soon go under,” he said.

“I hope so. But why?”

“We are pulling members away from him one by one. And now we must go for his big fish. Du Bois is only as strong as the top men around him. William Pickens is one of those. He's a Yale man. I've learned that he is unhappy with his pay. I will offer him a cabinet position.”

“How can he help?”

“He was a professor of foreign languages. We could use a man of his ilk, especially when we land in Africa and begin reaching out to Europe, Asia, etcetera, building relationships with world leaders. I will make Pickens an offer he won't refuse. Money is a powerful thing.”

“Sounds promising.”

“The UNIA contingent I sent to Liberia is laying the groundwork for all of us to move there soon. Cyril Crichlow is heading things up on our behalf. I am offering up a loan to the Liberian treasury. But we must raise money. Getting folks excited about this new ship and going to Liberia will be the key to raising enough funds for the loan. And this Liberian excitement will also be the key to keeping the Black Star Line afloat. I think the two million dollars we've proposed will do the trick?”

“That's a lot of money.”

“Well, it can be raised. I raised quite a bit in the Caribbean. Now we must double our efforts. Besides, if Charles D. B. King, Liberia's president, thinks he's going to secure the millions he's seeking from the American government, he's a fool. And why would he even consider taking money from them? Such a deal will only stifle their independence.”

“So you're saying you'll give them two million to develop Liberia in exchange for them allowing you to bring Negroes from the West Indies and America there to be a part of this development?”

“Indeed. It goes hand in hand. Millions of proud returning Negroes, anxious to work, raise families, and purchase goods will only boost Liberia's overall economy. And we shall go soon, develop a massive plot of land near Monrovia, and live like we were meant to live. It's all here on these architectural drawings.”

“I see.”

“And who will be the lead engineer of all of this, you might be wondering?”

“Well, you'll want the very best. I know that.”

“You, Sidney. You will oversee the construction of this new African city—this Negro capital of the world.”

I paused at the thought. “I'm humbled by your suggestion, sir.”

“You know, I've been asked on more than one occasion if I actually expect to take all of the millions of Negroes in the West Indies and America back to Africa on my ships. And I always say, we were all brought here on big, filthy, ugly boats, but we shall return on big, clean, beautiful ones.”

He moved his face very close to the drawing and frowned. Something he saw was unsettling. Taking his pencil, he drew a big X through a portion of it.

“Doesn't this idiot of an architect know that I want a much larger office? These measurements are incorrect. Such a miniature office isn't fit for the Provisional President of Africa.”