The Strivers' Row Spy (29 page)

“No,” I said.

We drove to the end of the block and he pulled over again. He got out, walked around the front of the car, and opened my door.

“Slide over behind the wheel,” he said.

As I did, he got in and shut the door.

“Drive to your house,” he said.

I headed up Seventh Avenue with both hands on the wheel. I'd never seen these three men before. As we pulled up to the gate, I saw Ivan standing there as usual.

“Don't try anything funny,” said the man. “Which place is yours?”

“Fourth one down on the right.”

“Can you see your back door from here?”

“Yes,” I said, pointing to it. “Right there.”

“I see. You have your porch light on. Good. Okay now . . . just do what you always do.”

I gave Ivan my customary wave as he opened the gate and let us drive through. The alleyway had never been so quiet, never so still. It was dimly lit in spots, as there was a streetlamp behind every fifth house, but they were there mostly for effect, leaving the alleyway rather dark overall. I pulled into the carport behind the kitchen and waited for instructions. The engine was still running.

“Is this back entrance the only one?” asked the man, his gun resting on his lap but still pointed at me.

“No. Our front door faces the southern side of 139th.”

“Why'd you use the back entrance?”

“We never enter from the front. All of the tenants use the alleyway and park in their carports. They all enter the alleyway from Seventh Avenue. That front door is only used for receiving guests.”

“We're guests.”

I slowly turned and caught a glimpse of the other two. Neither had said a word. They were sitting back with their pistols resting on their laps, their faces expressionless. All three men were colored, each about my size. They were dressed in dark three-piece suits, thick topcoats, their fedoras bigger than the typical ones.

“We just never park out front, that's all,” I said, turning and staring straight ahead again.

“Where is that pretty wife of yours anyway?”

“She's in San Francisco. I'm to join her in a few months. She wants to make that home.”

“Does that boy at the gate work there all day?”

“He works from seven in the morning 'til seven at night. Man named George works the overnight shift. He'll be relieving him soon.”

“Can anyone just come and go through that gate?”

“No. Only tenants.”

“Any more gates?”

“You mean as far as the ones that serve this block?”

“Yes.”

“There are more along 138th and 139th, but they're for show only. They remain locked . . . unused. But there is another main one on the far-west end of this alleyway that opens to Eighth Avenue. I have never used it.”

“This is an awfully nice place you got here. A secure alleyway, a private carport, and that sign by the gate said, ‘Please Walk Your Horses.' Don't see no horses 'round here.”

“All of these private carports were originally horse and carriage stables.”

“Cut the engine off. Let's go inside.”

I
AWOKE SEVERAL HOURS LATER THROBBING IN PAIN AS
I
STARED AT
the blurry living room ceiling through my left eye. The other was swollen shut. I began coughing up the blood that had poured into my mouth from a busted bottom lip. I rolled over and saw the three men sitting at the dining room table. They were smoking cigarettes and passing around a bottle of whiskey.

“Looks like he done finally come to,” said one of them, taking a big drink from the bottle.

I noticed another approaching. He reached down and began dragging me over to the table. He picked me up, sat me in one of the chairs, and entered the kitchen. I barely had enough strength to hold myself up. My head fell back, then forward. I was so dizzy. I began sliding down in the chair until I came to a slouch, my arms just dangling to the side, my legs splayed open.

“I think he looks like he 'bout ready to listen,” said the man directly across from me. I was able to make him out as the one who'd sat up front with me. “You ready to finally follow orders, Sidney?”

I subtly nodded my head yes.

“We didn't get a chance to properly introduce ourselves earlier,” he said, flicking his cigarette ash onto one of Loretta's expensive dinner plates. “I'm Drake. This here's Cleo. And the man fetchin' you a glass is Goat. You sure do have a fine place here. And those are some mighty expensive suits in that closet upstairs. Hope you don't mind us leaving a mess. We had to . . . you know . . . sweep the place.”

He put his hand on Cleo's shoulder and the two of them seemed to disappear in the smoke they were exhaling. I felt myself slipping in and out of consciousness.

Goat walked out with a glass and sat it right in front of me. He poured some whiskey in it and handed it to me. “Go on,” he said, nudging my arm.

I took it in my left hand and guzzled it down, the burn actually soothing compared to the throbbing pain I felt throughout.

“Good,” said Goat, sitting down in the chair to my left.

“I've got good and bad news,” said Drake. “Let's start with the bad. Your failure to deliver the evidence caused quite a problem for the boss man with his superiors. The good news: It has given them time to think things over, and now there's a new plan for dealing with Garvey. You hearing me?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You see, they've learned that Garvey is promising big dollars to some top officials to make sure his stay in prison is a short one. And now, the way they see it, Garvey going to the slammer for rum running or anything else just won't cut it after all. His stay would be so short that he'd figure out a way to keep his Africa plans going from behind bars until he's released. And the boss man's superiors can't have that. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like your superior, Mr. Hoover?”

“Sure.”

“Is Mr. Hoover a smart man?”

“I . . .”

“Don't answer that. That wasn't one of the boss man's questions. It was just me being nosy. By the way, Mr. Banks sends his regards.”

“Who?”

“Boss man! You call him Timekeeper. He said you kept on and on with the fuckin' questions. Did you find out anything?”

“Nothing important,” I slurred, noticing my briefcase on the floor, all of the items dumped out, including my new maps.

“Mr. Banks doesn't like a lot of questions. In fact, he pays us very well not to ask too many, to simply deliver his messages and carry out orders. And in this case, he paid us to keep you alive.”

“Why?”

“So you can kill Marcus Garvey.”

Goat poured some more whiskey in my glass. I slowly picked it up and knocked it back, allowing the words
kill Marcus Garvey
to sink in.

“All you have to do now is convince us that you can do it. If you can't, there's no reason to keep you around. Ain't that right, Goat?”

“Right,” he said, taking his gun and pressing it against my ear. “You done already embarrassed Mr. Banks with the big bosses. And now they don't know if they can count on him no more. So this here job's gonna get done one way or another. Garvey dies or you die. Long as one of those two things happens, Mr. Banks stays employed. And that's a mighty good thing for us.”

“I can do it,” I mumbled, the words a mere reflex from feeling like my brains were about to be blown all over the dining room wall.

“Good,” said Drake. “But how? And can't no bullets be involved. If we thought he could be finished that way we'da done it already. We've been casing him for months and there ain't no way in hell to get a clean shot on the mothafucka. He's like that baby elephant in the wild surrounded by a herd of a hundred giant ones. Nah, this has to be done from the inside. And it has to be clean.”

“I can poison him,” I said, gritting my sore teeth—Goat's gun feeling like it was cutting into my ear. “I can poison him at our next meeting.”

“When is that?” he asked, motioning for Goat to lower his gun, which he did. I casually sat up a bit and tried to concentrate.

“A big one is being planned sometime before the trial. We're to discuss all of the logistics regarding who will be in charge of what if he is forced to serve time. I may be asked to oversee all of the Black Star Line affairs.”

“When exactly?”

“I just know it's to happen before the trial. Probably in a few weeks.”

“Poison him how?”

“I always show up early to our meetings and am alone in the boardroom for a few minutes. Only his top men are allowed in that room. There's heavy security everywhere. But a servant always delivers his mango juice, cheese, and crackers before anyone else arrives. I can slip something into his juice. I can kill him.”

“Sounds mighty loose.”

“It's solid. I can guarantee it. I just need you to get me the poison.”

“What do ya'll think?”

Cleo and Goat nodded their heads with approval. Drake kept his eyes on me and tilted his head to the side. I could see his brain working. He puckered his lips.

“Who do you think our inside man is at the Bureau?” he asked. “And could there be more than one—a Bureau courier, a Bureau telephone operator?”

“I have no idea,” I mumbled.

“Mr. Banks told me to ask you that. He said to ask yourself that question before you think about sending the Bureau a telegram with the hopes that they'll come rescue you. Ask it before you think about calling them or trying to get in touch with another agent. You never know who you might be talking to. And the big bosses got plenty of New York policemen on the payroll. So you see, you can't be saved.”

“That seems clear.”

“Find out as soon as possible when Garvey intends to have this meeting.”

“I can do that.”

He picked his gun up off the table and pointed it at me. “Just know that every time you step out of this house there won't be a second of the day when we won't have one of these aimed at you. We own you. When Garvey's dead, you can have your life back. Until then, your job is to keep on livin' the same life you've been livin'. But do anything stupid and you're as dead as that smart-ass Darwin mothafucka. And we'll decide what
is
and
isn't
stupid.”

“How do we communicate?” I asked. “Garvey's secret service is more aggressive now than ever. None of us connected to the UNIA ever know when and if we're being watched by them.”

“Perhaps they were watching you tonight. That's gonna require some creative explaining on your part.”

“I was simply robbed.”

“Good. Good. Nevertheless, since we have to assume they may continue watching you, your living habits must appear the same. You will stay in good standing with them that way.”

“I don't see why not.”

“Now . . . how do we communicate, you asked? One of our men, Bingo Jones, will be meeting you at the church every morning to report for duty. Your new assistant!” He smiled. “Wherever you go, he'll go.”

“I can't enter UNIA headquarters with—”

“You'll have to. You're a trusted man around there. Make them trust your new protégé. If you have to meet privately with Garvey, Bingo can wait just outside the room. But that's the only exception. You can never be out of his sight otherwise during the day. You go to the market, he helps you pick out fruit, you go to take a piss, he holds your pecker for you.”

“When I come home at night?”

“Your regular comings and goings have to appear the same to Garvey's men. So you and Bingo can part ways at the church come evenin' time and we'll follow you home from there. Figure you might wanna at least have supper alone for the next few weeks—finish packin' up all these boxes for that move to San Francisco. I'm sure your wife can't wait to see you. Anytime you need to call her, go ahead and use a telephone near the church. Just make sure to have Bingo dial the number for you. Clear?”

“Yes.”

“Our inside man says you stay in touch with the Bureau by calling from your fake-ass office.”

“That's right.”

“Keep on checkin' in with them as usual. Bingo will be more than happy to take notes for you. He's good at it, and I'm assuming you ain't got no office secretary, right?”

“No.”

“One more thing,” he said, surveying the living room. “That front door. Never open it again. We'll have some men parked right out front around the clock. And never step out onto that upstairs balcony either. You're to come and go only through that Seventh Avenue gate. Is that back porch light always left on like that?”

“No. I forgot to turn it off this morning.”

“Well, keep forgettin' to turn it off. Leave it on 'round the clock. Change the bulb as needed. One of us will be parked along Seventh Avenue all night. You do remember showing me how visible your back door is through the gate when that light's left on?”

“Yes.”

“You won't be able to enter or exit without us seeing you. So get what you need during the day, 'cause once you're in at night, ain't no leavin'. And if you even think about walking toward that Eighth Avenue gate you'll feel a bullet in yo ass.”

“My neighbors?” I asked.

“What about 'em?”

“The man next door, the doctor . . .”

“Say ‘good morning' or ‘good evening' if you have to, but no carryin' on. You have one job: to get through the weeks without any hiccups—to attend that meeting.”