The Strivers' Row Spy (33 page)

“That'll be fine,” he said. “You do whatever you need to do to put your mind at ease before that meeting.”

We picked the check up and then visited my bank where I had it cashed. I'm sure Bingo was happy to allow such a transaction. Once I was gone, he and his partners could split it up and consider it a salary bonus. But I had my own ideas about how to spend it. Still, until then, walking around with $9,000 in my briefcase would be uncomfortable to say the least.

The two of us arrived at UNIA headquarters and went through the usual pat-down routine with the Legionnaires before visiting with Amy. “The meeting is definitely set in stone,” she said. “Try to relax, Sidney. I've never seen you so unsettled.”

“Just worried about Marcus's trial, that's all,” I replied, casually placing both hands in my pockets—keeping them there as if trying to show her a more relaxed side. “But I'm fine. Ain't I been actin' fine, Bingo?”

“Been as calm-actin' as ever,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets as well, probably upset at me over the fact that she'd noticed my initial fidgetiness.

“How are you holding up, Amy?” I asked.

“Staying strong. We must.”

“True. So true. Well, listen, we best be getting back to the church.”

“All right, Sidney. You two take care.”

As we headed for the front door I nodded at Peavine and stared at him like never before, begging him to do what my eyes were screaming. I had the tiny paper wedged between my right middle and index fingers.

“How you doing, Peavine?”

“Fine, Mr. Temple. Just fine.”

“I saw you last time I was here but you were gone when I finished visiting with Marcus.”

“Musta been my lunch break,” he said.

“Well, this here is my friend Bingo.”

As the two shook hands, I pressed my fingers tighter and tighter, the nervous sweat dampening the receipt more and more with each passing second. My gut told me Peavine was a street-smart brother—his plight had demanded it.

“Nice to meet you, Bingo,” said Peavine.

“You as well.”

“You got yourself another good post,” I said, reaching out to shake his hand, clutching it the way I might if he were pulling me to safety from cliff's edge. With eyes alone I implored him to take the wadded up letter without making a scene. He obliged by discreetly fisting it as I slid my fingers from his grip.

“Worked awfully hard to get it, too, Mr. Temple,” he replied. “All them boys wish they had this post.”

“Won't be long 'til you're one of Marcus's drivers.”

“You said it.”

“All right then. You keep up the good work and I'll holler at you later.”

I patted him on the shoulder, gave a subtle wink, then walked out the door with Bingo following.

P
ULLING THROUGH THE GATE AND INTO THE DARK DRIVEWAY FELT
different this time. Ivan was there as usual, the Oldsmobile had followed and pulled into its normal position, and the alleyway was as quiet as ever. But the setting was almost too quiet, too still, as if a theater stage had been perfectly set with just the right amount of artificial moonlight shimmering over the ground between my car and the back porch—as if when the director said “action,” the world would watch me nervously walk to the back door, open it, and find no one inside.

Luckily, Peavine was sitting at the dining room table in the dark as planned. As soon as I turned the lamp on, he sat up and gave me a big grin.

“Thank the Good Lord!” I said. “What time did you come in?”

“It was just about two in the afternoon, Mr. Temple. Did it just like you wrote down.”

“Good.” I took a deep breath, loosened my tie, and skittishly looked around, knowing we were alone, but conditioned at this point to assume the worst. “Real good, Peavine. I'm glad your love of music runs so deep.”

“Can't get to Chicago soon enough, Mr. Temple. You done made my dream come true.”

“Not yet.”

I approached the front door to make sure it was locked, took my coat off and threw it on the couch, then sat with him at the table. He had the crinkly receipt lying in front of him.

“Boy,” said Peavine, “I 'bout fell dead when I saw them numbers. You're not serious about giving me one thousand—”

“Yes. I am. You do exactly what you're told, and you'll have a thousand dollars cash to take with you to Chicago. You said you wanted to go learn Hot Jazz from those new cats. Here's your chance.”

“Thank you. What's this all about?”

“First rule: Don't ask me anything about what this all involves. I say this to protect you. Just know I've broken no laws and don't intend to. Nor do I intend to ask you to. Just follow the directions I give you to a T . . . no exceptions. One mistake and there'll be no Chicago. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“You're to stay here, inside the house, without leaving. Don't set foot outside. Don't even crack the door open. I'll come and go as normal, and the men who've been following me will continue their routine. All the while, you'll be hiding away . . . right in here. You're to stay here tonight, tomorrow night, and then drive my car to UNIA headquarters the next night, dressed in my suit and this hat.”

I took off my fedora and handed it to him. The two of us were roughly the same size. I was about an inch taller and outweighed him by a few pounds, but he'd certainly be able to wear my suit.

“Fits perfectly,” he said, running his fingers along the brim. “What do I do when I get to headquarters?”

“Let's start with you leaving here first. As you approach the gate, Ivan will nod, may say hello, and may even try to engage you. Oblige him. He'll be expecting you to drive my car that night. I'll inform him on my way in that evening. Take a right on Seventh and drive at a normal speed. An Oldsmobile parked across the way will follow you. Don't make any abrupt turns. Be very steady. They'll think you're me.”

“You mean because it's gonna be dark out?”

“Yes. That and the fact that following me has become second nature to them.”

“You in some kinda trouble with . . .”

“What did I say about this deal, Peavine?”

“No questions.”

“Just do as I say. You'll be taking my briefcase with you. In it will be your cash. Once you arrive at headquarters, park as close to the building as possible, and definitely not across the street from it. There'll be several folks arriving for the meeting, even some Liberians. The Oldsmobile will park a good distance away. They won't want any Legionnaires to see them. Once you park, immediately get out and head for the stairs. Do not turn around. Don't stop for anything until you get inside.”

“Yep. I'll just go right on in. Them boys on duty will let me pass. I did just like you said in the letter and let Mr. Grant know I had to go to New Jersey for a few days and wouldn't be back in town until later on this week. Told him my grandmomma was deathly sick.”

“Where did you put your uniform?”

“In the supply room closet . . . way in the back corner behind some dusty boxes of old
Negro Worlds
. But it ain't no thing to keep it in that room anyhow. Other boys be stowing their uniforms in all kinds of places. I just hid it to make sure no one moved it.”

“So the guards out front won't think anything of you changing clothes at headquarters?”

“Oh no! I'm supposedly coming straight off the train from New Jersey, right?”

“Right. So once you're inside, change into your uniform and take a post. After the meeting, you wait to be dismissed as usual. Leave the Baby Grand parked there. Don't even go near it. The boys in the Oldsmobile will have their eyes glued to it. So walk in the opposite direction and don't turn around. Your next stop is Chicago.”

“But what about the car? What about you?”

“Don't worry about that. At this point, your job will be done. Leave town and try not to look back.”

“Like I said . . . ain't nothin' here for me no way. Darn sure ain't got no sick grandmomma.”

“There's food in the kitchen for you during the day. Don't move around a lot. There's another car parked out front that's watching me. Stay away from that front door. Don't
ever
open it, even if someone comes knocking. One bad move on your part during the next few days could cost both of us our . . . well . . . just make sure we're clear here.”

“We are.”

“I'll be sleeping on the couch down here and you are to sleep upstairs in my room. And stay off of the balcony.”

“I will. And thank you.”

“No . . . thank you, Peavine.”

* * *

The next forty-something hours were the most intense of my life. Not because something unexpected happened, but rather because I was constantly worried that Peavine might mess up while I was away at the church. My life resting in his hands was anything but comforting. But I continued the routine, exiting through the gate in the morning, entering at night, all the while making sure to wear my fedora.

My latest conversation with Speed had been entirely about Eason's killing. He'd kept asking me if there was any way to tie Garvey to it. I'd told him that only in the coming weeks, as the New Orleans Police Department finished their investigation, could that be determined. Speed was sure Garvey had ordered the killing.

Finally, the hours had whittled down. At around lunchtime on the day of the meeting, Bingo had a little gift for me. We'd ordered up some sandwiches from Tony's and were parked out front eating. I was just picking at mine, nervously eyeing my watch.

“Here it is,” he said, handing me a small, brown leather pouch.

I unbuttoned it and removed a thin, glass, two-inch vial with a black top. Inside was a clear liquid substance.

“What is it?” I asked, tilting the vial back and forth, watching the liquid move about.

“That's a question for someone above my pay grade.”

I placed it back in the pouch and watched him take a big bite of his sandwich—fried egg and ham. The smell was strong and the sound of his smacking lips irksome. He devoured it with such pleasure, perhaps excited that Mr. Banks would soon have a hefty paycheck for him.

I buttoned up the pouch and slipped it inside my suit jacket's inner pocket.

“You know,” he said, chewing, “when you're finished tonight, Mr. Banks says you can resign from the Bureau and come work with us. That's assuming all goes well.”

“I'll do my part.”

“The poison won't take effect immediately. But when it does, Garvey will react as though he's having a heart attack. When he falls to the floor, his handlers will, of course, rush him to the hospital with the hopes that he'll survive. He won't. Drive straight back to your house while he's being transported. Go inside and exit your front door. We'll meet you there and drive you to meet Mr. Banks. Once Garvey's death is one hundred percent confirmed, Banks will want to speak to you about joining us.”

“Ya'll wanna keep me around, huh?” I asked, sure they intended to kill me afterward.

“Why do I detect doubt in your voice?” he asked, licking his fingers.

“Just a question, that's all.”

“Well . . . have a little more faith.”

“I'm curious,” I said, “how does it work—all you American Negroes working for the British?”

“Simple. SIS is global. If they want a Mexican watched in Mexico. . . they're gonna hire a Mexican. They want one of them slanty-eyed mothafuckas in China followed . . . they're gonna hire a chop-suey-eatin' sucka from Shanghai. And in this case here, we was hired 'cause we're experts on Harlem. Experts! All of us . . . born and raised right here. We ain't no pretend Harlem niggas like you.”

“You gotta interesting worldview there.”

“You damn right,” he said.

“Isn't it the height of disloyalty for all you Americans to be working for the British?”

“You feel like an American?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Something in my bones,” I said.

“Well . . . a Negro in America can be loyal to whoever's willing to pay him. Shit! Besides, there ain't any institutions in this country loyal to us colored folk. So why should we be loyal to them? Especially the U.S. government!”

“What about the NAACP?”

“Fuck the NAACP!” he said.

“And, of course, the UNIA, right?”

“Fuck them too. Garvey . . . Du Bois . . . President Harding—each one of these deceitful devils is interested in nothing but lining their own damn pockets. So some of us niggas done figured out a way to line our own. In this day and time it's every brotha for himself. Eat or be eaten. Kill or be killed. When you gonna catch up, fool?”

I nodded and watched him take another bite before talking with his mouth full.

“The bosses in London are paying us to do something they can't do: be black in Harlem. And also to follow exact orders.”

“Like making sure I don't run.”

“Exactly. You run . . . we kill you . . . we've proven we can follow protocol.”

“I'm amazed by your utter disregard for human life.”

“Like I said . . . protocol. By the way, Mr. Banks is a very important man for SIS here in America. The fact that you can now identify him is no small matter. The London bosses could have ordered your death the minute Garvey blurted out Banks's name at Liberty Hall and you looked at me like you'd seen a ghost.”

“So, it sounds like I'm a very lucky man?”

“No,” he said, “just a very needed one.”

I let that sink in before attempting to end this little chat.

“Well . . . this offer to join your team is flattering,” I said, putting my uneaten sandwich back in the bag, “but, when the job is done, I'm resigning from the Bureau and going to San Francisco like I previously mentioned. I'll tell Banks to his face. No more shadow work for me.”

“All I know is this: Once you impress Mr. Banks by pulling this off tonight, he'll be awfully sad to see you go.”

“Well, I aim to impress.”