The Strivers' Row Spy (34 page)

I
DROVE THROUGH THE GATE AT AROUND FIVE THAT EVENING
, D
RAKE
and Cleo tailing me closer than ever. Though the meeting was to commence at eight, my job was to arrive at headquarters between seven and seven thirty. I'd told Drake that it would be nothing for me to fiddle around the offices before entering the empty conference room at just the right time.

“Evening, Mr. Temple!” said Ivan.

“Evening, Ivan. I meant to give you your money this morning. It's in the house. I'll bring it out to you before you head home for the night.”

“Boy, I sure do thank you, Mr. Temple.”

“Look, my cousin will be heading out in a couple of hours. He's taking my car to Club Deluxe. Wants to hear some live music and maybe find him a lovely young lady to dance with. Been cooped up in there for too long, if you know what I mean? Please let him through the gate the same as you would me.”

“Will do! You have a good night, Mr. Temple.”

I parked, opened the car door, stepped out, and glanced across the way at the Oldsmobile. I took my time, adjusted my hat, and gave them a nod. Drake nodded back. The sun had just set, but it wasn't completely dark out yet, not nearly as dark as it would be in two hours. I stood there looking at them for just a few more seconds, hoping this fedora-wearing image of me would be stained in their minds for good.

I wondered if Drake might approach Ivan about what we'd just discussed. Perhaps he hadn't pulled up in time to notice such a brief conversation. Either way, it was too late to turn around and do a thing about it.

I opened the back door, entered the dining room, turned the lamp on, and there sat Peavine, dressed in my finest black suit, his posture as upright as could be, his eyes looking straight ahead at the wall.

“How long have you been sitting there?”

“Oh, I reckon 'bout two or three hours, Mr. Temple.”

“Well, you look ready.”

I walked over and sat my briefcase down directly in front of him. He didn't budge. I approached the front door and jiggled the knob, acutely aware, as always, that it was locked but still fearful that the men parked out front might come bursting through.

“Where is your bag?” I asked, loosening my tie.

“Right under here. And it's empty, just like you asked.”

“Good.”

He reached under the table and grabbed his old, beat-up leather bag. I took it and set it beside my similar-sized briefcase and began transferring the stacks of cash from my briefcase to his bag, save for the one thousand I left for him.

“This briefcase has your future in it, Peavine. Use it wisely.”

I checked my watch and loosened my tie a little more. I began pacing, then removed my black fedora and placed it on his head. Walking to the opposite side of the table, I began examining his appearance.

“Pull the hat down a bit,” I said, taking my overcoat off and resting it on one of the chairs.

“How's that?” he asked, pulling on the brim.

“Good. Stand up.”

As he did, I walked around the table again and looked him up and down. He was wearing my newest black shoes, and the suit seemed to fit him even better than it had two days ago when he'd first tried it on. I patted his shoulders, trying to smooth out any bunched-up areas, then adjusted his lapels. Our faces were nearly touching so I stepped back.

“Turn around,” I said, wiping my brow. “Slowly. And hold your arms out.”

I took my suit jacket off, nervously folded it into a ball, and placed it on the table. The intense once-over had me in a trance. I eased back around to retrieve my overcoat, my head still turned toward him. It's a wonder I didn't trip. Grabbing the coat, I returned to his side.

“Put it on.”

As he slid his arms inside the sleeves, I walked in the kitchen, poured myself a glass of water, and drank it down in one shot. I approached the back door, wiggled the knob a bit, wanting desperately to peek outside and make sure the Oldsmobile was there. I didn't. Instead I began pacing from one end of the kitchen to the other. After about a minute I returned to find him standing there like a statue with the overcoat on. I walked over and grabbed his old bag.

“I'll be right back,” I said. “You can relax.”

I headed down the hall to Loretta's studio where I had several of my new railroad maps laid out on her desk. I grabbed a pencil and began running it along several routes—one from New York City to Kansas City, another from New York to Seattle. Easing over to another map, I ran my finger along a route I'd highlighted as another option—New York to Santa Fe.

So many possibilities I'd figured out, but I'd have to choose one. Still, the thing each had in common? All departed Grand Central Terminal before nine p.m. I'd grabbed several departing train schedules for different railroads while purchasing my ticket to New Orleans. The SIS men had been busy purchasing their own in the line next to mine and hadn't seen a thing.

I began studying the routes again. By the time I'd finished losing myself in the various American destinations, the time had drawn near. I headed upstairs and into my closet. Removing the slabs of wood on the floor, I gathered my pistol, holster, magazine, and boxes of bullets. I placed all of it in the bag, headed back downstairs, and sat with Peavine.

“Do you need anything?” I asked. “Some water?”

“No, sir.”

“Remember, no deviations. You open that back door, head straight to the car, and calm yourself. Back it out smoothly, slowly enough for Ivan to already have the gate nearly all the way open by the time you pull forward. As you turn right on Seventh, tilt your head down just a bit and give the Oldsmobile a subtle wave. Subtle.”

“Got it,” he said. “Subtle.”

“From there, everything should unfold just as we've planned.” I looked at my watch and stood. “It's time. Are you ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let's go.”

A
S MY TRAIN PULLED INTO
G
RAND
T
RUNK
S
TATION IN
P
ORTLAND
, Maine, I exhaled, it seemed, for the first time in a long time. I felt free. With my sleepy head leaning back against the soft seat, I looked out at the light snow beyond my window and thought of Loretta.

She'd gone on and on about the beauty of this place—the docked fishing boats, the distant view of Mount Washington, the Victorian architecture. And now, just seeing the town for myself made me feel a little closer to her. I couldn't wait to check into the little hotel she'd gushed about—The Inn at St. John.

Exiting the waterfront station, I stepped out into the white weather and fell in with the thick-coated crowd standing along India Street—most of them New Englanders I was guessing. We were all waiting for the streetcars to pick us up and take us somewhere—Congress Street, in my case.

During the shuttle ride over, I marveled at the bustling little city—so many muddy-shoed, wet-hatted folks acting cordial to one another while hustling in and out of coffeehouses, restaurants, filling stations, food markets, bookstores, and novelty shops. We passed a little white church that looked like it'd been plucked from a fairy tale, constructed so perfectly square, its steeple overpowering the rest. I half expected to see little white angels appear just above, smiling with their hands held out as they tried to catch some of the fluffy, floating snowflakes.

The image got me thinking of the Abyssinian I'd left behind. Construction on it would be finished any day now. It also got me thinking of Peavine. I'd walked out the back door with my pistol in its holster no more than ten minutes after he'd left, but not before I'd paused to realize how many boxes and furnishings I was leaving behind.

I'd tried to take solace in the fact that our most precious family items—letters, pictures, books, personal files, etcetera—were in a secure storage facility. But even though I'd placed them there with a watchful eye, I was keenly aware that the Timekeeper might have been observing me, even back then. He'd probably watched me shake hands with the facility manager and on-duty security officer. And now, he might forever be waiting to track the items to wherever I'd eventually have them sent. Whatever the case, it was a problem to deal with in the future, so I had opened the kitchen door and headed out.

With only Peavine's old bag in hand—stuffed with cash, boxes of extra bullets, my brand-new railroad maps, and some personal items—I had approached Ivan and handed him his money.

“Boy I sure do appreciate this,” he'd said, pocketing the money.

“Well, I just appreciate your help, Ivan.”

“Way I see it . . . you've always been good to me, sir, and I was just returning the favor. Besides, Strivers' Row policy is still very well intact. By the way, if you don't mind me asking, Mr. Temple, where might you be off to dressed so nicely?”

“Club Deluxe. Figure Cousin Peavine could use some company.”

Ivan was right. I was dressed nicely, wearing my favorite brown suit, brown patent leather shoes, and brown fedora. My other suits would go to the lucky man who found them hanging in the closet.

“You walkin'?” he'd asked.

“Come on now, Ivan,” I'd said, just beginning to walk south on Seventh before stopping. “Us Strivers' Row folks ain't so well-to-do that we can't walk one block over to Lenox and up a few streets to 142nd.”

“But why you headin' toward 138th?”

“Need to stop by the Abyssinian Church first. I got it all planned out.”

Of course, I was simply avoiding 139th and the plum Chevrolet. I also wanted to steer clear of the 135th Street Station, as it was far too close to UNIA headquarters. Figured I'd instead take 138th over to Lenox and up to the 145th Street Station. From there I'd hop on the Lenox Avenue Line en route to Grand Central Terminal.

“Say you got it all planned out?” he'd asked. “I hear you.”

While en route I planned to write a resignation letter to Mr. Hoover and drop it in a mailbox somewhere near Grand Central. In it I'd explain the Timekeeper, his men, my abduction, their claim of having a mole inside the Bureau, my escape, etcetera. If Hoover or Speed were
not
in cahoots with SIS, at least I'd be giving them the courtesy of a resignation letter. But, of course, they'd never know where I was going.

“Is Club Deluxe still owned by Jack Johnson?” Ivan had continued.

“I'm not sure.”

“Well, word on the street is he done sold it to some white hoodlum who's in prison. Heard somethin' 'bout he fidna turn it into a place he gonna call the Cotton Club.”

“Wouldn't that be something,” I'd pretended to care, beginning to walk south again.

“Ya'll don't get in too much trouble now, Mr. Temple.”

“We won't. But tell old George not to be expecting us home anytime soon.”

“Will do. He'll be relievin' me here shortly.”

Two hours later I'd already dropped off the letter and was on a train heading to Portland, and presumably, Garvey was in the middle of conducting his big meeting while Drake and the others were still parked out front. But I could only imagine.

* * *

As my Portland streetcar came to a stop near 939 Congress Street, I looked out and made note of how many colored men were working different jobs, everything from deliveryman and paperboy to streetcar driver and food vendor. In fact, I'd noticed more colored folks in general than I'd anticipated.

I walked through the brown snow sludge with such great anticipation and relief. I could see the sign I'd been looking for straight ahead. Loretta had probably taken these same steps. And she'd been right—Portland
was
wonderful. Perhaps it was the smiles on people's faces as they embraced the snowy weather, their kind nods, or just the overall sense of community on display that put a pep in my step.

“Welcome to The Inn at St. John!” said the salt-and-pepper-haired colored man working the door.

Nodding at him, I approached the check-in counter with nothing on my mind except taking a warm bath and sleeping for a long, long time.

“Checking in, sir?” asked the young woman at the front desk.

“Yes. Two nights if you have it.”

“Oh . . . we've got lots of space. Let me see here . . .”

“Pardon me, ma'am, but you wouldn't mind checking your logbook there for the name of an artist friend of mine, would you? She stayed here about a year and a half ago, sometime in June I believe. It'd be nice to stay in the room she raved about.”

“Certainly, I will happily do that for you, sir. What is her name?”

“Ginger Bouvier.”

She ran her finger along the shelved logbooks to her left until she found the one she needed. She opened it and flipped some pages for a while.

“Looks like your friend . . . Miss Ginger Bouvier . . . stayed in room . . . 1-C. That's one of our larger rooms on the fourth floor.”

“You wouldn't happen to have that room available, would you?”

“We sure do.”

“Wonderful. I'll take it.”

* * *

The following day I rose in the late afternoon and headed out, bag in hand, to go buy myself a new overcoat before visiting the Portland Museum of Art. Afterward, with my mind fed plenty, I decided to feed my stomach and have dinner at a place called Chester's.

The hostess sat me next to the window facing Cumberland Avenue, a kind gesture to be sure. Looking out at the dim European-style streetlamps and casual night strollers made for a pleasant setting. I tried to stay in the moment, to think of nothing heavy. But with every bite of my juicy porterhouse, I thought of James. He would have liked this restaurant, none of its patrons so much as raising an eyebrow at the colored man enjoying a fabulous table with a view.

I still couldn't believe my friend was gone. It pained me to no end. And if he had ever learned of my being an agent, could I have explained it enough for him to forgive me? After all, he'd slowly grown to detest Garvey himself. It's a question I'd have to ponder 'til my dying day.

As I walked down Congress Street and neared my hotel, I anticipated the warm night of sleep ahead of me. Meanwhile, I kept switching my bag from one hand to the other, blowing on the free one, unable to ignore the freezing night air.

As I got close enough to see the friendly doorman through the very light fog, my focus shifted to the man standing just beyond him next to a black automobile parked along the curb facing the other direction. I slowed down and squinted to make sure my eyes weren't deceiving me. Just then, another man on the driver's side got out. Again, I squinted, but this time stopped walking completely. My eyes were not deceiving me.

Standing in the distance were two men I thought I'd never see again—Drake and Bingo. I felt a deafening ring in my ear. I reached under my coat to feel for my gun. At the same time, Bingo spotted me. The two of us stood there locked in a stare briefly before Drake eyed me as well, flashing a wry smile as if to say,
You're not as slick as you thought, mothafucka.
The visual worsened when the back doors of the automobile opened and Goat and Cleo stepped out.

There was no more time to think about my predicament, so I turned and ran, initially bumping into a man, knocking him over. I turned and saw them get back in the car, prompting me to run even faster. With the cold air stinging my face, watering my eyes, all I could see were blurry streetlights, blurry passing car lights, and a few oncoming pedestrians dodging out of my way.

I slowed down enough to turn and see them racing after me, dodging in and out of light traffic. Again I sped up, but it was clear there'd be no outrunning them, so I stepped in front of an idling car that was readying itself to turn left onto Congress.

“GET OUT!” I yelled, pointing my pistol at the driver.

The white man of about fifty did just that, stepping out with his arms raised high. I ran around and got behind the wheel of his cream-colored vehicle, slamming the door as he backed up onto the sidewalk. He never lowered his arms.

Stomping all the way down on the gas, I accelerated left onto Congress. The fog appeared to be thickening as I weaved in and out of light traffic, trying not to kill anyone in the process. I made a violent right turn onto State Street, careening so much that my back end nearly slammed into a car heading in the other direction.

Looking in my side mirror, I could see their headlights in the distance. But their car was weighted down with four men, giving me an advantage. I looked straight ahead and poured on the gas. It wasn't long before I came upon a sign that read:
YOU ARE NOW CROSSING THE MILLION DOLLAR BRIDGE
.

I crossed it and pushed ahead, both hands on the wheel, jaw clenched, head bobbing like a prizefighter's—trying to avoid the road's edge and anyone driving toward me. But only a few cars had motored by, and with each passing mile, it was clear that there'd be even fewer.

Portland's lights were disappearing, the remote darkness approaching. I felt the road veering left a bit and wondered if I was heading too far east now, unknowingly heading right into the Casco Bay. And the fog wasn't helping matters. Fortunately, the stolen vehicle
was
, for I had sped well beyond them, so much so that their headlights had vanished.

Again the road curved the opposite direction, and I passed several smaller intersecting roads, but I chose to stay on the main one for the time being. Able to go only about fifteen miles per hour now, I wiped at the inside of my damp, frosty windshield with one hand while trying to control the steering wheel with the other. Luckily, not enough fresh snow had fallen to affect the roads.

I'd been traveling for roughly an hour now, aimlessly motoring deeper and deeper into a land of mystery and darkness—perhaps only circling. The fog, the cold, the stolen car, the chase—it was all too perfectly terrible.

Rolling my window down to help defrost the windshield, I glanced in the mirror and saw their headlights reappear from way back. Part of me was glad they'd kept up—relieved to know the inevitable face-off was drawing close. I just needed somehow to tip the scales in my favor.

It was only a matter of time before I'd run out of petrol and it was now pitch black out, save for the road immediately in front of me. I decelerated to ten m.p.h. to make sure I didn't smash right into God knows what. Just as I did, a slow-flashing light appeared in the distance, likely one of the many lighthouses in the area. This would have to be the place where I made my last stand.