“Indeed,” Gold said. “But perhaps this young Hoover is the dangerous opposition of both men.”
“Perhaps. But like Du Bois, my mission is to stay right here in America and right the wrongs of the past, not cut all ties and pretend the ugly past never happened.”
He poured me a fresh cup of coffee.
“Let's get one thing very clear,” I continued. “My reason for spying on Garvey is quite different from Hoover's. His distrust of the man is likely due to the simple color of his skin. Hoover and the greater BOI probably have a similar distrust of Du Bois for the same baseless reason. But I believe the government and Garvey may be equal threats to Du Bois and his agenda. Becoming an agent is the only job that affords me the opportunity to learn the intricacies of both threats.”
“All of this requires quite a bit of presuming on your part.”
“In short,” I said, sipping, “I will be spying on the Bureau.”
“Repeat that.”
“I look at this as an opportunity to spy on the Bureau. No colored in history has had access to the type of information or individuals I'll have access to. What other prominent coloreds are on the government's watch list? Maybe I'll find out.”
“Fascinating,” he said. “They hire some young graduateâthinking he's a greenhornâand that student fools them all.”
“I can only fool them if I can first fool Garvey.”
“Well, the Bureau sicced you on Garvey. Now find out whom they've sicced on Du Bois. Find a way to get this agent to open up to you about what he's trying to find out. Then secretly share the info with Du Bois himself. Now you truly are spying on the Bureau.”
“It will all hinge,” I said, “on the quality of information I can glean from said agent.”
“Information gathering is the name of the game,” he said. “That reminds me, in terms of Garvey info, I recently read that he is trying to purchase his first ship, the
Yarmouth
, I believe it was called.”
“Why a ship?”
“Sounds as if he's up to something big,” he said.
“Well, I'll certainly find out about this and more. My objective is to be a floater of sorts, to develop relationships with men close to Eastman, Johnson, and Garvey. It won't be easy. I do find it a bit presumptuous of Hoover to think that Eastman, Johnson, and Garvey should all be shadowed because they are supposedly part of the same socialist world. The fact is they likely all live in completely separate worlds. I guess he figures all suspected communists are part of some grand conspiracy against the government.”
Professor Gold began rummaging through his desk drawer. I poured myself a little more coffee to warm my cup.
“Before I forget,” he said with a smile, “because you're going to be in New York, I'm sure you wouldn't mind going to hear Du Bois speak.”
“You cannot be serious,” I replied enthusiastically.
“Well, as you know, Du Bois has recently returned from the Pan-African Congress in Paris. He's to speak in front of a private gathering of NAACP donors and various politicos at a town house in Manhattanâthe Upper East Side. The gathering is scheduled for August twenty-sixth.”
“This is true fate.”
“It'll be an intimate, very exclusive affairâdifficult to get on the guest list, but I'll contact Phil Daley, a close friend who gives money to the NAACP. He likes to give money to causes he believes in, and his family roots are deep in the abolitionist movement. I'll make sure he gets you in. Just get yourself to this address. He's to speak in the evening at seven.”
He handed me a slip of paper with the Manhattan address written down.
a novel I'd like you to have,” he said, standing. “Come.”
We walked into his adjoining library, and I scanned his collection of novels. He climbed his rolling ladder and ran his index finger along a top row of hardbacks. “Here it is,” he said. “Have you ever heard of
The Secret Agent
by Joseph Conrad, the great British novelist?”
“No.”
“It was published in 1907 and is set in 1886 London. It is a political novel that deals with exploitation, espionage, terrorism, and anarchism.” He placed the book in my hand. “Considering what you're about to face, it's quite apropos.”
“Thank you,” I said, studying the cover of the book.
“Come, let's take a walk,” he said, heading for the doorway. “The sun is just coming up and you know how I love morning light on the autumn leaves.”
Several minutes later, with Muddy practically leading the way, we approached the guesthouse where Loretta and I had lived.
“Place is not quite the same with you two gone,” he said. “It just sits hereâempty. I'll have to find me another graduate student to rent it to.”
I ran my hand along the house's outer surface. It was a log cabin, built in the early eighteen hundredsâa very warm, cozy place.
Later that evening, Mary made my favorite mealâchicken and dumplings. Hers were the best I'd ever had. Whenever Loretta and I were in the company of the Golds, they treated us as if we were their own children. They had only one child, a daughter who lived in Missouri. No grandchildren.
After finishing dinner and talking to Mary awhile, I washed up for bed, but not before Professor Gold loaded me up with several newspapers. And though I had an early train to catch, I was up late into the night reading copies of the
Negro World, Crisis
,
Messenger
,
Guardian
, and
Defender
. At about two in the morning I finally retired for the night, albeit for a short four hours.
* * *
Loretta greeted me at the front door of the West Philadelphia home. As I walked in, I noticed that everything was packed in boxes. Both of us took a seat on the mauve velvet, walnut-framed settee. I was relieved, but not surprised, that she had managed to sell the house while I was in Washington.
Unbeknownst to her, the Bureau had arranged to have all of our items, from both Vermont and Philadelphia, moved to Harlem as soon as we secured a house. All we needed to do was get ourselves to Harlem. Now I just had to sell the idea to her.
I adjusted my posture, as the old coil springs squeaked beneath us, and began the lie. “I have been given a great opportunity to work in Harlem.”
“Harlem?” she asked with surprise.
“A gentleman, who was at the commission meetings in Washington, owns a civil engineering and land-use planning firm in New York City, and he's secured some lucrative contracts to build administrative buildings in several colored communities. He wants me to come work for him and open a new office in Harlem.”
“This is completely coming out of left field. What about Washington?”
“Well, you don't spend three weeks in D.C. without meeting a host of fascinating individuals. This was unexpected but impossible to turn down.”
“Nothing's impossible to turn down, Sid.”
“I should say difficult. And the government work in Washington is still a possibility in the future, but work on the Pennsylvania Avenue Triangle won't likely start for at least a year, maybe even longer. Besides, with the wave of colored artists making their way to New York, Harlem in specific, this could be a blessing for you.”
“I'm just trying to digest such a sudden and drastic change of plans, that's all. I'd been visualizing Washington for weeks. But I've never actually cared about where we move. You know that.”
“There's nothing holding us back,” I said.
She slightly nodded in agreement. “I've actually been reading about Harlem,” she said. “Sounds like it's becoming the mecca for writers, poets, painters, and sculptors.”
“So that's even more good reason.”
“Sid, you don't have to try and convince me. Let me just soak up the change of plans for a second. It's not like I'm upset. I'm actually kind of excited.”
“Okay.”
It was quiet for a bit before she reengaged. “When were you planning for us to move?”
“I figured I would leave in three days, find us a short-term residence, and then you will join me in a couple of weeks. I will then arrange for our items to be moved. In the meantime, you can tie up the loose ends with the house and say all of your good-byes. Oh, and you'll need your father's Chevrolet for the next couple of weeks, but I don't want you driving it to New York. I'll arrange to have it driven out when you leave on the train.”
“I think this could really work, Sid. For both of us.”
6
N
EW YORK WAS A MASSIVE BEAST OF A CITYâLIKE NOTHING
I'
D SEEN
before. Chicago paled in comparison to its enormity. I arrived at Grand Central Terminal, beautiful Penn Station and managed to connect to the Lenox Avenue Line en route to Harlem.
I got off at Lenox Avenue and 145th Street and hailed a taxi. I told the driver, “Please take me directly to a clean and relatively inexpensive hotel.” Wasn't long before he'd turned onto 130th Street and pulled in front of a cozy-looking spot called the Sweet Tree Hotel.
I checked in, dropped off my luggage, and phoned the BOI, notifying them of my arrival and location, just as they'd ordered. Agent Speed was to be my contact and I was to spend the first few weeks just learning Harlem, getting my bearings.
I headed back out, spending most of the day just walking the streetsâlooking, smelling, absorbing the sounds. On one block I could smell cinnamon, nutmeg, and vanilla, which made me think of Momma's sweet potato pie. Each block brought with it a new aroma.
As I approached West 145th Street, the unmistakable scent of simmering black-eyed peas, smoked ham hocks, and fried onion began whetting my appetite. It was a warm August day, and people were out in force, many of them buying bananas, melons, and oranges from various fruit stands. I approached one that featured a variety of fruits I'd never seen before.
“What are you selling?” I asked the dark-skinned, bald-headed vendor manning the stand.
“All dis da good fresh fruit, friend,” he answered with a thick Jamaican accent, his front teeth missing. “Dis guava from Jamaica. Din dis da hog plum and da June plum. You from U.S. like dis papaya. Yes?”
“Which is your favorite?” I asked.
“Okay, friend. Dis ones da mammy apple, and da star apple. Oh, and dis sea grapes. Maybe you buy dis sweet cherry, friend. All deez from Jamaica. All deez my favorite.”
“I'll try some sea grapes,” I said, handing him some change.
“Is good one. You like. Dank you.”
I nodded as he filled a small brown bag. Walking away, I tasted oneâsalty and bitter. But I was hungry and continued eating them, puckering my lips and scrunching up my face as I headed down to a post office on West 133rd Street that the hotel attendant had mentioned. I secured a post office box and mailed some black newspaper subscription slips that I had taken while visiting Gold.
It was about six in the evening, and I was getting hungry. I headed back to the Sweet Tree, went up, and changed clothes.
When I came back downstairs, the female attendant at the front office told me I could grab some great ribs at a joint called Sonny's Pool Hall up on 134th. I headed over to Seventh Avenue and up.
The place was large and dark, but had only a few customers. I went to the back corner away from the pool tables and positioned myself so that I could see the front doorâhad done this all of my life. It wasn't long before a middle-aged waitress came over and took my order.
“What'll it be, Baby?”
“I'll have the âSonny's Bad Boy' with fries and a root beer.”
“Aw right, Sugar.”
They served the side of juicy pork baby back ribs on a brown paper bagâno plate. It was one of the most enjoyable thirty minutes of eating I had experienced. I licked my fingers clean and gulped down what remained of my icy soda. A young manâearly twentiesâwas hitting pool balls by himself. I walked over.
“Would you like to play a game?” I asked.
“Rack 'em,” he said.
“All right. Name's Sidney.”
“I'm Drew.”
I racked the balls and grabbed a stick. He took the first shot and the game was on. It took him about five minutes to dispose of me, and he, of course, wanted to play a second game. I obliged. Sonny's started to get a bit busier as our game continued. Folks were filing in, ordering ribs, and having a grand old time. The volume in the joint had certainly gone up a few notches.
“Place usually fills up between eight and ten,” Drew said.
All of a sudden, I got on a lucky streak, making every shot. When I knocked the eight ball in the far corner pocket, I heard a deep voice from about twenty feet away.
“I got next!”
I turned and could barely make out what seemed to be two well-dressed men in three-piece suits and fedora hats sitting at a table, engulfed in smoke. That combined with the darkness of the room and their coffee-colored skin made it difficult to make out their faces. But I could see the burn of their cigarettes. I squinted and looked through the smoke. One of the men stepped through the thick cloud and walked toward us. He slammed a ten-dollar bill down on the pool table and looked squarely at me.
“You game, pretty boy?”
I didn't say a word. I had quite a bit of cash on me, but it was for securing a brownstone, and I certainly didn't want to waste any of it on a pool game. I looked at him in his expensive suit. He was a tall, dark-skinned, angular manâabout my height. Never having been one to resist a challenge, I reached into my pants pocket and took out two five-dollar bills. I then did the racking.
As my opponent retrieved a pool stick, Drew grabbed a seat at the next table. He looked on with angst. Chalking his stick, my opponent turned to his buddy in the distance and yelled:
“This shouldn't take long, brother! We'll make the party on time. You hear me, brotha? We gon' make the party on time.”
I heard laughter through the smoke. Again, I ignored my opponent and watched as he broke with an aggressive shot. He knocked the five ball in the side pocket and then proceeded to miss his next shot after strutting into it. The man strutted like nobody's business.
My lucky streak hadn't waned, as I began holing every ball I hit. People from afar were whooping and hollering as I did my best impersonation of a professional. My opponent just stood there, cigarette hanging from his mouth, glaring at me. I lined up the eight ball and stretched across the table to make a difficult shot.
“Eight ball, corner pocket,” I said.
And with that the game was over.
“Double or nothing,” he immediately demanded.
“I'm through for the night,” I said, knowing my luck would end.
I picked up the twenty dollars and turned to say good-bye to Drew. But he was nowhere in sight. I then attempted to shake my opponent's hand, but he didn't budge. He just stood there clutching his pool stick. I sensed a brewing hatred of me in his jaundiced eyes.
I brushed off his slight, casually made my way to the front door, and stepped out into the fresh night air. It was time to make my way back to the Sweet Tree.
* * *
I woke early the next morning and did my usual hour of meditation and Kodokan exercises. After a good sweat, I washed up and headed over to the newsstand to pick up several papers. I then popped in to Snappy's Restaurant on Lenox for coffee, eggs, and toast. I opened a copy of the
Negro World
and read that Garvey was still in negotiations to officially purchase the
Yarmouth.
With breakfast finished and the papers read, I decided to walk up Lenox Avenue from 130th to 145th. I wanted to experience every block, not knowing exactly where I was going or whom I might meet. It would allow me to get a feel for the engine of Harlem.
I stopped and had my wing tips shined by an old gray-haired gentleman. He talked nonstop about the city and made me promise to try his favorite joint on 144th.
“Best damn sausage in the world,” he kept saying. “Damn near choked to death last time I had 'em. They the best now! I wouldn't lie to you, young brother.”
As I walked along each block, I saw artists painting on corners, musicians lugging their packed instruments aroundâor playingâand poets reading their material. With the war over, thousands looked to be flocking here to take part in some kind of artistic awakening that was uniquely Harlem's.
* * *
A fellow in a convenience store on 145th told me to head over by City College of New York to find a brownstone. The man believed that I would like West Harlem.
“Ain't but a few coloreds be livin' 'round there,” he said. “But they be the high-livin' types.”
He told me that Eighth Avenue was an informal color lineâwest of it was mostly white. I decided to take him up on his suggestion. My feet were sore, so I splurged and took a short ride in a beaten-up, open-air taxi. I also wanted the taxi to drive by Marcus Garvey's office at the Universal Negro Improvement Association's headquarters. We headed south and then took a left on 135th.
“There it is,” he said.
“So close?”
“Yep. Fifty-six West 135th.”
I had walked right past the building earlier, not knowing what it was. My heart began to pound as we passed. There it wasâGarvey's office. I had no intentions of stopping but just needed to see it. I wondered how soon I'd be able to penetrate those walls. Hoover's clock was probably ticking fast.
“Where is the City College?” I asked.
“138th and Convent.”
“Take me to the neighborhood near there.”
“Yes, sir.”
He dropped me off on Amsterdam near the college. Walking east on West 140th, I noticed an available bow-front brick town house on the north side of the street. I approached the front door and a short, middle-aged brother was there to greet me.
“Come on in,” he said. “Take a look around. Name's Paul Smith.”
“Sidney Temple.” We shook. “I can't believe my good luck. I don't even know where I'm at.”
“You in the Sugar Hill section of Harlem.”
“You the owner?” I asked, looking around.
“No, I'm one of the sales agents. I've been doing this here line of work for about fifteen years. Used to work for the Afro-American Realty Company.”
“How many rooms does the place have?”
“Place has one big bedroom and another little one. But as you can tell, it's got plenty of space up in here.”
I moved slowly around the living room. “So tell me about this company you worked for.”
“Well, that company had been owned by Mr. Philip A. Payton, Jr. He was my boss. Hell of a man. Father of colored Harlem. Old Payton, Jr., had been buying up real estate and renting and selling to Negroes since 'bout 1904. But he died two years back.”
“I'm sorry to hear that.” I rubbed my hand along the front window seal.
“Before that company existed, white owners was refusing to rent or sell to colored folks. A whole lot of coloreds would be living just as fine as can be, but all of a sudden some white man would buy the building and start evicting folksâthen renting those spots to whites. But Mr. Payton, Jr., changed all that. He started buying up Harlem properties and evicting the white folks.”
Mr. Smith began laughing loudly. The idea that a colored man had turned the tables on white folks tickled him to death. I made my way to the master bedroom and he followed with a bit of a limp.
“After Mr. Payton, Jr., died, more Negro realty companies sprung up, and I was able to hook on with Jeffers Realty. They treat me real good, and they rent and sell to colored folks for fair dollars. Negroes is buying homes here in Harlem like you wouldn't believe. Folks with regular payin' jobs is even buying themselves a place. It's buying time in Harlem. Investment time.”
“Well, I certainly like this place, especially these hardwood floors and freshly painted walls.”
“If you look out the window there you can see the college to the south.”
“Yes, I saw it on my way over.” I approached the window and took a look. “Maybe Loretta can take some classes. She's my wife. We're not looking to buy right away. She wants to take her time picking a place to own.”
I looked out at the large vacant field across the street, the City College in the distance. The field occupied about a quarter block. “Why is that field vacant and so shabby?” I asked.
“Oh, the City College been planning to develop that land for some five years. Nothin' but weeds and bushes livin' there now.”
“Well, the view beyond it is pleasant. But I don't plan on spending a lot of time looking out the window. And this place has character. How much per month?”
“Well, most regular one-bedrooms in Harlem be goin' for about one hundred dollars a month. But this here Sugar Hill town house goin' for one seventy-five a month.”
I wasn't sure if Loretta would love it, but it would suffice for the time being. When the moment arrived for us to actually buy a home, I knew she would don her love for all things romantic.
“When can we move in?”
“Well now, if I can get you to fill out this here paperwork, I'll take it back to the office and let you know by tomorrow. Ain't no one else in the runnin', so, I suppose you'll be the one gets it.”
I took out two hundred fifty in cash and handed it to him. “I really like the place.”
“Oh, no. I said one-hundred-seventy-five, Mr. Temple.”
“The extra seventy five is for you.”
He stood there wide-eyed for a moment. “All right then. Well, uh . . . well . . . okay . . . I'll have the keys for you tomorrow. Where are you staying?”
“The Sweet Tree.”
“How does high noon sound?”
“Sounds good. Look here. You wouldn't happen to know of any small office space that might be available for rent in the area would you? I'm an engineering consultant and need a nice building to work out of.”
“Indeed. More than I can count,” he said, staring at the money. “Be happy to show 'em to you. Real happy!”