Calmly, he clubbed Bulldog in the head with the gun and got to his feet. “Knock that gat away from you,” Henson commanded Davis.
He hesitated, but knew from his fetal position on the floor, he couldn’t bring his body around to shoot Henson before the explorer pumped slugs into him. Davis swept his hand, skidding the revolver across the floorboards.
“You better get his neck stitched close or he surely dies,” Henson warned Bulldog.
The taller man held a hand to his neck, blood soaking his upper shirt. Pleadingly, he glared at his partner.
“You’re gonna swing for this, Henson,” Bulldog promised.
“We’ll see.”
Davis removed a shard of porcelain stuck in his cheek, momentarily examining the piece with a disinterested air. Otherwise he remained still.
“Don’ worry, I’ll take care of your boss,” Henson said. “Skedaddle.”
Having no choice, Bulldog got his arm under his partner to support him and started toward the door. But as he did so, he shoved the wounded Jeff at Henson, which caused him to try and duck. He wasn’t successful and the two went over.
“Goddamn slippery nigra,” Bulldog hollered, jumping on Henson. The two grappled. Jeff groaned on the floor. Davis ran out the door to the hallway, then down to the street.
Henson leveraged a knee into Bulldog’s chest and, moving his head sideways, took a glancing blow on his jaw from the government man. He swatted him again several times about the head with the business end of the gun. He sagged, and Henson got him off and was on his feet. Henson closed the door, keeping his gun on Bulldog who sat up on the floor. Blood clotted his hair.
“He’s right, you’ll hang for this, Henson.” Jeff rolled onto his back.
“Yeah? You think the other members of this council will reward you for trying to sneak one past them? Trying to make a naked grab for a thing they feel entitled to ‘cause they were born with silver spoons in their mouths?”
Bulldog glared at him. “You gonna bore us to death with a lecture?”
Henson knew that even though this was an underhanded operation, to linger here was not in his best interest. Bulldog or Jeff could concoct any kind of story that would bring G-men or cops down on him with a vengeance once he got Jeff to the hospital. He was desirous of sweating this chump to find out what Davis was up to, and he best be quick about it.
“How come Davis has a bee in his bonnet to get the rock now? Keep in mind, you sonofabitch, the longer you take to come across, the less chance your partner has of staying alive.”
Jeff murmured. “We’re not sure. But we know a few years ago, Davis was a backer of Tesla. The egghead is always going on about his ideas in articles and what not. Anyways, Davis got a hold of some kind of blueprint Tesla had tried to sell the War Department.” He looked over at Bulldog who also spoke.
“From what we’ve pieced together, Davis had his own white coats working on this blueprint for some time. Apparently he’s ready to test this thing.”
Henson understood it had to be Tesla’s damn electro ray device. With the Daughter who knew how many thousands of those could be powered?
“Get the fuck out of here,” he growled.
The two left Henson standing in the middle of the room. For the first time in a long time, cold worked its way through his body.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Officer Cole Rodgers stepped out of the Rexall drugstore carrying a grocery bag of several items, including a tub of Vaseline and hairpins. He was proud to be able to provide for his two ladies. He was in civilian clothes, and had treated himself to an egg crème at the soda fountain. On he walked, happy to have the day—or at least part of it—off. He had to report in for the swing shift later, but for now he had his apartment to himself. Cora and her sister had taken Irene shopping. She’d told him with a kiss that, as long as he left the windows open, he could smoke a cigar while he listened to music, or whatever he wanted to do to relax.
Crossing the street at an angle, he approached his building. He shifted the bag to his other hand and dug his keys out of his pocket. He got the door open and stepped inside the cool and inviting foyer. Heading toward the stairs, there was a stir in his peripheral vision and, turning, a man with a handkerchief tied over the lower half of his face was there, a .45 pointed at his head. He’d left his own upstairs atop his uniform.
“It’s Kingdom Come time, cop,” announced the man.
Rodgers instinctively closed his eyes, wishing he could see his wife and child one more time, if only to say his goodbyes. There was a loud retort as he prayed there was an afterlife. When he didn’t feel a burning sensation or a breeze blowing through the hole in his face, he opened his eyes.
“Matt?”
“Hey, Cole,” Matthew Henson said, a length of pipe in his hand. The masked man was lying at his feet. He reached down and took the handkerchief off.
“I know that mug. That’s Two Laces.”
“Yeah, Dutch Schultz sent him to kill you,” Henson confirmed.
“Damn. Why me?”
The note had warned Henson. The message had been left by the man calling himself Vin O’Hara, and he’d stated that he was an infiltrator. The explorer had believed the message to be authentic. “Daddy Paradise’s big speech. Get you out of the way just in case. You being a black cop on the Harlem beat and all. Even though your bosses already said you can’t guard the event.”
Rodgers said, “I intended to be there anyway.”
Henson smiled at him.
“Say, what happened to your face?” Rodgers asked.
Henson chuckled dryly. “Long story. But right now, we have to save a whole bunch of people from getting slaughtered like Thanksgiving turkeys.”
When Henson had learned about Davis’ copying Tesla’s machine, he’d confronted him.
“Yes,” the aging inventor admitted heavily. “I’ve got it on good authority that after several years of failures, Davis was close to making a prototype of his own based on my idea. That’s why I’d renewed efforts to perfect my Electro-Pulsar.”
“How’d you find out what he was up to?” Henson had asked.
Tesla smiled lopsidedly. “Too many times over the years, Matt, I’ve made bad business decisions that have cost me financially and scientifically. Once it became clear that Davis was using me, I was determined to…reverse course, shall we say.”
“In what way?” Henson said.
As Tesla began to answer, one of his assistants had rushed out of his rooftop lab and whispered in his ear. When he was done, Tesla had invited Henson to follow. In the lab was a wireless of an advanced design unlike anything Henson had seen before. Freja Petersen’s voice came over the wavelength after Tesla spoke into his microphone. What she reported caused both men to gape.
Later, after his meeting with Tesla, Henson made a stop at the U.S. Customs House on the southern tip of the island. The building near Battery Park and the water’s edge was considered a fine example of the Beaux Arts style. Henson was disguised as a delivery man, wearing a light jacket with the words “B. Jonas Freight” stenciled on the back. He also carted a wooden box on a dolly. Once inside, he wheeled his supposed delivery to a metal door and knocked. A face appeared in the shatterproof window on the other side of the door. The woman unlocked it.
“Thanks, Edna.”
“Off course, Matt,” his across the hall neighbor said, wearing her blue clerk’s uniform. “You know how to let yourself out, yeah?”
“Absolutely.”
Mullins nodded, and they began walking along a long windowless hallway, Hanson trailing with the dolly. They got to a juncture and they separated, giving her a half wave as he did. He passed another clerk carrying a clipboard going in the opposite direction, and nodded curtly at him. He got to a door and entered. There was yet another clerk there, sitting on a stool behind a counter. He was a beer-bellied middle-aged white man with the stare of years of earned boredom.
“Yeah?” he said
, as if forming that one word was effort.
Henson took a folded piece of paper out of the breast pocket of his shirt. “Delivery,” he said.
The other man didn’t bother to extend his hand for the paper. It seemed after years on the job, he’d perfected to the atom the amount of energy he needed to expend to complete any particular function. He did look at the sheet as it lay on the counter before him. He then made a heavy sound in his chest like a bear rousing from hibernation. He pulled over a clipboard and made a notation on the top sheet.
“Take it on back,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
Henson opened the low gate separating the well from the gallery in a courtroom. He wheeled in his box, and the bored man had to get off his stool to unlock another metal door, this one windowless. He was let into a two-story cavernous storage area of rows upon rows of metal shelves filled with wooden and cardboard boxes and other types of containers. Like in a library, at the end of each row there were numerical designations corresponding with a master list the clerk kept up front. The lazy clerk was supposed to personally take the deliveries in here. But Henson knew from Edna, he didn’t follow the protocol. The disguised explorer wheeled the dolly in a ways, and then deposited it between two rows. Inside the box was a cheap reproduction of a Ming dynasty vase. At some point, a clerk would come upon this and simply figure it had been removed from a shelf and not restocked.
Henson walked deeper into the rows until he came to row 51 X-9. He went down this aisle, the light gloomy and the air stuffy. A little past midway he stopped, having counted his steps like a kid in search of buried pirate’s treasure. There, on the third shelf up from the bottom, he removed a small wooden crate. There was no identifying sticker on it, and a person had to look close to note one of its nail heads had been dotted with red paint. He used a screwdriver he had on him to pry the lid off.
He inhaled sharply, staring at the triangular piece of the Daughter he’d broken off and taken back with him to America. He slipped the fragment into his jacket pocket. He then tamped the lid back on using the handle of the screwdriver. He tried not to look excited when he stepped back out and passed the clerk. He needn’t have bothered. The civil servant was busy sharpening pencils. As he removed each one from the sharpener, he blew loose graphite off the tips and diligently studied the results of his engineering.
CHAPTER TWENTY
People came by car, foot, bus, subway and even train from outlying areas to hear Daddy Paradise deliver his “Equality and Prosperity, the Road to True Freedom” speech at Liberty Hall. While the police were not officially safeguarding the negro firebrand, the commissioner had to do something once he got the call from Mayor Jimmy Walker’s office. The charismatic democrat had received too many calls and visits from too many black pastors and other civic leaders—and a few whites as well—about the event, and the need to make sure there was no problems at the gathering. Then there was the stoic presence of mostly white officers around the perimeter who watched as many in their finery, including a number of whites, such as the escorted black arts patron Charlotte Osgood Mason, filed past to hear the celebrity spiritualist.
The ones Matthew Henson had recruited to provide security were either in position or roaming about the auditorium. Though everyone hadn’t been patted down upon entering the hall, Dulane’s crew, given their known associates and associations, kept hard eyes out for those they deemed worthy of such precautions. Due to a suggestion from Miriam McNair, there were several women on security duty as well. Those individuals singled out who objected either relented or were turned away.
Running about forty minutes behind, eventually as the bulk of the people were seated, the program got underway. Miriam McNair came out on stage in a sequined gown to a round of polite applause. The podium hadn’t been set up yet but there was an upright microphone upon which harsh white light shone from the rafters. She spoke into this.
“Some of you know me, many of you don’t. But be assured I won’t be taking up too much of your time as the man of the hour will soon be out to give his address. My name is Miriam McNair, and I want to acknowledge several groups and individuals who worked tirelessly to pull this event off. First off,” she continued, splaying her fingers against a gaudy broach she wore, “I have to, of course, mention the women of my loose-knit organization, the Bronze Orchids.”
That got another round of applause, and McNair continued to name those who had a hand in organizing and doing outreach for the event. She finished, then did an introduction.
“I would like to bring out a young woman, the niece of one of my members. She is quite something and will lead us in song to truly set the mood for this most special evening. You will find her voice amazing.” McNair said her name and turned to extend her arm, waiting for the teenage girl to step out on stage. She got to the microphone, and McNair gave her a brief hug then left. The young woman took a big gulp and began. She was part of the Abyssinian Baptist Church choir and she began a rendition of “Lift Every Voice and Sing” the so-called Negro National anthem.
Dulane, in charge of security, prowled backstage. He and a few of the others had been provided communication wonders by Nikola Tesla. These radio-signaling apparatuses, rectangular, about eight inches long with stubby antennas protruding from there tops, allowed Dulane to communicate with other key personnel. Tesla guaranteed the range of the radios was nearly a mile. The crowd stood, swaying and singing along to the young lady’s exuberant song. Or rather, most stumbled over the lyrics, mouthing words that rhymed with the correct ones but weren’t accurate. When the song ended, there was vigorous clapping and shouts of joy.
“You ready?” McNair asked Daddy Paradise.
“As I’m going to be,” he replied. He was dressed in a three-piece suit, eschewing pin stripes for a demurer look in charcoal grey, white shirt and dark blue tie. A heavy silver chain was attached to his pocket watch in the vest pocket. There was a fob on it of the cross-legged, smiling Buddha. When wearing the watch at dinner parties and the like, the fob invariably garnered attention and an opportunity from the spiritualist to pontificate upon the depth and breadth of his teachings.
As was his custom, he’d rehearsed his speech from the typed text. After doing that several times, he then made key notes on index cards, specific ideas and points he wanted to make sure he covered. Prepared in that way, he could generally speak extemporaneously yet be secure with his cards before him if needed. The two stood in the wings as the teenager came off stage.
“You are on your way to stardom, dear,” McNair said to her as she walked past.
“Thank you,” she said as her mother came over and hugged her tight.
Dulane and a large gentleman, some six feet five of muscle and gristle, were near the couple. He had the two-way radio to his ear, listening. He took it away and said to Toliver, “Everything’s good, Brother Paradise.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“Good luck, Charles.” McNair kissed him on the cheek.
In turn, he kissed her hand and walked out on stage where a podium had been set up for him. The audience rose to their feet again, clapping and waving. In the VIP rows, the gathered were a range of Harlem’s labor, religious and community leaders as well as representatives of the underworld. Those in attendance included A. Philip Randolph, who was not particularly religious, but understood he couldn’t ignore the pull this man had on the members, men and women of the union he headed, the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters. Near him was Queenie St. Clair with Venus Melaneaux resplendent in a tux, tails and a top hat in hand. St. Clair made sure not to be smirking. But now, having rescued Casper Holstein, she really was the queen of the rackets as far as her contemporaries were concerned.
Also in attendance was also writer and poet Langston Hughes, and Zora Neale Hurston was covering the event for American Mercury magazine. An Episcopal priest and several reverends, including T.C. Stafford, were present. Others not in the VIP section were there repre
senting Opportunity and The Nation, while Jessie Redmon Fauset, though no longer the literary editor of the NAACP’s The Crisis, was nonetheless covering the speech on special assignment for the magazine. Several photographers were there as well.
Hands outstretched, Daddy Paradise said into the microphone, “Please take your seats, beloved. You and I have a momentous journey to begin tonight. One that, I hope, will start us on the way to peace and prosperity. For surely not from City Hall or the White House, will our salvation come. No, my friends, only we can deliver us for us. Only we can do for ourselves because only we can rely on ourselves.” His voice had steadily risen, and he began to thump on the podium using his index finger, the sound picked up by the microphone.
“And don’t misunderstand, I’m not talking about negro for the negro businesses, though there is certainly nothing wrong with that. But I am talking about something more, far more. Something that will lead us to true financial fulfillment. But that is merely a fraction of the whole equation. For it is not a handout from the government or a free lunch in a bar that I’m talking about tonight. Neither Hoover nor Smith can get this for you. For you see, we all have it, that’s the beauty of it.” He dabbed at his forehead with a folded up monogrammed handkerchief even though he wasn’t perspiring yet. Toliver knew people liked to see their preachers working hard.
“That which we must tap into is within us. In the fabled East it’s referred to as chi, the universal essence, the life force that unites body, mind and spirit. But I’m not here tonight to get us lost in a bunch of mumbo jumbo and metaphysics. Oh no, I’m here tonight so that we can shake off the shackles of self-doubt and worry, of ‘I can’t’, and ‘the white man won’t let me’. Damn that.” He paused, scanning the audience, pacing back and forth behind the podium then returning to latch onto its sides like a drowning man onto a life preserver.
Grasping the microphone, Daddy Paradise leaned his mouth close to the instrument. “Dare I say, God damn that,” he blared into the microphone. His white-hot challenge echoed throughout the auditorium.
Matthew Henson and the Ice Temple of Harlem Page 20