Matthew Henson and the Ice Temple of Harlem

by Gary Phillips

  Reverend Stafford, the informer, was racked with envy. His government contact was no longer available to him, the phone number disconnected. He received no further communication from the Bureau though he tried several times reaching out to them.

  Before those occurrences, still jailed in the Tombs in Lower Manhattan, Two Laces lay on his cot in his solitary cell smoking a cigarette, when one of the jailers appeared at his bars. “There’s a mouthpiece here to see you, Two Laces.” He had a key in the lock and was opening the cell door.

  “About damn time,” the crook said, sitting upright and grounding the cigarette out under his feet. He yawned and followed the jailer along the hallway of other jail cells to a room down another corridor. He stepped inside, his eyes having to adjust to an unexpected gloom.

  “Hey, what goes?” he said, the door slamming shut behind him. “Where’s the shyster?” he said. There was a table and two chairs in the room, but no one sitting down.

  A hand came from behind, covering his mouth, as a muscled arm pulled him back. Two Laces had his hands on that arm and was trying to break free when the knife blade opened the front of his throat. He gagged on his own blood, holding hands to his severed throat as he impotently trying to prevent his life from gushing away. He fell to his knees, his sweat-stained shirt soaked crimson. A foot in his back sent him over onto his face, dead.

  Detective Kevin Hoffman briefly regarded his handiwork. He replaced the knife in its scabbard beneath his pant leg. Then removing his gloves, he stepped out into the vacant hallway and exited the central lock-up. There were spots of blood on his shoes.

  Dutch Schultz exited the Hotel Astor to his waiting Packard Phaeton. The sun was bright and the birds chirped overhead. He should be in a good mood, having just had a series of his sexual fetishes indulged by the two working girls he’d paid well for the efforts. But the debacle at Liberty Hall haunted him, and if anything, he only got madder and more determined that he was going to take over the Harlem rackets from those coons who were laughing up their sleeve at him. Nor could he believe that Luciano and the others on the commission were giving him shit about this. They kept telling him he didn’t see the bigger picture and that it was in the interest of everyone to have the colored run the numbers to keep the peace and they’d still be able to take their cut. Fuck that. The kidnap he put on Holstein had been busted up by that broad St. Clair. With his man Bernstein headed for a stint in the big house, busted by that negro cop Rodgers who he’d put the hit out on. These turns of events were absolutely infuriating. And it continued to rile him that St. Clair had been saved by that burr head Matt Henson no less. The same cocksucker who saved Rodgers. He vowed that he too was going to get what was coming to him. Schultz needed to get drunk.

  “Take me to my saloon,” he said to his new man behind the wheel. Word had reached him that Vin O’Hara had been gunned down in Newark over a gambling debt. Though so far, no body had been found. Too bad, he’d liked the kid.

  As they pulled away from the curb a guy riding a bike passed by their car on the driver’s side, nearly crashing into his pristine vehicle.

  “Hey, asshole, if you put a scratch on my car, I’ll lop off your ears,” Schultz yelled.

  “Queenie says hello,” the bike rider said, tossing an object through the car’s open window

  “Jesus Mary,” the driver said, eyeing the object on the floorboards. Like a cartoon come to life, it was a rough-hewn canon ball-like sphere with a lit fuse sticking out of it. A modification of what had been called coal torpedoes during the Civil War. As his boss screamed and the driver reached for the bomb, the thing went off. The explosion blew the roof off the Packard, sending the shorn metal and one of the driver’s severed arms pinwheeling through the air. Schultz had managed to get partially out the rear door, and was sent flying through the air across the sidewalk. He collided with the brick face of a building, breaking numerous bones, his clothes partially burned away and the skin dangling like tinsel from his scorched back and legs. But he was still breathing.

  The bomb thrower was Venus Melenaux dressed in knickers, rolled up sleeves and a newsboy cap. She rode on, ditching the bike a few blocks away in an alley where she’d left a skirt to wear to disguise herself as a lady.

  At the hospital that afternoon, as reporters were kept at bay by the police, his hoodlums stationed in the hallway, the Dutchman was consumed with fever and frustration. Morphine pulsed in his veins. He was in traction and wrapped in bandaging. A nurse put a finger to her lips for her co-workers to be quiet as they witnessed his mumblings interspersed with rants.

  “Yeah, I did him good. Tied a rag soaked in clap sores around his eyes, leaked in and mad him crazy in a Siberian tiger who rode him till he got home.”

  “The last train carried the loot all the way under the mountain of the moon where it’ll never be found only I know the way.” He would chuckle and thrash, rattle on and at various intervals remain silent for long stretches.

  “The prince is sure to come to dinner if the feathered octopus says so. But the cosmic girls piloting the blimps will want orange payment.”

  As the setting sun projected light and shadow slanting though the Venetian blinds, he’d been quiet for nearly half an hour. From somewhere nearby a radio broadcast a swing orchestra. The sound muffled through the walls of Schultz’s room. During a break, the announcer did a commercial for Clicquot Club Pale Dry Ginger Ale. Schultz licked his chapped lips and began mumbling.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” he gulped, “Henson is not to be touched until the time of the sun goddesses returns with her forever light of blue. Oh, great and awful Grim Destroyer, grant me this passage down the tunnel of the seven spears that I too may rescue the fruit cups.”

  As the wounded gangster babbled on, Matt Henson received an envelope by messenger at his residence. It had the look of something you’d get inviting you to a dinner party. Inside was a note on cardstock. He read this and set this and envelope aside. At his cupboard, he had a taste of his bathtub hooch and sat in his lounge chair in the living room, staring at the mantle but not seeing it. As Kodama had taught him in the monastery in Kyoto, he centered himself in himself to reach the exquisite state of unconcerned immersion. He moved his mind past the jumble of mood, feelings and doubts to clarity—vibration of the soul in harmony with his body. To achieve zen, to not focus on calculation which led to miscalculation, he sought to be absolutely alert. Necessary was the ability to arrive at the state where an inner reserve of energy could be summoned at the most critical juncture. For he had an evening engagement at the Brooklyn docks in Red Hook, and did not wish to make it a one-way trip.

  “Did you know during the draft riots several negro gentlemen having been pursued for blocks and blocks by enraged whites had sought refuge at the Challenger’s Club?” Fremont Davis, his arms folded, leaned against a pile of coffee beans in burlap sacks stacked high and long against one wall. During the Civil War, Congress passed compulsory inscription. This in the wake of the Emancipation Proclamation being enacted. Added to that, the well-heeled could pay for a poor person to take their place in the draft. Wage-earning whites revolted against Lincoln’s “nigger war.”

  “Were they turned away?” Henson finished, climbing down into the ship’s hold from the main deck. While there was still cargo in here, from fifty-pound bags of apricots to coffee to machine parts in wooden crates, all of it had been shoved off to the sides allowing for a squared-off mostly bare center. It was cold outside, and a chill wind whistled around this metal cavity. Henson had come without a coat on, braced and invigorated by the frosty temperature. As far as he could tell, only he and Davis were on the ship, the SS Robeson.

  Henson wore his workingman’s clothes and boots. Davis was in dungarees and a worn loose cotton shirt, western-type boots on his feet. Probably his hunting clothes, Henson figured. There were lights strung up at regular intervals along the walls providing illumination—though the shadows lengthened the more you moved away
from the center area.

  Davis straightened up, chuckling. “In fact, my dear departed grandfather Solomon who was head of the board then, sent word that what was happening out on the streets of the city was a travesty and that no innocent man nor woman seeking shelter would be harmed on his watch.” He motioned with his hand. “Those gentlemen and several others were secured in the club’s basement. Fed, bedded and safeguarded during the duration of the disturbance.”

  “Very noble.”

  “Do you know why I turned down your application for membership, Matthew?” Davis kept his gaze on Henson.

  “To get back at ol’ granddad?”

  He shook a finger at him. “Ha, no. I knew full well of your contributions to reach the North Pole. I knew full well you deserved to be the first black member of our august body.”

  “But…” Henson said, orbiting the one small table there was in here. On it was a silver serving tray with two hunting knifes laid out ceremonially. Their blades had been vigorously polished.

  “But it was business, plain and simple. Had I championed your application, it had been made clear to me from other, shall we say…more short-sighted members, that certain contracts I was in pursuit of would not be forthcoming. That meant ships shipping, jobs, food on the table and the clothes on the backs of the families of my workers. The needs of one can’t outweigh the many.”

  “Really, it was a sacrifice on my part, only I didn’t know it.”

  He shrugged. “Wanted to clear the air on that. I have the negro’s best interest in mind, Matthew”

  “That a fact?”

  “You scoff, but what is it you think I intended to do with the Daughter?’

  “Considering you gave Schultz the ray gun, kill a lot of black folks?”

  He shrugged. “Again, just business. You know I wouldn’t have kept that hothead as an ally for too much longer. But I will admit, I was curious to see how the weapon would operate.”

  “Not too good, it turned out.”

  “My scientists theorize the meteor will be the proper stabilization element. For you see, that’s what this power will be in my hands. I’ll bring stability and order. Mark my words, there’s unrest in Europe and sooner or later the skies will be filled again with the screams of dying men and women. Imagine what could be accomplished in the judicious use of several of the death rays?”

  “You figure to be the dictator of the world? Or America at least”

  “Setting the terms is how I see it. There’s a place for a man like you in such a vision, Matthew.”

  “I’ll pass.”

  He looked sincerely disappointed. “I imagine in that exclusive interview you’re set to conduct with The New York Amsterdam News, you’ll be naming names, raising certain allegations.”

  “Most assuredly. Yet, I’m sure you’re not worried about that.”

  “No, but there’s others who want you made an example of, make sure you’re put back in your place.”

  “An example for any other uppity nigras,” Henson cracked.

  “Yes,” Davis said wearily, “there is that. But I’ve already concluded I’ll have to get you out of the way. By my hand, not some rifleman on a roof as some had suggested. This has to be between you and me. Hunter to hunter.”

  Henson imagined bulldog suggesting the sniper approach. “Now that you’ve figured out the meteorite isn’t here in town, if I’m dead, how will you find it?”

  “I’d wager your friend Ootah knows. And one way or the other, I’ll track him down and wrest its location from him.” He said this without rancor, like listing items for a trip to the grocery store.

  Henson cursed

  “What? I own a freight line.” He swept his hand about indicating the hold. “I’m well connected here on the docks. You think an Eskimo can show up here a few years ago and that doesn’t garner attention? Especially one palling around with a black man. Now, mind you, there had already been rumblings about a gift from the heavens.”

  “The priest, Christofferson,” Henson said, after a pause.

  “Indeed. Did you know he published a book in Denmark about his time in the Arctic? You’re mentioned in several places, quite favorably. He writes about the time he told you about the Seqinek fable.”

  “So?”

  “So, when Ootah was shown around Copenhagen by the priest, he apparently let slip more than he intended. How you two had nearly lost your lives in an underground cavern. But he clammed up thereafter. Still,” he gestured, “that was an inadvertent corroboration.”

  “Why made you believe the story in the padre’s book?”

  “I believed it because Leeward kept a dairy. Peary turned everyone’s diaries over to the Natural History Museum, except for yours. Being enamored of your expeditions, envious even, I poured over those documents. And I’d read your rather tame memoir twice. Too bad you weren’t allowed to tell it straight. I mean, you mention Leeward, how sad it was that he “accidently” lost his life. But his account makes it clear of what he thought of you. A fellow like that must have truly grated on your nerves.”

  “He did,” Henson admitted. It also occurred to him Davis must have been searching for Ootah before now. But once the millionaire determined he didn’t have the Daughter close, it was better to get him out of the way should his friend get wise and try and send word to him.

  Davis was near the knives again. “Curious then he should disappear in the crevasse. Maybe you and Ootah bumped him off simply because he was a Son of the Confederacy who deserved it. Or maybe there was another reason. I knew deep down it wasn’t a gold strike or a stratum of coal you were protecting. That sort of wealth doesn’t seem to motivate you, Mr. Henson. And even if greed was your North Star, you would have returned to extract those riches. But the Daughter is so much more than mere earthly treasures.”

  “Here we are, then.”

  “Yes. No more artifice, no hidden machinations of would-be puppet masters. Just you and me, and our will to survive. As it should be.” Like he was a salesman indicating watches in a counter case, Davis gestured toward the knives. “Please, be my guest.”

  Henson picked up one of the knives. The handle below the curved metal hilt was carved hickory and had heft to it. Davis picked up the other knife and backed up several feet from his opponent. The unstated rules were simple, fight until one of you couldn’t any longer. No throwing the knife, but you could use your free hand. If you ran, then your cowardice and shame would be the stone around your neck forever. Besides, the only way out was up the rungs and the other man would sink the knife in your back before you made it out. Knives extended, the two circled each other. Davis feinted, and Henson blocked with his blade, the clinking of the steel echoing in the cavernous space. Again, they moved around each other warily, eyes alternating from glancing at the other’s knife then to their face, then to the weapon again.

  Henson charged at Davis with an underhanded effort. The millionaire side-stepped, and Henson punched him with a solid left. Davis’ head reared back but he wasn’t that stunned, and mostly avoided a slash from Henson’s blade, though he did slit the other’s sleeve and the forearm underneath. The two shifted more, their blades striking and sliding off each other. Moving closer to each other at one point, Davis successfully grabbed Henson’s wrist, yanking the other man off-balance. The knife was raised in his other hand and he plunged it downward, intending to sink it into Henson’s chest. Henson acted fast and drove the flat of his blade against the other knife.

  Both men grunted and gritted their teeth as they now had their respective left hands on the other’s lower forearm, the knives momentarily locked as they each pushed them to overpower the other. Henson turned his body, trying to whip Davis around. But he let go, and stumbled. Henson pressed the attack and Davis swiped at his chest, driving him backward. His shirt marked the path of the knife along with a diagonal line of blood underneath.

  Once more, they allowed several feet between them as each m
an sought an opening to attack. Davis hunched forward, then, twisting to the side, made Henson miss with his thrust. Davis’ knife pierced Henson’s upper thigh, but he pulled free before more damage was done.

  Davis leaned his upper body in again, tossing the knife back and forth between his hands to try and throw Henson off as to which direction he’d make his assault. In a burst and a blur, the knife in his left, Davis brought the blade up toward the other man’s stomach. Fortunately for Henson, his reflexes were faster, he and ducked aside, chopping his knife at the other’s wrist and lower arm of his knife hand.

  “Shit,” Davis swore, a deep wound lacerating that part of his arm. He moved off, sweat dampening his brow. He went far enough away that he bumped against some of the crates. Their creaks a graveyard resonance in the momentary silence.

  Henson didn’t come forward, but kept the distance between them. He knew a wounded Davis was a dangerous man, one not to be underestimated. Plus, in that gloom he might not see the flash of the knife until it was too late. His leg was hurting but he was too excited and too scared to let that bother him now.

  Davis moved into the light, the knife low, but pointing upward in his fist. Henson rushed him, and their blades hacked at the other as if they were using broadswords. The shipping magnate twisted in such a way that Henson next jab at him went past and Davis sliced at his shoulder, drawing blood again. The other man moved away instinctively, keeping his hunting knife poised to prevent Davis from charging him. He, too, collided with cargo, and dove away as Davis lunged. The end of his blade sunk into one of the crates. As he pulled it free, Henson pressed his brief opening and nicked Davis’ side. Davis made a defensive slash and Henson had to sidestep out of range.