“Is that right?” said Hoover in a somewhat challenging tone.
“Yes,” I continued. “Garvey said the following: ‘Kilroe wants to convince the world that I’m stealing from my own people—that I’m soliciting funds for my Black Star Line, then using those same funds to start other businesses.’ Garvey also said the following: ‘This problem with Kilroe started as most of our people’s problems do. One of our own betrays us.’ ”
“Who betrayed him?” asked Hoover.
“Garvey said he did the good deed of hiring a fellow Jamaican to be one of his auditors, and when the books became too complicated for him to handle, he began making far too many mistakes. Garvey accused him of mismanagement in front of an entire committee. The nameless auditor was offended and resigned before Garvey could fire him.”
“At least that’s his version,” said Hoover. “Where does Kilroe come in?”
“The disgruntled auditor then sought revenge and turned the books over to Kilroe. But Garvey claims that if anyone mismanaged the books it was the auditor . . . not him.”
“How convenient,” said Hoover.
“Garvey,” I continued, “said he was called down to Kilroe’s office for a scolding. He said Kilroe threatened him with jail time if he didn’t clean up his books and begin acting as an honest broker. But Garvey then said to me, ‘We’ll see who wins this little war because I don’t lose.’ ”
“Well this is good work, Q3Z,” said Hoover. “Sounds awfully defensive about his books. Speed says you are meeting with Garvey in the morning.”
“Yes. He wants to show me something.”
“Exactly what time is the meeting?”
“Eleven.”
“And is the meeting to take place at his office?”
“Yes,” I said, curious as to why he cared so much.
“You’re in a unique position now, Q3Z. Try to inform Speed as soon as possible about the details. And again, good work.”
* * *
Later that evening, when the sun went down, I left my office and headed for Broadway en route to Greenwich Village to pick up Loretta from an art class. I was heavy in thought about tomorrow’s meeting when I heard a loud siren behind me.
It didn’t take me long to realize I was being asked to pull over by a policeman. I hadn’t been driving very fast or swerving.
Once we’d both pulled to the right of the street, he rolled up about a foot behind me, his headlights illuminating my entire cabin. I probably waited a good five minutes before he finally decided to approach my left door.
“Where you headin’?” he asked, pointing a flashlight directly in my eyes.
“Greenwich Village, Officer,” I said, squinting but not lifting my hand to shield the light.
“Where you comin’ from?” he asked.
“Harlem, sir.”
“You live in Harlem?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t sound like you’re from Harlem,” he said, still blinding me with the light, so much so that I couldn’t make him out. “How long you been there?”
“A few months.”
“Ah,” he said. “That explains it. Can I see some identification?”
“Certainly,” I replied. “It’s here in my coat pocket.”
“Go ahead and slowly get it out.”
I did as he asked and handed it to him while he kept the light on my eyes and held up the card.
“ ‘Sidney Temple,’ ” he read aloud. “Says here you were born in Chicago.”
“Yes. But I grew up in the Milwaukee area.”
“Well,” he said, handing me back my card, “I don’t know about Milwaukee, but New York City has some understood boundaries that most new coloreds have to be schooled on. I’m sure you understand where I’m coming from?”
“I was actually recently in Greenwich Village, sir.”
“Well you’re not in Greenwich Village yet but you certainly are in Manhattan. And your vehicle should be heading toward Harlem, not toward the Village. We try to keep things in their place in New York. Day codes have their place and night codes have theirs.”
“I see.”
“Good,” he said, lowering the flashlight a bit, but still not enough for me to make him out. “So you won’t mind turning this thing around and heading north?”
“I’m just picking up my wife and driving straight back to Harlem.”
“Look, Mr. Temple, maybe you’ve had some dealings with some of our less experienced officers who don’t seem to follow these codes with the kind of discipline us veterans do, but coloreds know to take the subways at night. Your wife will have to catch a ride with someone in the Village tonight, take the subway, or you can pick her up at sunup.”
I clenched my jaw and fought back the rage that was boiling up inside me. I couldn’t tell him I was with the Bureau because I didn’t know who the hell this officer was. He might out me to Garvey if he ever saw me around him. It wasn’t likely but still too risky.
“There’s just no exception you can make here?” I asked. “My wife will be waiting for me.”
“Look, Mr. Temple. I know this is not the South, but we still try to keep folks organized, the races separate, particularly at night. It makes things run smoothly, that’s all. Now please! Move along.”
As I casually began to drive forward and turn around, the rage returned. I drove slowly away and managed to wait until the squad car was no longer in my rearview mirror before I allowed myself to blow off some steam by hitting the steering wheel and cursing the insane cultures Loretta and I were caught between.
As far as I knew Du Bois was the only one fighting all this madness with cool saneness. Only when I envisioned myself as something of a soldier in Du Bois’s army—a peaceful army that would nevertheless blow people like this police officer and his boundaries and codes to kingdom come eventually—did I manage to tamp down the rage and refocus on getting through this one night.
Fortunately, Loretta had given me the phone number of the studio where she was studying. It was at someone’s home. I didn’t want her taking the subway at night, so I figured I’d drive back to the office and try to reach her and come up with an alternate plan.
As soon as I tracked her down and began to speak, something told me not to tell her about the policeman. Didn’t want to upset her. Instead I told her that the car wouldn’t start and that I was in the process of trying to fix the problem. I told her that it might take me several hours and asked if she had someone who could drive her home tonight. Luckily, a French friend of hers named Ginger was more than happy to do just that.
13
I PARKED FACING WEST ON 135TH ABOUT A HALF BLOCK FROM SEVENTH Avenue. UNIA headquarters was a little more than half a block east from there. It was the only available parking I could find. My appointment wasn’t until eleven, so I had about forty-five minutes to kill. I decided to stay in my car for a while and study one of the several railroad maps I had in my briefcase. I was quite enjoying daydreaming about chugging along through the Rocky Mountains, visiting some faraway city like Denver, Colorado.
I studied the various Missouri Pacific Railroad routes for about five minutes then grabbed a different map. Noticing how packed my briefcase had become, I removed the other maps and placed them under my seat.
As I reached down, I glanced to the left and saw a colored man, dressed like a regular deliveryman in all white, standing behind a black ice cream truck parked on the south side of 135th facing east. It was a typical delivery truck with a high rising outer shell over the bed. JOHNSON’S ICE CREAM CO. was written on the side of it.
The man had caught my attention because he was looking back and forth in both directions up and down 135th. I also noticed a heavyset colored man sitting in the front passenger’s seat smoking a cigar.
My attention was drawn back to the deliveryman as he continued watching folks walk past him. Why wasn’t he unloading the truck? I had no reason to be suspicious of the man, but I kept an eye on him nonetheless. Empty pa
rked automobiles lined both sides of the street, but he wasn’t focused on them, so he didn’t see me.
Finally, there was a break in the foot traffic, and the sidewalks were empty for a moment. Just then the man opened the back doors of the shell and a man calmly hopped out. He was also colored. The deliveryman hopped back in the driver’s seat and started the truck. As he turned to his left to check for oncoming automobiles, he spotted me.
I tried to pretend not to see him, but it was too late. He stared directly at me with these lazy eyes. His was a haunting face I could never forget. I gave him a nod, but he didn’t respond. Instead he made an immediate hard left turn, driving and heading his truck in the western direction I was facing.
He pulled up right beside my Chevrolet, and the heavyset passenger scowled at me through his cigar smoke. The driver leaned forward and did the same. I froze, not knowing how to react. After about ten seconds of them sizing me up, they drove away.
The man who’d hopped out of the shell was now standing against the brownstone across 135th from me. He was nervous-acting. It was as if he was afraid to move. Was he preparing to rob someone?
With no pistol on me and not a policeman in sight, I didn’t want to stick around to find out. Besides, it was time for me to get to my meeting. I casually exited the car and began my walk east. All the while, I wondered what had just happened. I knew the three were up to no good, but I certainly didn’t want to involve myself in their mess.
I crossed Lenox Avenue, approached the UNIA brownstone, and quickly entered. Once inside, I walked past several busy staff members and headed upstairs. Just as I approached Garvey’s office, out walked Amy Ashwood.
“Marcus is ready for you, Sidney. Go on in.”
I entered the office and found him busy at his desk writing. Just as I was sitting he said, “Tell me which play I’m quoting from, Sidney: ‘Farewell the neighing steed and the shrill trump, the spirit-stirring drum, th’ear-piercing fife, the royal banner, and all quality, pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war!’ ”
“Othello,” I answered.
“Good, Sidney. The Brits adore their Shakespeare. But I ask: Why should the English have a monopoly on pomp and circumstance?”
Garvey stood and walked to the wall directly behind his desk. He reached up and grabbed a narrow vase-shaped item that was hanging horizontally on the wall by a leather string. It had African-looking beads on it. He then turned and showed it to me.
“You like this?” he asked.
“It’s beautiful.”
“It’s a long gourd that you might see hanging from the belts of the Maasai people of Africa. They use them for storing water on long treks and also for storing milk, which will often curdle and turn into a sort of cheese. The Maasai also use them for storing cow’s blood, which they extract from the large vein of the cow’s neck. The white man has his canteen, we have our gourd.”
He turned it upside down and out spilled a set of keys. He then walked over and unlocked a closet door, opening it and removing a hanging black suit bag. He unzipped it and revealed a stunning Victorian-style blue military uniform with gold trim and epaulettes.
“If you are going to be in my employ,” he said, “you need to see what we are all about. You need to soak it up. You agree?”
“Yes.”
“I will soon show the world the Negro’s version of pomp and circumstance—giving them a grand show and parade like they’ve never witnessed.”
He spread the uniform over his desk and then removed some items from the closet’s top shelf, also setting them on his desk. There was a plumed bicorn hat, a ceremonial sword, and plumed helmet. Napoleon himself would have been proud. I guessed that somewhere in the recesses of his mind Garvey fancied himself a man plucked from the era of the French Revolution or before. I had never seen anything so grandiose in person and assumed he’d picked the items up during his stay in Europe.
“My African Legion soldiers will also wear similar blue uniforms—not with such grand hats like mine, of course. All of this is for special occasions only. I like to spend most of my time dressed in regular suits, but none of mine are as fine as those you wear, Sidney.”
“Thank you.”
“But make no mistake, my African Legionnaires will dress in uniform around the clock. They will also carry rifles, for symbolic purposes of course, as the pins have been removed. Here, I’ll show you.”
Again he walked to the closet, removed a rifle, and proceeded to show me the mechanics of the gun. I felt his presence smothering me as if being forced to partake in something I’d rather not. I found myself wanting to shove him away—anything just to create some space for myself and not feel cornered. He held the rifle sideways within a foot of my face so that I could examine it.
“You can see here where the pin is supposed to be.”
“I see.”
He set the rifle on the desk and began admiring his display of items.
“You’re probably wondering why I have such things—why I have Legionnaires and such?”
“I must say, I am curious.”
He spread his arms like wings. “Why all of this, you ask?”
We both stared at the assortment covering the desk. He then picked up the dress sword and began running his right fingers along the blade.
“I’ll tell you why. It’s important for any sovereign state to project an image that says, ‘We can protect ourselves.’ The French have done it—so has Germany and Italy. But, of course, I must express my admiration for what the Irish are doing as we speak. They are doing more than posturing. They are fighting the British right now—shedding blood.”
“I can certainly feel,” I said, “that you’re projecting a powerful and bold image, Mr. Garvey.”
“It was only when Americans began to project an image that said, ‘Listen, King George, we will fight back,’ that the king took notice.”
“I’ve seen the men training,” I said.
“The message our Legionnaires are sending is this: ‘We, as a Negro unit representing Africa, are very well organized and willing to fight back.’ ”
“I’m sure the message is being heard loud and clear,” I said.
“Just the smallest possibility of a threat must be projected, Sidney. President Wilson must be forced to pause and take notice. Symbolism is paramount.”
Garvey walked around and stood behind his desk. Facing me, he held the dress sword tightly and began slowly swiping at the air as if he were in a duel.
“You know who John Brown was, correct?”
“Yes, the white abolitionist.”
“Right,” he said, continuing to slowly swipe at the air. “They tried to kill him with a dress sword just like this one. I do believe you could kill a man with this. You’d have to use quite a bit of force though. Agree?”
“Probably.”
Though he was standing behind his desk, it felt like the tip of the sword was no more than a couple of feet from my face, and I was growing quite uncomfortable.
“You probably know this, Sidney, but Brown was stabbed by Lieutenant Israel Green. He thrust his sword into Brown’s abdomen. There couldn’t possibly be anything more painful than having a blunt instrument thrust into your belly.”
He made a stabbing motion, extending his right arm straightforward, holding the pose for a moment.
“You see, Sidney, Lieutenant Green forgot to exchange his dress sword for his battle saber.”
He continued casually whipping at the air.
“When he stabbed Brown, the dress sword bent. But Green was undeterred and used it to hit Brown on the head over and over. There was plenty of bleeding before Brown was knocked out and fell to the ground.”
Finally, Garvey stopped and froze. He then began gathering up all of the items, walked over to the closet, and put them away.
“WHERE’S GARVEY?” screamed someone from downstairs.
Garvey and I were both startled by the angry shouts we could hear through his open office doo
r. Miss Ashwood walked in shaking her head.
“There’s a man downstairs hollerin’ and askin’ for ya,” she said. “I told him you were busy, but he started kickin’ the desks and lookin’ in all the offices. Man done lost his mind, Marcus!”
Garvey stormed out, making his way to the top of the staircase and down to the second floor. I followed close behind.
“WHERE’S GARVEY?” a voice rang out again. “I WANT THE MONEY BACK I GAVE HIM FOR THAT DAMN RESTAURANT!”
I saw a colored man down below kicking a desk and slamming his fist down. Staffers were ducking and hiding behind desks.
“WHAT IS THIS?” shouted Garvey.
The man looked up and casually walked toward the stairs. He locked eyes with Garvey’s. I immediately recognized him as the man who’d been hiding in back of the ice cream truck earlier. I noticed he was holding a gun at his side. In the blink of an eye he raised it and fired four shots at Garvey, hitting him in the head and lower body—knocking him off his feet. Blood sprayed against the railing and wall.
Miss Ashwood screamed several times and then quickly rushed to his aid, covering his body with hers, while others downstairs began struggling with the gunman, trying to snatch his pistol away. But he wrestled free and ran for the door.
Garvey was now covered in blood, and I was sure he’d met his fate. Instinctively, I bolted down the stairs and gave chase. But I didn’t need to run far because a patrolman was already pursuing him down the block heading west toward Lenox. How in God’s name had a police officer arrived on the scene so quickly?
I stopped running and surveyed the entire scene. The gunman didn’t even make it to Lenox before the patrolman tackled him. I approached, breathing heavily, as the patrolman held him facedown—hands behind his back.
“I’ve got him,” he shouted.
I still found it too strange that the policeman had been on the scene so soon. It was as if he had been waiting outside for him. The entire incident struck me as a setup of some sort.
The Strivers' Row Spy Page 13