The Strivers' Row Spy

by Jason Overstreet

  “You know, Sidney, they may not be listening in on your conversations from the office at all. Then again, maybe, just maybe, they are.”

  “Too much of a risk. So it looks like I’ll be calling your parents in Ohio in order to get in touch with you here in New York. Strange is this life of mine.”

  “Just don’t lose touch, Sidney.”

  * * *

  I drove to the office contemplating whether or not I should let Garvey meet his possible fate. After all, I’d killed two men before. Still, I knew there was a difference between having to kill and choosing to kill. One makes you a survivor, the other, a murderer. And what about Miss Jacques? She would also be in the cabin. I knew I had to notify someone of the potential danger. Just how was another question.

  I couldn’t go directly to Grant and tell him about the possible assassination plot. He’d want to know how I’d learned of it, and I’d be putting a target on my chest as someone privy to top-secret information. UNIA members would never trust me again.

  I decided to stop at a telephone booth on Amsterdam Avenue and call UNIA headquarters. It was well past eleven p.m., but I knew someone would be there. Dialing the numbers, I tried to formulate what I’d say, but the telephone only rang once.

  “UNIA,” said a female voice that I recognized. It was Cindy, and I knew she’d take the message seriously.

  “Yes,” I said in a deep, well-disguised Southern voice—trying to sound like a white man. “This is officer Role Coleman of the Jacksonville Police Department in Florida.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “We understand that Mr. Marcus Garvey is currently in Kingston, Jamaica.”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s to board the Kanway, right?” I asked, purposely mispronouncing the name—my Southern drawl growing even deeper. I’d never performed like this before. “How you say the name of that ship, darlin’?”

  “Kanawha,” she answered.

  “Got it! We have reason to believe he may be in some serious danger if he boards the Konway, whenever it arrives in Kingston. We’ve contacted the authorities in Kingston about a possible attempt that may be made on his life, but they haven’t cooperated. Of course international affairs are outside of our jurisdiction, so we depend on the local authorities to handle this, but they’re not. Buncha no-good, lazy sons a bitches!”

  “Yes, please continue,” she anxiously said.

  “You writin’ all this down, darlin’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please be thorough. I would strongly suggest that you have Mr. Garvey’s security team sweep the entire ship before he boards—particularly his cabin. There may be explosives on board. His team should also clear the ship of all its personnel and search them thoroughly. Send word immediately.”

  “I will, officer. Thank you.”

  “There are a few of us lawmen out here who care about doing the right thing. Some local men here in Jacksonville, part of a dangerous operation, may likely be behind this. We’re still investigating. I’ll contact you if we find any further information.”

  “I’ll send word immediately. I must go. Thank you again.”

  She hung up and I stood there holding the telephone, analyzing what I’d just done. I then hung it up and walked to my car, contemplating my next move. I had to inform Du Bois of the Bureau’s intentions—of possibly nailing him violating the Mann Act.

  What in the world was I doing? On one hand I was helping Garvey stay alive; on the other, preventing Du Bois from possibly going to jail. If my conscience wouldn’t allow Garvey to die, I’d have to accept that his agenda might never be curtailed and I’d failed in accomplishing my objective. Though I was banking on his eventually being charged with mail fraud or some other illegality, perhaps death was all that could truly stop him. Maybe I’d made a grave mistake.

  Driving home, I thought about the many ships Garvey had purchased. Every single one was in terrible condition. How I’d managed to help get any of them up and running was hard to believe. And what was he doing with all these lemons anyway? He wanted to do something specific with the Black Star Line but was only managing to create a big financial mess. And to somehow think that all of this was going to lead eventually to transporting people back to Africa was preposterous.

  * * *

  With Loretta now back from her trip, the two of us relaxed in bed before going to sleep for the night, each of us with a book in hand. It was as if the candle lanterns on each of our night tables were tucking us in, providing just enough dim light to keep us awake for a few more minutes.

  I looked over to see what she was enthralled in and saw that it was The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. I was beginning The Thirty-Nine Steps by John Buchan. Part of the opening paragraph took hold of me. Writing about his main character, Buchan penned, “. . . I couldn’t get enough exercise, and the amusements of London seemed as flat as soda-water that has been standing in the sun. ‘Richard Hannay,’ I kept telling myself, ‘you have got into the wrong ditch, my friend, and you better climb out.’”

  I could have easily replaced the name Richard Hannay with Sidney Temple. My mind wandered back and forth from Hannay’s world to my own. Garvey was finally returning from Kingston aboard the Kanawha. I didn’t know whether or not my warning had been heeded, and I’d likely never find out. I certainly wasn’t going to ask anyone traveling with Garvey if they’d found explosives on board. Perhaps I’d learn what took place in due time without inquiring.

  I turned the page of my novel, trying to refocus on Hannay’s London flat behind Langham Place but could think only about Du Bois and the newest anonymous letter I’d sent him. I’d made it very clear that the Bureau was trying to catch him violating the Mann Act and had outlined all the details involved. I warned him to be concerned only if what he’d been accused of doing were true.

  Whether or not it was true didn’t concern to me, as those matters were a man’s private, personal affairs. My focus was on the job at hand, and it felt empowering to be doing just what I’d set out to do—protect Du Bois from both the Bureau and Garvey.

  “Are you gonna read much longer?” asked Loretta, setting her book on the end table.

  “No, I’m finished for the night.”

  “I hope your mother and aunt are adjusting to their new little home. Ginger and I had such a fantastic time moving them in, and the four of us took daily long walks around the grounds. The maples looked more beautiful than ever. And your mother told me she intends to take that walk every day.”

  “That would be good for her.”

  “The entire trip was a joy, hopping from train to train in order to get to some remote town on time just so we could then catch another connecting train to get to the next city. Is that confusing enough?”

  My mind was elsewhere, but still I answered: “Yes.”

  “But I’m dying to show you Canada now. So picturesque. Once we left Quebec City, the trip really became a visual odyssey. It was an event just trying to figure out how those engineers managed to carve through so much thick, woodsy, mountainous terrain in order to stretch the railroad all the way to Halifax.”

  “We must go. I’d love to see it. Which town did you enjoy the most?”

  “Believe it or not, it wasn’t in Canada. It was Portland, Maine, of all places. We passed through it on our way back to New York and slept at this delightful place called The Inn at St. John. It was quite charming, completely Victorian in décor . . . the ocean so close, the clean, crisp air. Delightful. It was as if that little inn was made for you and me. I felt such a connection to you while staying there. And now I know why.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll always remember The Inn at St. John as the place where I first knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  “Well . . . you know I went and saw Dr. Wade today, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well . . . are you ready to be a daddy?”

  I just lay there staring at her. The news caught me completely
off guard. I had not granted myself the time to even think of such a possibility. I realized how consumed I’d been with work—how detached I’d been from Loretta. But the news got my heart racing.

  “Don’t pull my leg, Loretta.”

  “No, I’m serious. I’m several weeks along. Toward the end of the trip I began feeling a bit sick to my stomach. So I scheduled the doctor visit upon our return and today I received the news.”

  “Oh, my God,” I said, reaching over and touching her stomach.

  “You happy, Love?”

  “I’m the happiest man in Harlem. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

  “I wanted it to be the last thing you heard today before falling asleep. Maybe tonight will be the first time in a long time that you sleep through the night without tossing and turning, a night in which you’ll have nothing but wonderful dreams.”

  “I need that. Body has grown too used to these damn pills and the doctor said not to take more than one a night.”

  “Listen to him.”

  “I can’t believe I’m going to have a son.”

  “Hey! I want a girl.”

  “Then one of us will get what we want.”

  “That’s right.”

  “My God, you’ve made me a happy man, woman.”

  “I can tell.”

  “I love you, I love you, I love you,” I said, kissing her repeatedly. “I’ll be right back.”

  I hopped out of bed with the youthful exuberance of a five-year-old and headed downstairs to make us both some hot tea. I returned to find her smiling from ear to ear. We sat in bed sipping from our cups and coming up with possible names for our future child. It was hours before we fell asleep. What a night!

  23

  ON A SATURDAY IN JULY, LENNOX AVENUE WAS BUSTLING WITH colored artists displaying paintings, playing instruments, and reading poetry along the sidewalks. Rife with the smells, sights, and sounds unique to Harlem, it was the biggest street festival I’d witnessed since arriving two years earlier. Thousands, it seemed, walked up and down the avenue, taking in the art while snacking on everything from fresh fruit, peanuts, and pastries to caramels, dried sausages, and Cracker Jacks.

  Loretta and Ginger led the way as Peavine and I talked about his family and ambitions. I’d invited him along for the day because I’d sensed something missing in the young man’s life. He seemed to be drifting along aimlessly, only latching on to Garvey’s movement out of happenstance.

  “Touching brass jumpstarts my heart,” he said, the two of us stopping in front of an ashy-handed trumpet player who blew hard enough for even lower Manhattan to hear him. “I want to be him, Mr. Temple. Look at him with his eyes shut, his right fingers dancing, and cheeks ’bout to pop. He’s feelin’ somethin’ we ain’t—traveling somewhere we ain’t been—a place only that horn can take you.”

  “Maybe you can play like that someday.”

  “I need to go to Chicago. I need to learn from these new cats, Joe King Oliver and Bill Johnson. They done brought a style of music up to Chicago from New Orleans—this thing called Hot Jazz. I heard ’em play here in Harlem last year. I ain’t been the same since.”

  “What would it take for you to move to Chicago?”

  “Ah, Mr. Temple, I sleep at a different spot every night as it is. I got me a livin’ system. Ain’t got no livin’ system in Chicago.”

  “Where’s your family?”

  “I been livin’ on the streets since I was twelve . . . some eight years now. Ain’t got no family. This music done become my kinfolk.”

  We continued listening to the trumpet player, then squeezed our way through the thick cluster of onlookers before catching up with Loretta and Ginger about a half block down. We gathered around a young poet who was reading his poem with the kind of experienced voice reserved for a man twice his age.

  Folks clapped with enthusiasm. I stood in line and purchased a copy, learning that the young man’s name was Countee Cullen. The poem was entitled, “I Have a Rendezvous With Life.” I couldn’t help but think of my favorite poet—my friend, Claude—who was preparing to head overseas again—to Russia. This time I wondered if he’d ever return.

  The four of us continued on, walking past several restaurants, the food on full display and being sold from carts right there on the sticky sidewalk. We stopped again to watch several painters at work. Placing my hand on Loretta’s belly and lightly rubbing, I looked up and around, north and south, trying to take it all in, wishing all of colored America could take part in this rare moment of collective freedom and gaiety.

  The sounds of brass and banjos. The smells of fried catfish, buttery collard greens, and banana pudding. The sights of ebony old men with canes, young brown girls chewing bubble gum, jubilant cocoa couples walking hand-in-hand—an angelic array of Harlemites bathing in a sea of artistic tranquility.

  * * *

  A huge part of my job that Hoover and company simply had to accept was playing the so-called “waiting game.” There was no speeding up the clock either. Undercover work is a slow, tedious grind. In situations like mine, the agent’s sole task is to remain intimately attached to the target. The Bureau wanted Garvey bad and knew he was stepping into a trap, but his step was a big, slow one, and he hadn’t been snagged yet.

  We had to be one hundred percent certain that he’d broken the law before any move could be made. And more time meant more one-on-one meetings with Garvey, my least favorite thing. The tension was always suffocating. But here I was—again—sitting in the office I’d searched just a few months back. I could hear Speed’s recent words ringing in my ear.

  “I don’t care if you have to sit in his office all day and discuss the fucking unique and varietal shapes of African Pygmy dicks! You stay in Garvey’s lap, Q! We’re close here to nailing the fucker.”

  I watched Garvey studying an elaborate architectural drawing of the future UNIA headquarters he intended to construct in Liberia. Leaning against the wall behind him were rolls of drawings that hadn’t been opened yet. I assumed they were sketches of other buildings, ones that would serve as the original landmarks of this undeveloped city he was dreaming up.

  “Sidney, you ever read Edward Wilmot Blyden?” he asked, running his hand along the drawing, trying to flatten it out. As usual, he wasn’t making eye contact.

  “No,” I answered.

  “He is the father of Pan-Africanism. He, like me, was born in the West Indies. But he moved to Liberia and actually became editor of the Liberia Herald. At different points he was the Liberian ambassador to France and Britain and was the president of Liberia College. He is my hero. You have any heroes?”

  “My mother.”

  “Why not me?” he asked, placing coins on each corner of the stubborn paper to keep it from rolling back up.

  “Well, I . . .”

  “Don’t bother answering that. I know you’re a careful man. You’re still studying me. Take your time. It took me years to decide that Blyden was my champion. Perhaps when I die you will crown me your king.”

  “The fact that I’m sitting in this chair should tell you how certain I am that you’re the most powerful Negro in the world.”

  “Well, then! Enough said on that topic. Do you think we are wise to be in negotiations to purchase this boat, the Orion? Is it a quality ship?”

  “I think it’s in decent condition, but with limited access, I’ve only given it a brief inspection. When will you take official ownership?”

  “Soon, but the U.S. Shipping Board is being difficult. Cyril Briggs and his African Blood Brotherhood have convinced them that I don’t have the funds. Anyway, you do realize it’s more grand than our other ships?”

  “Yes, it’s a luxury ocean liner,” I said. “I toured more than just the engine room during the brief time I was allowed aboard.”

  “Yes, a luxury boat, which means it will not be used for transporting goods, although that is a critical part of this shipping business. Negroes from America to Jamaica to Africa need to be
able to trade products with one another exclusively. We must cut out the white man. Fend for ourselves.”

  “So you see the Orion as the first ship you’ll use to begin ferrying folks back to Africa?”

  “Yes,” he said, jotting something down on the elaborate drawing with a pencil, examining it as if he were the architect himself. “But, Sidney, nothing is coming easy these days. The powers that be tried to make it impossible for me to reenter the country. Now they’re making it difficult for me to stay here. And the number one culprit behind all of this is that mulatto, Du Bois.”

  “I didn’t realize he was part of the powers that be,” I said.

  “Come again.”

  Realizing I had instinctively countered his point with sarcasm, I quickly walked my comment back.

  “Du Bois only wishes he were part of the powers that be. But God knows he’s willing to kiss whoever’s rear end in order to become so.”

  “Good point, Sidney. Nevertheless, who knows what lies he’s feeding the government about me. One of the reasons I respect Blyden so much has to do with his statements about these yellow types of people. Blyden died years ago, but were he alive today, he’d have plenty to say about Du Bois and Cyril Briggs—two white Negroes of the worst sort. They’re both likely behind this movement to have me thoroughly audited.”

  “But Briggs, like you, is from the West Indies. Correct?”

  “And I’m not proud of that fact. He’s a fool. He keeps trying to convince me that Marxism should be the ideology we adopt. Nonsense. Capitalism will be the economic system under which we govern in Africa very soon. But we must mobilize quickly. The government is squeezing me from all directions.”

  I could sense his uneasiness and urgency, an awareness that his movement might finally be going under. He turned and reached for another one of the drawings. He began unrolling it, positioning it directly on top of the other. Again, he placed coins on its corners.

  “Sidney, it’s important for the man who’s examining my dream boat to feel the same conviction about our Africa agenda as I feel. Such conviction will guide the work you do.”