The Strivers' Row Spy

by Jason Overstreet

  Luckily, Peavine was sitting at the dining room table in the dark as planned. As soon as I turned the lamp on, he sat up and gave me a big grin.

  “Thank the Good Lord!” I said. “What time did you come in?”

  “It was just about two in the afternoon, Mr. Temple. Did it just like you wrote down.”

  “Good.” I took a deep breath, loosened my tie, and skittishly looked around, knowing we were alone, but conditioned at this point to assume the worst. “Real good, Peavine. I’m glad your love of music runs so deep.”

  “Can’t get to Chicago soon enough, Mr. Temple. You done made my dream come true.”

  “Not yet.”

  I approached the front door to make sure it was locked, took my coat off and threw it on the couch, then sat with him at the table. He had the crinkly receipt lying in front of him.

  “Boy,” said Peavine, “I ’bout fell dead when I saw them numbers. You’re not serious about giving me one thousand—”

  “Yes. I am. You do exactly what you’re told, and you’ll have a thousand dollars cash to take with you to Chicago. You said you wanted to go learn Hot Jazz from those new cats. Here’s your chance.”

  “Thank you. What’s this all about?”

  “First rule: Don’t ask me anything about what this all involves. I say this to protect you. Just know I’ve broken no laws and don’t intend to. Nor do I intend to ask you to. Just follow the directions I give you to a T . . . no exceptions. One mistake and there’ll be no Chicago. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “You’re to stay here, inside the house, without leaving. Don’t set foot outside. Don’t even crack the door open. I’ll come and go as normal, and the men who’ve been following me will continue their routine. All the while, you’ll be hiding away . . . right in here. You’re to stay here tonight, tomorrow night, and then drive my car to UNIA headquarters the next night, dressed in my suit and this hat.”

  I took off my fedora and handed it to him. The two of us were roughly the same size. I was about an inch taller and outweighed him by a few pounds, but he’d certainly be able to wear my suit.

  “Fits perfectly,” he said, running his fingers along the brim. “What do I do when I get to headquarters?”

  “Let’s start with you leaving here first. As you approach the gate, Ivan will nod, may say hello, and may even try to engage you. Oblige him. He’ll be expecting you to drive my car that night. I’ll inform him on my way in that evening. Take a right on Seventh and drive at a normal speed. An Oldsmobile parked across the way will follow you. Don’t make any abrupt turns. Be very steady. They’ll think you’re me.”

  “You mean because it’s gonna be dark out?”

  “Yes. That and the fact that following me has become second nature to them.”

  “You in some kinda trouble with . . .”

  “What did I say about this deal, Peavine?”

  “No questions.”

  “Just do as I say. You’ll be taking my briefcase with you. In it will be your cash. Once you arrive at headquarters, park as close to the building as possible, and definitely not across the street from it. There’ll be several folks arriving for the meeting, even some Liberians. The Oldsmobile will park a good distance away. They won’t want any Legionnaires to see them. Once you park, immediately get out and head for the stairs. Do not turn around. Don’t stop for anything until you get inside.”

  “Yep. I’ll just go right on in. Them boys on duty will let me pass. I did just like you said in the letter and let Mr. Grant know I had to go to New Jersey for a few days and wouldn’t be back in town until later on this week. Told him my grandmomma was deathly sick.”

  “Where did you put your uniform?”

  “In the supply room closet . . . way in the back corner behind some dusty boxes of old Negro Worlds. But it ain’t no thing to keep it in that room anyhow. Other boys be stowing their uniforms in all kinds of places. I just hid it to make sure no one moved it.”

  “So the guards out front won’t think anything of you changing clothes at headquarters?”

  “Oh no! I’m supposedly coming straight off the train from New Jersey, right?”

  “Right. So once you’re inside, change into your uniform and take a post. After the meeting, you wait to be dismissed as usual. Leave the Baby Grand parked there. Don’t even go near it. The boys in the Oldsmobile will have their eyes glued to it. So walk in the opposite direction and don’t turn around. Your next stop is Chicago.”

  “But what about the car? What about you?”

  “Don’t worry about that. At this point, your job will be done. Leave town and try not to look back.”

  “Like I said . . . ain’t nothin’ here for me no way. Darn sure ain’t got no sick grandmomma.”

  “There’s food in the kitchen for you during the day. Don’t move around a lot. There’s another car parked out front that’s watching me. Stay away from that front door. Don’t ever open it, even if someone comes knocking. One bad move on your part during the next few days could cost both of us our . . . well . . . just make sure we’re clear here.”

  “We are.”

  “I’ll be sleeping on the couch down here and you are to sleep upstairs in my room. And stay off of the balcony.”

  “I will. And thank you.”

  “No . . . thank you, Peavine.”

  * * *

  The next forty-something hours were the most intense of my life. Not because something unexpected happened, but rather because I was constantly worried that Peavine might mess up while I was away at the church. My life resting in his hands was anything but comforting. But I continued the routine, exiting through the gate in the morning, entering at night, all the while making sure to wear my fedora.

  My latest conversation with Speed had been entirely about Eason’s killing. He’d kept asking me if there was any way to tie Garvey to it. I’d told him that only in the coming weeks, as the New Orleans Police Department finished their investigation, could that be determined. Speed was sure Garvey had ordered the killing.

  Finally, the hours had whittled down. At around lunchtime on the day of the meeting, Bingo had a little gift for me. We’d ordered up some sandwiches from Tony’s and were parked out front eating. I was just picking at mine, nervously eyeing my watch.

  “Here it is,” he said, handing me a small, brown leather pouch.

  I unbuttoned it and removed a thin, glass, two-inch vial with a black top. Inside was a clear liquid substance.

  “What is it?” I asked, tilting the vial back and forth, watching the liquid move about.

  “That’s a question for someone above my pay grade.”

  I placed it back in the pouch and watched him take a big bite of his sandwich—fried egg and ham. The smell was strong and the sound of his smacking lips irksome. He devoured it with such pleasure, perhaps excited that Mr. Banks would soon have a hefty paycheck for him.

  I buttoned up the pouch and slipped it inside my suit jacket’s inner pocket.

  “You know,” he said, chewing, “when you’re finished tonight, Mr. Banks says you can resign from the Bureau and come work with us. That’s assuming all goes well.”

  “I’ll do my part.”

  “The poison won’t take effect immediately. But when it does, Garvey will react as though he’s having a heart attack. When he falls to the floor, his handlers will, of course, rush him to the hospital with the hopes that he’ll survive. He won’t. Drive straight back to your house while he’s being transported. Go inside and exit your front door. We’ll meet you there and drive you to meet Mr. Banks. Once Garvey’s death is one hundred percent confirmed, Banks will want to speak to you about joining us.”

  “Ya’ll wanna keep me around, huh?” I asked, sure they intended to kill me afterward.

  “Why do I detect doubt in your voice?” he asked, licking his fingers.

  “Just a question, that’s all.”

  “Well . . . have a little more faith.”

  “
I’m curious,” I said, “how does it work—all you American Negroes working for the British?”

  “Simple. SIS is global. If they want a Mexican watched in Mexico. . . they’re gonna hire a Mexican. They want one of them slanty-eyed mothafuckas in China followed . . . they’re gonna hire a chop-suey-eatin’ sucka from Shanghai. And in this case here, we was hired ’cause we’re experts on Harlem. Experts! All of us . . . born and raised right here. We ain’t no pretend Harlem niggas like you.”

  “You gotta interesting worldview there.”

  “You damn right,” he said.

  “Isn’t it the height of disloyalty for all you Americans to be working for the British?”

  “You feel like an American?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Something in my bones,” I said.

  “Well . . . a Negro in America can be loyal to whoever’s willing to pay him. Shit! Besides, there ain’t any institutions in this country loyal to us colored folk. So why should we be loyal to them? Especially the U.S. government!”

  “What about the NAACP?”

  “Fuck the NAACP!” he said.

  “And, of course, the UNIA, right?”

  “Fuck them too. Garvey . . . Du Bois . . . President Harding—each one of these deceitful devils is interested in nothing but lining their own damn pockets. So some of us niggas done figured out a way to line our own. In this day and time it’s every brotha for himself. Eat or be eaten. Kill or be killed. When you gonna catch up, fool?”

  I nodded and watched him take another bite before talking with his mouth full.

  “The bosses in London are paying us to do something they can’t do: be black in Harlem. And also to follow exact orders.”

  “Like making sure I don’t run.”

  “Exactly. You run . . . we kill you . . . we’ve proven we can follow protocol.”

  “I’m amazed by your utter disregard for human life.”

  “Like I said . . . protocol. By the way, Mr. Banks is a very important man for SIS here in America. The fact that you can now identify him is no small matter. The London bosses could have ordered your death the minute Garvey blurted out Banks’s name at Liberty Hall and you looked at me like you’d seen a ghost.”

  “So, it sounds like I’m a very lucky man?”

  “No,” he said, “just a very needed one.”

  I let that sink in before attempting to end this little chat.

  “Well . . . this offer to join your team is flattering,” I said, putting my uneaten sandwich back in the bag, “but, when the job is done, I’m resigning from the Bureau and going to San Francisco like I previously mentioned. I’ll tell Banks to his face. No more shadow work for me.”

  “All I know is this: Once you impress Mr. Banks by pulling this off tonight, he’ll be awfully sad to see you go.”

  “Well, I aim to impress.”

  37

  I DROVE THROUGH THE GATE AT AROUND FIVE THAT EVENING, DRAKE and Cleo tailing me closer than ever. Though the meeting was to commence at eight, my job was to arrive at headquarters between seven and seven thirty. I’d told Drake that it would be nothing for me to fiddle around the offices before entering the empty conference room at just the right time.

  “Evening, Mr. Temple!” said Ivan.

  “Evening, Ivan. I meant to give you your money this morning. It’s in the house. I’ll bring it out to you before you head home for the night.”

  “Boy, I sure do thank you, Mr. Temple.”

  “Look, my cousin will be heading out in a couple of hours. He’s taking my car to Club Deluxe. Wants to hear some live music and maybe find him a lovely young lady to dance with. Been cooped up in there for too long, if you know what I mean? Please let him through the gate the same as you would me.”

  “Will do! You have a good night, Mr. Temple.”

  I parked, opened the car door, stepped out, and glanced across the way at the Oldsmobile. I took my time, adjusted my hat, and gave them a nod. Drake nodded back. The sun had just set, but it wasn’t completely dark out yet, not nearly as dark as it would be in two hours. I stood there looking at them for just a few more seconds, hoping this fedora-wearing image of me would be stained in their minds for good.

  I wondered if Drake might approach Ivan about what we’d just discussed. Perhaps he hadn’t pulled up in time to notice such a brief conversation. Either way, it was too late to turn around and do a thing about it.

  I opened the back door, entered the dining room, turned the lamp on, and there sat Peavine, dressed in my finest black suit, his posture as upright as could be, his eyes looking straight ahead at the wall.

  “How long have you been sitting there?”

  “Oh, I reckon ’bout two or three hours, Mr. Temple.”

  “Well, you look ready.”

  I walked over and sat my briefcase down directly in front of him. He didn’t budge. I approached the front door and jiggled the knob, acutely aware, as always, that it was locked but still fearful that the men parked out front might come bursting through.

  “Where is your bag?” I asked, loosening my tie.

  “Right under here. And it’s empty, just like you asked.”

  “Good.”

  He reached under the table and grabbed his old, beat-up leather bag. I took it and set it beside my similar-sized briefcase and began transferring the stacks of cash from my briefcase to his bag, save for the one thousand I left for him.

  “This briefcase has your future in it, Peavine. Use it wisely.”

  I checked my watch and loosened my tie a little more. I began pacing, then removed my black fedora and placed it on his head. Walking to the opposite side of the table, I began examining his appearance.

  “Pull the hat down a bit,” I said, taking my overcoat off and resting it on one of the chairs.

  “How’s that?” he asked, pulling on the brim.

  “Good. Stand up.”

  As he did, I walked around the table again and looked him up and down. He was wearing my newest black shoes, and the suit seemed to fit him even better than it had two days ago when he’d first tried it on. I patted his shoulders, trying to smooth out any bunched-up areas, then adjusted his lapels. Our faces were nearly touching so I stepped back.

  “Turn around,” I said, wiping my brow. “Slowly. And hold your arms out.”

  I took my suit jacket off, nervously folded it into a ball, and placed it on the table. The intense once-over had me in a trance. I eased back around to retrieve my overcoat, my head still turned toward him. It’s a wonder I didn’t trip. Grabbing the coat, I returned to his side.

  “Put it on.”

  As he slid his arms inside the sleeves, I walked in the kitchen, poured myself a glass of water, and drank it down in one shot. I approached the back door, wiggled the knob a bit, wanting desperately to peek outside and make sure the Oldsmobile was there. I didn’t. Instead I began pacing from one end of the kitchen to the other. After about a minute I returned to find him standing there like a statue with the overcoat on. I walked over and grabbed his old bag.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said. “You can relax.”

  I headed down the hall to Loretta’s studio where I had several of my new railroad maps laid out on her desk. I grabbed a pencil and began running it along several routes—one from New York City to Kansas City, another from New York to Seattle. Easing over to another map, I ran my finger along a route I’d highlighted as another option—New York to Santa Fe.

  So many possibilities I’d figured out, but I’d have to choose one. Still, the thing each had in common? All departed Grand Central Terminal before nine p.m. I’d grabbed several departing train schedules for different railroads while purchasing my ticket to New Orleans. The SIS men had been busy purchasing their own in the line next to mine and hadn’t seen a thing.

  I began studying the routes again. By the time I’d finished losing myself in the various American destinations, the time had drawn near. I headed upstairs an
d into my closet. Removing the slabs of wood on the floor, I gathered my pistol, holster, magazine, and boxes of bullets. I placed all of it in the bag, headed back downstairs, and sat with Peavine.

  “Do you need anything?” I asked. “Some water?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Remember, no deviations. You open that back door, head straight to the car, and calm yourself. Back it out smoothly, slowly enough for Ivan to already have the gate nearly all the way open by the time you pull forward. As you turn right on Seventh, tilt your head down just a bit and give the Oldsmobile a subtle wave. Subtle.”

  “Got it,” he said. “Subtle.”

  “From there, everything should unfold just as we’ve planned.” I looked at my watch and stood. “It’s time. Are you ready?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s go.”

  38

  AS MY TRAIN PULLED INTO GRAND TRUNK STATION IN PORTLAND, Maine, I exhaled, it seemed, for the first time in a long time. I felt free. With my sleepy head leaning back against the soft seat, I looked out at the light snow beyond my window and thought of Loretta.

  She’d gone on and on about the beauty of this place—the docked fishing boats, the distant view of Mount Washington, the Victorian architecture. And now, just seeing the town for myself made me feel a little closer to her. I couldn’t wait to check into the little hotel she’d gushed about—The Inn at St. John.

  Exiting the waterfront station, I stepped out into the white weather and fell in with the thick-coated crowd standing along India Street—most of them New Englanders I was guessing. We were all waiting for the streetcars to pick us up and take us somewhere—Congress Street, in my case.

  During the shuttle ride over, I marveled at the bustling little city—so many muddy-shoed, wet-hatted folks acting cordial to one another while hustling in and out of coffeehouses, restaurants, filling stations, food markets, bookstores, and novelty shops. We passed a little white church that looked like it’d been plucked from a fairy tale, constructed so perfectly square, its steeple overpowering the rest. I half expected to see little white angels appear just above, smiling with their hands held out as they tried to catch some of the fluffy, floating snowflakes.