The image got me thinking of the Abyssinian I’d left behind. Construction on it would be finished any day now. It also got me thinking of Peavine. I’d walked out the back door with my pistol in its holster no more than ten minutes after he’d left, but not before I’d paused to realize how many boxes and furnishings I was leaving behind.
I’d tried to take solace in the fact that our most precious family items—letters, pictures, books, personal files, etcetera—were in a secure storage facility. But even though I’d placed them there with a watchful eye, I was keenly aware that the Timekeeper might have been observing me, even back then. He’d probably watched me shake hands with the facility manager and on-duty security officer. And now, he might forever be waiting to track the items to wherever I’d eventually have them sent. Whatever the case, it was a problem to deal with in the future, so I had opened the kitchen door and headed out.
With only Peavine’s old bag in hand—stuffed with cash, boxes of extra bullets, my brand-new railroad maps, and some personal items—I had approached Ivan and handed him his money.
“Boy I sure do appreciate this,” he’d said, pocketing the money.
“Well, I just appreciate your help, Ivan.”
“Way I see it . . . you’ve always been good to me, sir, and I was just returning the favor. Besides, Strivers’ Row policy is still very well intact. By the way, if you don’t mind me asking, Mr. Temple, where might you be off to dressed so nicely?”
“Club Deluxe. Figure Cousin Peavine could use some company.”
Ivan was right. I was dressed nicely, wearing my favorite brown suit, brown patent leather shoes, and brown fedora. My other suits would go to the lucky man who found them hanging in the closet.
“You walkin’?” he’d asked.
“Come on now, Ivan,” I’d said, just beginning to walk south on Seventh before stopping. “Us Strivers’ Row folks ain’t so well-to-do that we can’t walk one block over to Lenox and up a few streets to 142nd.”
“But why you headin’ toward 138th?”
“Need to stop by the Abyssinian Church first. I got it all planned out.”
Of course, I was simply avoiding 139th and the plum Chevrolet. I also wanted to steer clear of the 135th Street Station, as it was far too close to UNIA headquarters. Figured I’d instead take 138th over to Lenox and up to the 145th Street Station. From there I’d hop on the Lenox Avenue Line en route to Grand Central Terminal.
“Say you got it all planned out?” he’d asked. “I hear you.”
While en route I planned to write a resignation letter to Mr. Hoover and drop it in a mailbox somewhere near Grand Central. In it I’d explain the Timekeeper, his men, my abduction, their claim of having a mole inside the Bureau, my escape, etcetera. If Hoover or Speed were not in cahoots with SIS, at least I’d be giving them the courtesy of a resignation letter. But, of course, they’d never know where I was going.
“Is Club Deluxe still owned by Jack Johnson?” Ivan had continued.
“I’m not sure.”
“Well, word on the street is he done sold it to some white hoodlum who’s in prison. Heard somethin’ ’bout he fidna turn it into a place he gonna call the Cotton Club.”
“Wouldn’t that be something,” I’d pretended to care, beginning to walk south again.
“Ya’ll don’t get in too much trouble now, Mr. Temple.”
“We won’t. But tell old George not to be expecting us home anytime soon.”
“Will do. He’ll be relievin’ me here shortly.”
Two hours later I’d already dropped off the letter and was on a train heading to Portland, and presumably, Garvey was in the middle of conducting his big meeting while Drake and the others were still parked out front. But I could only imagine.
* * *
As my Portland streetcar came to a stop near 939 Congress Street, I looked out and made note of how many colored men were working different jobs, everything from deliveryman and paperboy to streetcar driver and food vendor. In fact, I’d noticed more colored folks in general than I’d anticipated.
I walked through the brown snow sludge with such great anticipation and relief. I could see the sign I’d been looking for straight ahead. Loretta had probably taken these same steps. And she’d been right—Portland was wonderful. Perhaps it was the smiles on people’s faces as they embraced the snowy weather, their kind nods, or just the overall sense of community on display that put a pep in my step.
“Welcome to The Inn at St. John!” said the salt-and-pepper-haired colored man working the door.
Nodding at him, I approached the check-in counter with nothing on my mind except taking a warm bath and sleeping for a long, long time.
“Checking in, sir?” asked the young woman at the front desk.
“Yes. Two nights if you have it.”
“Oh . . . we’ve got lots of space. Let me see here . . .”
“Pardon me, ma’am, but you wouldn’t mind checking your logbook there for the name of an artist friend of mine, would you? She stayed here about a year and a half ago, sometime in June I believe. It’d be nice to stay in the room she raved about.”
“Certainly, I will happily do that for you, sir. What is her name?”
“Ginger Bouvier.”
She ran her finger along the shelved logbooks to her left until she found the one she needed. She opened it and flipped some pages for a while.
“Looks like your friend . . . Miss Ginger Bouvier . . . stayed in room . . . 1-C. That’s one of our larger rooms on the fourth floor.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have that room available, would you?”
“We sure do.”
“Wonderful. I’ll take it.”
* * *
The following day I rose in the late afternoon and headed out, bag in hand, to go buy myself a new overcoat before visiting the Portland Museum of Art. Afterward, with my mind fed plenty, I decided to feed my stomach and have dinner at a place called Chester’s.
The hostess sat me next to the window facing Cumberland Avenue, a kind gesture to be sure. Looking out at the dim European-style streetlamps and casual night strollers made for a pleasant setting. I tried to stay in the moment, to think of nothing heavy. But with every bite of my juicy porterhouse, I thought of James. He would have liked this restaurant, none of its patrons so much as raising an eyebrow at the colored man enjoying a fabulous table with a view.
I still couldn’t believe my friend was gone. It pained me to no end. And if he had ever learned of my being an agent, could I have explained it enough for him to forgive me? After all, he’d slowly grown to detest Garvey himself. It’s a question I’d have to ponder ’til my dying day.
As I walked down Congress Street and neared my hotel, I anticipated the warm night of sleep ahead of me. Meanwhile, I kept switching my bag from one hand to the other, blowing on the free one, unable to ignore the freezing night air.
As I got close enough to see the friendly doorman through the very light fog, my focus shifted to the man standing just beyond him next to a black automobile parked along the curb facing the other direction. I slowed down and squinted to make sure my eyes weren’t deceiving me. Just then, another man on the driver’s side got out. Again, I squinted, but this time stopped walking completely. My eyes were not deceiving me.
Standing in the distance were two men I thought I’d never see again—Drake and Bingo. I felt a deafening ring in my ear. I reached under my coat to feel for my gun. At the same time, Bingo spotted me. The two of us stood there locked in a stare briefly before Drake eyed me as well, flashing a wry smile as if to say, You’re not as slick as you thought, mothafucka. The visual worsened when the back doors of the automobile opened and Goat and Cleo stepped out.
There was no more time to think about my predicament, so I turned and ran, initially bumping into a man, knocking him over. I turned and saw them get back in the car, prompting me to run even faster. With the cold air stinging my face, watering my eyes, all I could see were blurr
y streetlights, blurry passing car lights, and a few oncoming pedestrians dodging out of my way.
I slowed down enough to turn and see them racing after me, dodging in and out of light traffic. Again I sped up, but it was clear there’d be no outrunning them, so I stepped in front of an idling car that was readying itself to turn left onto Congress.
“GET OUT!” I yelled, pointing my pistol at the driver.
The white man of about fifty did just that, stepping out with his arms raised high. I ran around and got behind the wheel of his cream-colored vehicle, slamming the door as he backed up onto the sidewalk. He never lowered his arms.
Stomping all the way down on the gas, I accelerated left onto Congress. The fog appeared to be thickening as I weaved in and out of light traffic, trying not to kill anyone in the process. I made a violent right turn onto State Street, careening so much that my back end nearly slammed into a car heading in the other direction.
Looking in my side mirror, I could see their headlights in the distance. But their car was weighted down with four men, giving me an advantage. I looked straight ahead and poured on the gas. It wasn’t long before I came upon a sign that read: YOU ARE NOW CROSSING THE MILLION DOLLAR BRIDGE.
I crossed it and pushed ahead, both hands on the wheel, jaw clenched, head bobbing like a prizefighter’s—trying to avoid the road’s edge and anyone driving toward me. But only a few cars had motored by, and with each passing mile, it was clear that there’d be even fewer.
Portland’s lights were disappearing, the remote darkness approaching. I felt the road veering left a bit and wondered if I was heading too far east now, unknowingly heading right into the Casco Bay. And the fog wasn’t helping matters. Fortunately, the stolen vehicle was, for I had sped well beyond them, so much so that their headlights had vanished.
Again the road curved the opposite direction, and I passed several smaller intersecting roads, but I chose to stay on the main one for the time being. Able to go only about fifteen miles per hour now, I wiped at the inside of my damp, frosty windshield with one hand while trying to control the steering wheel with the other. Luckily, not enough fresh snow had fallen to affect the roads.
I’d been traveling for roughly an hour now, aimlessly motoring deeper and deeper into a land of mystery and darkness—perhaps only circling. The fog, the cold, the stolen car, the chase—it was all too perfectly terrible.
Rolling my window down to help defrost the windshield, I glanced in the mirror and saw their headlights reappear from way back. Part of me was glad they’d kept up—relieved to know the inevitable face-off was drawing close. I just needed somehow to tip the scales in my favor.
It was only a matter of time before I’d run out of petrol and it was now pitch black out, save for the road immediately in front of me. I decelerated to ten m.p.h. to make sure I didn’t smash right into God knows what. Just as I did, a slow-flashing light appeared in the distance, likely one of the many lighthouses in the area. This would have to be the place where I made my last stand.
39
I SLOWED DOWN AND PULLED OVER, SHARPLY TURNING THE WHEEL until the car was facing the lighthouse. Then I drove several yards into the open field and parked, leaving the headlights on to help me see the beginning of my walk path. I also wanted Drake and company to spot the empty car—to follow me.
Stepping out into the snowy vegetation, bag in hand, I headed straight for the tower. It wasn’t long before my headlights faded away and I felt my feet getting wet and numbingly cold. But I pushed forward, the ever-so-slight glow of the powerful slow-flicking light allowing me brief moments to barely make out the contours of things.
I’d been walking for maybe half an hour when I felt the vegetation turn to uneven rock, forcing me to move even slower. With every careful step I took the fog grew thicker, the sound of crashing waves a bit louder.
The rock was gone now and the frosty shrub-like surface began to ramp downward. I squatted and grabbed at the long marram grass for balance and eased down into what was most likely a sand-filled gully—currently covered in snow.
I stood at the base and blew on my hands. I’d probably descended about ten feet, but the dark had made it feel like twenty. I began the climb up, using the marram grass as if it were rope. My patent leather shoes weren’t helping matters, as with each long upward lunge, I slipped, even taking in a mouthful of snow a few times.
At the top of the gully was a wire fence. Without hesitation I thumb-hooked the handle on my bag and began to climb, clawing at the wire, digging my shoes into the diamond-shaped openings for leverage. At the top I clutched the frozen, horizontal bar, flipped one leg over, and straddled the high fence for a moment, trying to keep my balance. I had one hand in front of me, the other behind, and could feel the sharp edges of wire just above the bar, cutting at the crotch of my pants. As I looked out at the darkness from where I’d come, a tiny moving light appeared. One of them had a flashlight.
I climbed down the other side and continued on. I could now make out two distinctly different beams of light ahead—one flashing, the other fixed—obviously signifying two towers. Pushing my way through a patch of high, thick bushes, I tried to protect my face from the bare, stubborn branches. Wasn’t long before I exited the other side and began moving through an open field.
The crashing waves grew louder, and though the tower beams were pointing in the other direction, their powerful glow seeped through the thick fog the way a full moon might. I hoped to reach shelter before one of them stepped out from the bushes behind me.
The closer I got, the more defined the setting became. The towers were about three hundred yards apart and each had a large house attached to it. Situated about halfway between the lighthouses were two smaller sheds.
I was running at full speed now and wondered if the keepers’ families might be asleep in their respective living quarters. Even if they were, whatever noise might ensue would go unnoticed, as the violent sound of crashing waves would drown it out. A big storm was surely approaching.
I skidded to a stop near the larger shed on the right and turned around. No sight of them. Trying to catch my breath, heart pounding, throat and lungs burning so much I could taste blood, I circled around until I was out of sight.
Approaching the shed door, I saw a lantern hanging to the left, along with a matchbox. The wind was too heavy to light it outside, so I tried to enter the shed first, but the door was locked. Still, with the absence of a padlock, I kicked the area above the knob twice, easily breaking the lever away from the frame and flinging the door open.
With only darkness inside, I grabbed the hanging lantern and matchbox and entered. Kneeling down, I struck a stick, lit the wick, and stood again. The lantern leading me now, I stepped forward and saw the illuminated front end of a green tractor. I glided the lantern to the left where a big, silver snowplow was parked. Both vehicles were plausible hiding places, but not ideal.
Shutting the door, I stepped to the right where several small rowboats were stacked to the ceiling. The shed was at least fifteen feet high. I walked around the boats toward the back where piles of rope could be seen along the entire wall. As I got closer, I realized they were actually breeches buoys.
I eased my way along the back wall toward the opposite corner behind the snowplow. Pushing away some dusty spider webs, I squatted down, placed the lantern in front of me, and took out my pistol.
I opened my bag, removed a box of bullets, and emptied it into my coat pocket. Out of pure impulse, I also removed the magazine—even though I knew it was full—took its bullets out, and held them in my hand. For some reason, this simple act was reassuring. As I reinserted the first one, I felt its tip and imagined whose chest it might enter.
Beads of sweat began dripping on my fingers and my hand was shaking. In fact, the nerves throughout my body were beginning to dance, so I finished, popped the magazine back in, blew out the lantern, and listened for the door to open.
My gut told me that the four of them would s
plit up—perhaps Drake to one tower, Bingo to the other, while Goat and Cleo each picked a shed. But if they decided to stay together, my chances would be slim.
I waited several minutes and—nothing. Each time I thought I heard a creaky hinge I flinched and pointed my gun at the darkness. But it was my racing mind fooling me.
Then, the faint sound of crashing waves slowly grew louder, as if the volume knob on a record player were being turned up. The loudness then faded back down. I could hear walking on the opposite side.
Leaving my bag, I stood and crept alongside the snowplow until I reached the front wall. I got on all fours and crawled to the door, then opened and slammed it, prompting whoever it was to fire two shots at nothing while I backed up again.
Pistol aimed straight ahead at blackness, I listened to him retrace his footsteps. He stopped and opened the door, the soft light from outside bringing his image to life. It was Goat.
He stood there for a moment looking out. Then, as if he could somehow see my dark image out of the corner of his eye, he spun right and attempted to shoot. But his motion wasn’t quick enough, because before he could pull the trigger, I fired twice at his head, dropping him instantly.
Rushing to his body, I took the contents from his coat pockets and placed them in mine. Standing, I peeked my head through the doorframe and scanned the outside, making sure the attached house to my left still had its lights off. So far, I was in luck.
Surveying the entire landscape, I tried to calculate distances. One lighthouse was about 150 yards to the right, the other, the same distance to the left. Assuming an SIS man was in each tower, it would take them quite a bit of time to finish climbing the respective inner stairwells. Each tower appeared to be about seventy feet high.
The Strivers' Row Spy Page 34