Our Man in the Dark

by Rashad Harrison

  ADVANCE PRAISE FOR OUR MAN IN THE DARK

  “Our Man in the Dark is an eye-opening insight into

  the troubling times this nation experienced as it struggled to

  reset its moral compass. It offers a glimpse into a world where

  two races lived together—separately. This is

  a well-written journey back in time.”

  —NEW YORK JOURNAL OF BOOKS

  “Our Man in the Dark is smart, snappy, and fascinating. As the child of civil rights activists, I applaud Rashad Harrison’s wonderfully written debut and his examination of how an ordinary man ended up on the wrong side of history.”

  —TANANARIVE DUE,

  author of My Soul to Take and Freedom in the Family: A Mother-Daughter Memoir of the Fight for Civil Rights

  A stunning debut historical noir

  novel about a worker in the

  civil rights movement who became

  an informant for the FBI during

  the months leading up to the

  assassination of

  Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

  Feeling underappreciated and overlooked, John Estem, a bookkeeper for Dr. King’s Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC), steals ten thousand dollars from the organization. Originally planning to use the money to seed a new civil rights initiative in Chicago, he squanders the stolen funds.

  To the bookkeeper’s dismay, the FBI has been keeping close tabs on Dr. King and his fellow activists—including Estem—for years. FBI agents tell Estem that it is his duty, as an American and as a civil rights supporter, to protect the SCLC from communist infiltration. The FBI offers Estem a stipend, but in case he has any thoughts about refusing the assignment, they also warn him that they know about the stolen money.

  Playing informant empowers Estem, but he soon learns that his job is not simply to relay information on the organization. Once the FBI discovers evidence of King’s sexual infidelities, they set out to confirm the facts to undermine King’s credibility as a moral leader and bring down the movement.

  This timely novel comes in light of recent revelations that government informants had infiltrated numerous black movement organizations. With historical facts at the core of Our Man in the Dark, Harrison uses real life as a great inspiration for his drama-filled art.

  RASHAD HARRISON has been a contributor to MedicineAgency.com, an online journal of political and cultural commentary, and his writing has appeared in Reed Magazine. As a Jacob K. Javits fellow, he earned a master of fine arts in creative writing from New York University. He lives in Chicago, Illinois.

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  COPYRIGHT © 2011 SIMON & SCHUSTER

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  OUR MAN IN THE DARK

  ATRIA BOOKS

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

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  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Rashad Harrison

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Atria Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  First Atria Books hardcover edition November 2011

  ATRIA BOOKS and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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  Design by Esther Paradelo Title page art based on Homage to Martin Luther King (1996) by Xavier Medina-Campeny

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Harrison, Rashad.

  Our man in the dark / by Rashad Harrison.

  p. cm.

  1. King, Martin Luther, Jr., 1929–1968—Assassination—Fiction. 2. United States. Federal Bureau of Investigation—Fiction. 3. Civil rights workers—Fiction. 4. Informers—Fiction. 5. African American men—Fiction. 6. Race relations—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3608.A7837O97 2011

  813'.6—dc22 2011000114

  ISBN 978-1-4516-2575-2 (print)

  ISBN 978-1-4516-2577-6 (eBook)

  For Jennifer

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Acknowledgments

  “. . . being invisible and without substance, a disembodied voice, as it were, what else could I do? What else but try to tell you what was really happening when your eyes were looking through? And it is this that frightens me: Who knows but that, on the lower frequencies, I speak for you?”

  Ralph Ellison

  Invisible Man

  Author’s Note

  The FBI campaign against Martin Luther King, Jr., and other black activists (known officially as COINTELPRO) has been well documented. Among the most sinister tactics employed were surveillance, wiretappings, disseminating false information, and the use of paid informants. These informants came from all walks of life—they were accountants, policemen, church folk, itinerant preachers, and photographers—all compelled by different motivations, and, in these instances, all African-American.

  While the plot of this book is inspired by this factual backdrop, it is a novel. The conversations and thoughts of rea
l people such as Martin Luther King, Jr., Ralph Abernathy, Andrew Young, and J. Edgar Hoover are fictitious inventions (except for those known and documented), created to set the atmosphere of the novel and meet the demands of the narrative. The character of John Estem is fictional, born from my imagination, and not intended to portray any real person. Therefore, his dialogue and actions with respect to persons real and imagined are wholly fictional, as are his family and associates, such as the characters of Candy, Gant, Count, and Mathis and Strobe.

  OUR MAN IN THE DARK

  Night has come, and so have the shadows that once pulled me in against my will. I believed the promises made by those exaggerated figures that followed me, but I am no longer fooled by illusions. Their lies must stay outside. Up these darkened steps, and past that door, is the truth.

  My flashlight leads me to the file cabinet. It isn’t locked. There are many files inside, but one in particular intrigues me. It’s labeled JEST in bold letters followed by a sequence of numbers. I open it to reveal a series of black-and-white photos. They show a man leaving a building, crossing a street, and alone inside a telephone booth. At first, I assume they are random individuals of no importance. But then I look closer. They are pictures of me.

  I turn to cast my light on the doorway and then back to the photos. I scan them, imagining the clicking of a camera’s shutter as I view each one. I try to make sense of them by placing them in order. The booth, the street, the building. It’s the last one that’s the most telling—it was taken as I left the bank. They were watching me from the beginning.

  Atlanta: Summer 1964

  I sit at my desk at the headquarters of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, mulling over accounting records and figures. A few years ago, Martin was accused of tax evasion—which is comical, since most of what he earns goes back into the movement. The man lives like a pauper. But we are trying to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Gant has me sifting through the financial records to ensure that Martin hasn’t received any compensation that cannot be accounted for.

  I work with a particular column of numbers and notice the sum: fifty thousand dollars. A flash of warmth surges up my neck. This figure is an anomaly, but I don’t suspect any wrongdoing—at least not immediately. Though it troubles me to do so, I feel compelled to bring this to Gant’s attention.

  I’ll have to persuade him to see things as I see them, and that is a difficult task. His judgment of me is ruthless and immediate. Anything I question results in a questioning of me. I am exhausted by our exchange before it even begins.

  He walks past my open office door in a well-scented hurry. He is one of those handsome men who know they are handsome. Tall, with a face sculpted out of Georgia clay, he has a strange way of using his looks to make you feel inferior. It does not help matters that, as I approach his perfect image, I am slowed by a permanent hobble—my reward for surviving a childhood bout with polio.

  I watch Gant and his secretary walk swiftly down the hallway, but before I approach them, I go through my usual ritual of checking that my pant leg has not ridden up to reveal the stirrup of my brace; it creates an unattractive bulkiness under my trousers that annoys me to no end. I adjust my pants and smooth out the fabric so that it falls properly. I don’t want anyone to be uncomfortable in my presence. Even FDR went through strained efforts to appear unaffected by polio. My coworkers shouldn’t feel guilty about their ability to take gallant, even strides as they march alongside Dr. King, while I lurch through the corridors of the SCLC.

  I struggle to catch up, asking the back of Gant’s head for a moment of his time, but he insists that he’s in a hurry.

  “Mr. Gant. Please . . .” I say, “just five minutes.”

  They pause briefly; he asks Susan to grab him some coffee and then turns to me. “Five minutes, Estem. If this is about your Chicago proposal, I haven’t looked over it or discussed it with Martin.”

  “No, it isn’t about that. It’s—well, sir, I was going over the figures for the donations . . . and while I’m sure this is probably minor—”

  “Your point?”

  “A large sum of money, Mr. Gant. And I can’t trace it to any source.”

  “Perhaps an old friend of King’s who wants to remain anonymous?”

  “There would still be a receipt of some sort.”

  “John, the problem? I don’t see it.”

  “Mr. Gant, it can’t appear that we—”

  “I don’t have time to chase numerical phantoms. Estem, you should remember that we are looking for Martin’s personal transactions that might warrant attention.”

  “Sir, it is my responsibility to—”

  “I know exactly what your responsibilities are. I made them very clear when I hired you.”

  “Yes, Mr. Gant. Yes, and I’m very grateful—”

  Susan returns with his coffee. “Mr. Gant, Dr. King is waiting for you in the conference room,” she says.

  “Tell Martin I’ll be there shortly. Are we finished here, Estem?”

  “Maybe Dr. King could shed some light . . .”

  “I’ll try to mention it to him.”

  He enters the conference room, and I briefly peer in after him. Martin gives me a knowing nod before Gant quickly closes the door behind him. Muffled sounds soon follow—greetings, laughter, and friendly banter.

  It’s fine. This is the way I’m used to being treated. I float around the SCLC like inconsequential vapor, only a vague innocuous presence, giving nothing and taking nothing. I crunch numbers. I stack paper. Occasionally, I move the stack from one end of my desk to the other. If it were not for the creak of my brace, I doubt anybody would know that I’m here. When the secretaries and volunteers gather to form huddled islands of gossip and chatter, I foolishly linger at the edges, hoping to be invited ashore.

  My conversation with Gant has left me desperate for a drink, but I need to see her just as much as I need the liquor. After work, I head to my usual nightspot, a bar called Count’s.

  The place is a red velvet Ferris wheel of any vice imaginable. Drink. Drugs. Sex. All of them unifying lures for this mixed bunch of seedy characters and squares searching for the cool. I have to hand it to Count: for a place run by a Negro, it does have a certain cosmopolitan feel. Mirrors, tinted Byzantium gold, surround the stone tables and leather booths that are better suited for sipping absinthe than bourbon. Count’s is also marked by integration—but it’s inchoate, one-sided, and gender-specific. You’ll find colored girls with white men, most of whom are policemen. Their presence is meant to keep us safe, but the only things safe in this place are the secrets.

  I used to wonder how a man working for the saintly organization of the saintly Dr. King could find himself in such a sinful place. But I’m no saint although I’m a good Christian, and even the best Christians are more familiar with sinners than saints.

  The floor vibrates from the dancing patrons and the rolling beat coming from the band on the small stage. I walk along the bar, hoping that my limp appears to be more swagger than stagger. The woman singing with the band is Miss Candy, also known as Candice. She looks just like what her name implies—bad for you, but oh so good. Her singing is awful, but she’s not up there for her voice. She’s like a sepia-tinted dream with fiery red lips flickering in the darkness. Her tight, knee-length dress covered with glittering amber sequins reminds me of a freshly poured glass of champagne. Her hair is pulled back into a tight chignon on the top of her head, à la Josephine Baker. I like it that way.

  I watch her hips sway to the final notes of the song, and the crowd applauds as she finishes. They clap for the band, for her hairstyle, and even for that dress—for everything except her singing. However, as she descends from the stage and makes her way through the crowd, some of their cynicism fades. She carries a good portion of her talent behind her, and the men nod appreciatively.

  I raise my drink, a signal to her above the noisy gathering. She sees me at the bar and comes over.

  “John?�
� She looks me over with the careful eyes of a fawn. Beads of sweat still linger on her flawless skin.

  “Great set tonight,” I say.

  “Right. Thanks.” She averts her eyes, looking away from my lie.

  “No, really. The crowd seemed to dig it.”

  “John, I got the flowers you sent. You’ve got to stop doing things like that. We’ve already talked about this.”

  “You didn’t like them?” I’m not looking at her anymore. I stare down into the shadows by her ankles.

  “They were fine, but that’s not the point . . .”

  Suddenly, white tapered pants and the shine of black patent leather interrupts the darkness. They belong to Count, the owner of the club.

  “Candy,” he says.

  I don’t look up; his shoes are pointing at me in provocation. Count has warned me before about talking to Candy, and I don’t want to press my luck. I can feel him hover over me, holding his cigarette as if it were a weapon.

  “How’s your job going?” she asks.

  “Fine . . . making the world better for colored folks everywhere.” I peer up at Count, but I miss his eyes and meet three circular scars on the side of his bald head. He’s proud of them. He must be. At least three times he has made a fool of death.

  “It must be exciting working so close to Dr. King.”

  “True. I do work closely with Martin. Martin and I are close. I’m the liaison to the financial assistant—”

  “Like a bookkeeper or something?”

  “Right. A bookkeeper.”

  “C’mon, Mama . . . my sugar’s gettin’ low,” Count says, sending a cloud of smoke toward my face.

  She gives him an unpleasant look. “I’ve got to run,” she says to me. “It was good seeing you.” After placing a kiss on my forehead, she turns away, and Count guides her by the back of her neck through the crowd.

  I turn back to the bar and order a martini, but the bartender gives me a shot of bourbon. It takes six more before I feel man enough to face the room and leave.

  I return home that night, drunk and alone. I stand in front of the mirror talking to myself, practicing, awaiting my transition into a superman. It’s a tough feat because of the brace—a strange hybrid of leather and metal, a network of buckles and straps, like stirrup meets straitjacket. I notice, between the open spaces of leather, that the skin of my leg has taken on an ashen hue from the day’s wear, but I do not feel like going through the trouble of removing it just yet.