“Don’t worry, Mr. Estem. We’re not going to hurt you,” says the man in the passenger seat.
I wipe bile from my glasses with my handkerchief. “I know,” I say calmly. “That’s easy to see, given your display in the alley. I mean, you’re obviously not policemen. If you were, then you would have made yourselves known back there.”
The passenger turns to me. I can’t distinguish his features. The brim of his hat shadows his face, and he is only briefly illuminated by the passing streetlights.
“I don’t know who you are,” I continue, “but I’m sure this has something to do with the money.”
Simultaneously, the two men look at each other. The eyes of the driver appear in the rearview mirror.
“I see . . . you didn’t know about the money. I guess I’ve let the cat out of the bag, and she’s gone and scratched me.” I think of the mouse at the bank and who she may have called.
“No, Mr. Estem,” the driver says, “We’re well aware of the money. But it represents only a small portion of the matter.”
“You see, Mr. Estem,” continues the passenger, “we need your help.”
“My help?”
“Do you consider yourself a patriot, Mr. Estem?” the driver asks. “I mean, despite the race problem—is there any other country more deserving of your allegiance than the United States?”
“No. But—”
“Of course not. Mr. Estem, this country is under attack. You may not see it on the surface—our enemy is cowardly and attacks from the shadows—but every day, foreign interests threaten to unravel the very fabric of American society. This is a matter of national security. Our agents can’t do it alone. We need help from the public, good Americans, men like you. We are at war, Mr. Estem, and the FBI—America—needs your help.”
A few days ago, apathy and anonymity defined me, and now the FBI is asking for my help. I have remorse about the money, but maybe taking it has set into motion something bigger than I could realize. I’d be a fool not to hear what they have to offer.
They drive me to an office on Peachtree Street. It’s narrow and easy to miss, as if its sole purpose is to fill in an alley—one of those places where the address number ends in “½.” Inside, the place is practically empty. We climb the stairs to the second floor; the agents are patient with me. We pass dark doors of textured glass and stop at one at the end of the long, narrow walkway. It has the word “Insurance” painted on it, but the I has faded away.
There’s a chair in the middle of the room, a file cabinet in the corner, and a foldout table with a coffeepot and a hot plate resting on top of it. A badly worn corkboard stands at one of the walls. Whatever was on it has been removed, but the tack holes remain.
The agents offer me the seat, and introduce themselves as Mathis and Strobe. Their names surprise me. The physical features of these two men suggest something more exotic. Mathis, the older of the two, has very dark, sun-beaten skin, and though his hair is short and anchored with Brylcreem, there’s still a suspicious curliness that is apparent. I suspect his real name may have a considerable number of vowels. The same with Strobe—maybe “Strobinsky” or “Stroberg”? He’s younger, maybe close to my age, fresh-faced, with a broad athletic build. I suspect that he is only second-generation American.
“Communism,” says Mathis. “The Soviet Union is using America’s race problem to further its evil agenda.”
“Members of the Communist Party,” says Strobe, “are aligning themselves with groups and leaders of the Negro movement in order to influence and manipulate them.”
“I’m listening,” I say.
“Mr. Estem,” Mathis says, “we believe that the SCLC is one of these groups and that Martin Luther King is one of these leaders being corrupted with communist ideology.”
“We know that King and the SCLC are being corrupted,” says Strobe.
Mathis walks over to the file cabinet and pulls out a folder. “Our sources have confirmed that, in a previous life, Aaron Gant was a high-profile member of the Communist Party.”
I lean forward, elbows on knees.
“He introduced King to another high-ranking communist, a lawyer, Stanley Levison.”
“I’m familiar with him. Loosely.”
“Of course you are. King is becoming increasingly dependent upon him. Every speech, every sermon, bears Levison’s mark. Even after Attorney General Kennedy warned King about Levison’s threat to the civil rights movement. The money you took? An instrument of persuasion obtained by Gant from Levison’s sources. Levison claims not to be a communist, but this is false. Similar to the way that Gant denies being a communist . . . and a homosexual.”
Homosexual? The word makes me dizzy. It took a moment to deal with the possibility of Gant being a communist, but now I feel nauseated while I try to grapple with all of Gant’s personas. I feel foolish for underestimating him. I’ve always been suspicious of Gant, but now I’m suspicious of myself, of my ability to read people.
Mathis hands me two photographs from the folder. In the first, Gant is in a parked car, touching the chest of a very pale and muscular white man. In the other, he’s much younger and seated at a small desk in the first row of a classroom filled with other attentive Negroes. In bold stencils, a sign behind them reads HARLEM COMMUNIST PARTY. Now I see why Gant acted so strangely about the money.
“Not only did Gant introduce King to this wicked ideology,” Mathis continues, pacing now, as if remembering lines from a script, “he exposed him to moral degenerates as well. Bayard Rustin, another advisor to King, is also homosexual. We haven’t determined with certainty whether or not he’s a communist, but he’s definitely a homosexual.”
I hold the photos casually, trying my best to appear indifferent.
“John,” Strobe says, “we need you to alert us of any suspicious activity within the SCLC. Conversations, meetings, interoffice memoranda—we need it all. The future of your race and your country is resting on your shoulders. Are you with us?”
I don’t respond, but I can see that this may be my opportunity to become an asset to Martin. If Gant is compromising the success of the movement, don’t I have an obligation to try to stop it? Maybe I’ve been silent too long . . . or Strobe reads something from my face; before I give him an answer, he says, “I hope that you are. It would be disappointing to us—to everyone—if the SCLC found out about the money you stole.”
Mathis throws a look at Strobe, and he seems to back off.
Strobe’s clumsy hint at intimidation isn’t necessary. Suddenly, I am a Negro, moments away from being draped in the American flag. To move forward, I only need to echo their line of thinking, and if it means protecting Martin, then I am happy to do so.
“I mean it when I tell you I consider myself a patriot.” I do my best to recline in the flimsy chair. “The success of this country and the Negro are intertwined. If communism threatens one, even when befriending the other, then communism must be stopped.”
Strobe bites his lip and squints at me. “Are you sure, Mr. Estem? This is a big responsibility.”
“Strobe . . . Thank you,” Mathis says while keeping his eyes locked on me. “We just want to be sure you understand the seriousness of what we are asking.”
“Of course I do. Don’t mistake my eagerness for foolishness. It’s just that I know the deceptive nature of communism firsthand.”
Mathis folds his arms. “Go on,” he says.
“It’s nothing really. I had a cousin—a bohemian artistic type—who lived in Manhattan. He came to visit one summer when I was in high school, anxious to educate us backward colored Southerners. He’d gone to meetings and brought some literature with him—”
“You have communists in your family?” asks Strobe.
Mathis clears his throat, and Strobe stifles up.
“He wasn’t really a communist. He was just going through a phase, and that’s exactly how I saw it—a phase, fleeting and temporary. I could see no permanent solution for the Negro in c
ommunism. It meant giving up capitalism and, most importantly, individualism. Those are American ideals. What Negro in his right mind would turn his back on those ideals and run toward a collective identity?” Feeling pleased with my presentation, I cross my legs as the chair creaks ominously.
“You make your country proud,” says Strobe.
“A great citizen,” echoes Mathis. “You’ll be compensated for the work you do for us, John. We’ll start you with a stipend of one hundred dollars a week.” He gives me a business card with no name and only a number. “Call from a pay phone, never the same one twice in a row. You’re active immediately, so we’ll be in contact at the end of the week.”
I hold the card between my thumb and index finger, thinking how no one has thought enough of me to give me one before.
“One more thing, John,” Mathis adds, “It’s important for you to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Don’t draw attention to yourself. So you’ll need to be prepared to return that money, however dirty it may be. You understand that, don’t you, John?”
Of course, I understand. I am an accountant. I can do the math. And the sum of my actions equals a problem.
I don’t know what to make of the agents’ claims. They say that Gant is a communist. Maybe he is, but I have my doubts. Would he really be willing to give up those tailored suits for gray coveralls? And I think they are overstating his influence on Martin. However, something about the conversation I had with Martin that night has begun to swirl around in my head . . .
I was fine, sitting there with nothing but smoke and silence between us, but Martin had decided to speak up.
“So, what are you doing here at this time of night . . . ?” He seemed to be searching for what he should call me.
“It’s John. I’m working late.”
“Well, you’ve got an admirable work ethic . . . John.”
“Thank you. And you? Why are you out at this hour keeping me and the shadows company?”
He grimaced. Smoke came from his nostrils. “I didn’t feel like going home just yet.”
I glanced down, ashamed. I already knew the answer.
“Gant isn’t being too hard on you, is he?” He was eager to change the subject.
“I can handle Gant—I mean I can handle the work.”
He smiled as he tapped off his cigarette into an ashtray. “You went to Morehouse, didn’t you, brother?”
“That’s right.”
“Guess we have that in common.”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Did you ever have political philosophy with old Elerby?”
“I took the class, but I can’t say I stayed awake through much of it.”
“I don’t blame you. Elerby really knew how to put ’em to sleep. Did you read much Marx?”
“Would you hold it against me if I said I didn’t stay awake through most of it?”
He let out a staccato laugh and smiled in a way that made his cheeks rounded, high and firm. It made the good reverend look quite impish. “No, brother. No. I will not hold it against you. Those shoes, yes. But Marx, no.”
This was how men bonded: calling out each other’s weaknesses for the sake of humor. I knew that, but maybe I gave the impression that I didn’t, because Martin quickly became serious.
“There’s something about asking for money that really irritates me,” he said. “Always seeking the largest contributions. No sum is too large. Always searching for a new benefactor. . . . I don’t think I have the taste for it—money, that is. You understand what I mean?”
I didn’t, so I remained silent.
“Why do people love money so? More than they love people. The royalties from my book—I’d give them away if I didn’t have a family. Doesn’t seem right to profit from a message that doesn’t belong to me alone but to all of humanity. I often worry if my house is too big. My wife thinks it’s too small. I don’t know . . . while I reject the godlessness of socialism, my present feelings are so . . . anticapitalistic. Maybe I am, to some degree, a Marxist.”
Money did not tempt him. Greed was not a weakness we shared.
The day following my meeting with the agents is a troubling one. I don’t know where to apply my efforts best. I’ve spent a great deal of time dreaming about revealing Gant for the fraud that he is. Though I never knew what that meant concretely, my hostility toward him is real and well deserved.
It’s hard for me to admit it, but I am here because of him. I followed him to the SCLC. Gant is something of a star among Negro accountants, one of the few black CPAs in the country—forty-ninth, to be accurate, out of one hundred. I wanted to be on that list and join that exclusive club of the first hundred Negro CPAs, but you need three years of apprenticeship before you’re allow to seek certification—“darky rules,” as my father used to call them. Few white CPAs would grant a Negro an apprenticeship, and there are only a handful of Negro CPAs, effectively guaranteeing that fact in perpetuity.
I took Gant’s classes at Morehouse. We seemed to hit it off. He appeared to admire my ambition . . . but that was then. Now I see that he was toying with me. I told him my dreams, what I wanted to do, and when he was asked to help Martin defend himself against erroneous accusations of tax fraud, he brought me along.
When I arrived at the SCLC, Gant’s attitude toward me seemed to change. He would go out of his way to punish and make things difficult for me, as if he couldn’t stomach the idea of sharing the same profession with me. I know he saw me then, and sees me now, as a threat. It was then that I realized that I’d been setting my sights too low. I wanted to be a CPA like Gant; the power, respect, and exclusivity were enticing, but it was a fool’s errand. Their power is limited. I wanted to join a list of colored accountants, while Martin was on the most exclusive list of all. He was in a club with only one member: that’s the kind of power and sway that I want. Being Gant’s apprentice for three years won’t get me that.
It was hard for me to trust him from the beginning. When he interviewed me for my position, every question he asked me felt probing, no matter how innocent. My hobbies, my family life, he wanted to know it all, as if he didn’t know me.
Soon after hiring me, Gant’s habit of embarrassing me in front of Martin began. Martin had just been named Time’s Man of the Year and, with Gant by his side, received many congratulations. Gant called me over to introduce me to King. To say that I was thrilled would be an understatement. I walked over to them, trying to hide my limp—I wanted Martin’s respect, not his pity.
“Martin,” Gant said. “This is my new assistant, John Estem.”
“A pleasure,” Martin said.
Before I could respond, Gant entered the realm of inappropriateness. “You know something, Martin . . . Estem here struggled with polio as a child. Still wears a leg brace because of it. Didn’t you have a relative with polio?”
“Yes, a cousin.” Even Martin was uncomfortable.
“He’s rough around the edges,” Gant continued, “but we’ll whip him into shape.”
“Well, don’t whip him too hard, this is an organization of nonviolent protest.” The two of them laughed and Gant looked right at me.
I wish that photo were in my possession then. Right at the height, the peak of his sycophantic laughter, I would show it to him. Then I’d watch. I’d watch his face contort as he first sees humor in the photo but then makes a quick leap to sheer horror when he realizes that it’s his own hand on that man’s chest.
But for now, I’ll watch him drink his coffee and talk with other staff members, scribble a note, or make a call. I’ll stick close . . . a limping shadow. Although, he might grow suspicious as I hang on his every word and movement.
I see Gant talking to Abernathy and Young. I try to listen, hovering around them even though I have no reason to do so. I stand with my hands in my pockets as if I am waiting for Gant to finish. Young stops talking but continues to look at Gant as if silently urging him to do something about his assistant. Gant looks at me and raises his eyebrow
s. When I don’t respond or react, he motions with his eyes for me to exit.
Two days have passed, and my efforts to discredit Gant are appearing to be unfruitful—nothing but tidbits of office gossip. My rendezvous with the agents is fast approaching. Subtlety is not working.
I tell everyone to have a nice night as they leave the office for their homes. Oh, don’t worry about me. I have a lot of work to do. Numbers and such. I’ll be working late, burning the midnight oil. See you tomorrow.
When everyone leaves, I go into Gant’s office. Since we are a harmless group of women, preachers, and cripples, he rarely locks his door. At night, his office seems spare and practical, like a cave dwelling. The fluorescence bleeds in from the hallway, casting thin shadows over the space like an opium den. There are pictures all around of Gant with prominent leaders. They are all powerful men, and they truly seem to be friends of his. There are no stiff handshakes for the camera, just arms draped casually around shoulders, a punch or two thrown playfully at each other, and candid shots of a shared laugh at a secret joke.
I’ve never taken pictures like these. I’ve always felt like an outsider peering at life from the shadows, and my arrangement with the agents has caused me to realize the permanence of my position. I have chosen a life that will forever render me a nonparticipant observer. The people I encounter will receive the kind of scrutiny reserved for subjects in an anthropological study. I will never truly belong.
Gant, at some point, must have felt this way, but he has played his hand better. A part of me sympathizes with him; it must have been hard, putting up that charade for so long. The man must be an artist of identities, able to peel away, or apply, a persona whenever necessary.
I search for incriminating material—the communist connections, for the good of the country and all that, but I wonder what else Gant is trying to hide, what other shameful secret I might stumble upon. Inside his desk drawer—nothing. Paperwork. Budgets. Nothing that would cause concern. Maybe I’m not cut out for this. Without much effort, Gant is always one step ahead. My only evidence incriminates me, not him.
Our Man in the Dark Page 4