Our Man in the Dark

by Rashad Harrison

  I sit in Gant’s chair and look across his desk at the place where I usually sit. So this is his vantage. I must seem so small to him. I recalled Gant’s minor transgressions against me in order to keep from digging up his most hurtful insult. But sitting here brings it back.

  We were working hard that night, helping Martin deal with his tax problem. The seriousness of the situation was palpable. Never before had such a burden rested on such a modest bunch of bookkeepers. Everyone’s sleeves were rolled up and no one dared wear a tie. Sweat beaded our brows. There was no mindless chatter—only the recitation of numbers and the events that gave them context.

  I was diligently adding up some receipts when Gant asked me for Martin’s travel expenses.

  I remembered vividly, just the day before, scrawling out TRAVEL EXPENSES on a large envelope in bold black ink, then putting the receipts inside and handing it to Gant as he looked at it, smiled, and said, “Good work.”

  So I was surprised to hear him ask for them. But I answered anyway. “Mr. Gant, I have already given them to you.”

  He gave the papers and documents around him a superficial glance. “I don’t see them, Estem.”

  “I gave them to you earlier in your office.”

  He began shuffling papers, not really looking at them, but moving them around for show: a grown-up version of a tantrum. “I don’t see them, Estem.”

  Then everyone stopped working. The adding machines went quiet and the scratch of pencils on ledger paper ceased. All eyes were on Gant and me.

  “I gave them to you already. Maybe you misplaced them . . . I don’t know what else to tell you, sir.” I turned my back to him and continued with my work.

  That’s when Gant slammed his fist on the table, then stood up, sending his chair to the floor. “Are you calling me a liar, goddamnit? I didn’t ask you what you did. I asked you for the receipts. Where are the goddamn receipts?”

  Maybe, in retrospect, it would have been better for me to stay silent, but instead I said, “Mr. Gant I’ve already answered you. I gave them to you yesterday—”

  Martin and Abernathy walked in after hearing all the commotion. For a moment, this gave me some comfort. Surely the sight of two preachers would ease the current tensions. But Gant seemed only to be encouraged by a larger audience.

  “Estem, quit repeating yourself like some damn minstrel show darkie.” He said it with a smile, trying to appear jocular. This seemed to make everyone feel comfortable enough to start laughing. Even Abernathy and Martin got a chuckle out of it. Then Gant started to revel in the approval and laughter of his boss and felt inclined to take it further. “Yessuh, boss,” he said giving his best sambo. “I’s already gave it to ya’. I’s already gave it to ya’,” he said again as he limped back and forth. Everyone laughed, including Martin and Abernathy. It seemed to go on forever. Then Gant finally tired himself out.

  Martin saw that I was the only one not laughing. He walked up to Gant and said, “Hey, take it easy, brother. He’s had enough.” Then Martin addressed the rest of us. “I want to thank you all for working so hard to keep me out of jail. . . . Now, I want to remind you that I have been to jail before and it don’t bother me too much. The last time I was in jail I got some good sleep. I got my own cell. Last time I was in jail, I had a chance to get some writing done—and you know how well that turned out.” That received the biggest laugh of all. Martin patted Gant on the shoulder, “Take it easy brother,” he said again softly, as he and Abernathy walked out.

  People pretended to get back to work as their eyes danced between Gant and me. I kept my back turned to the rest of the room, punching away aimlessly on my adding machine.

  “Find those receipts,” said Gant. I didn’t have to. Later, he found them. He apologized to me, but only in passing and with no audience to witness it. I should have dealt with it then. There was no need for me to be so docile. This is not a man’s world; it’s a real man’s world. The men who avoid confrontation don’t survive.

  Thinking about my cowardice sends me into a rage. I toss papers around his office. I empty out his desk drawers and throw the contents around as well. I kick over his chair, and fall on the floor doing so.

  The view from down here is terrible. Fool. Look at this place. I need to get myself under control. I need to develop a new method. I need to clean up this office.

  It’s too late at night to drive home. I return to my own office and sit at my desk. Cleaning Gant’s office left me exhausted. Did I return it to its normal condition? Will he notice? He probably will. I’m too tired to think about it. I may be fired in the morning. Too tired to care.

  I slept for a few hours at the office before driving home. When I awoke, still in a groggy state, I expected to see Martin lurking around the office. I was somewhat disappointed to learn that he wasn’t. It’s for the best. Breaking into Gant’s office would have been hard to explain.

  Now, I only have enough time for a shower and shave before heading right back to work.

  When I arrive, Gant wants to see me in his office.

  He tells me to shut the door behind me.

  I notice a sheet of paper on the floor beside his desk. Did I neglect it? Maybe it’s there because of his carelessness, not mine. I want to stop staring at it, but I can’t—until he says my name.

  “Estem, I wanted to talk with you about that account you closed the other day.”

  My heart throbs and sinks.

  “What about it?” I ask.

  “The money that was in it . . .”

  There are probably police already waiting outside that door. I look for something to throw at him. Something to stun or daze him long enough to make my escape.

  “Money?”

  “Yes, Estem. The money that was in the account you closed a few days ago is needed.”

  He knows. He wants to entertain himself by watching me attempt to lie my way out of this situation. If he wants a lie, I’ll give him a lie. “Why?” is all I manage to utter.

  He rocks back and forth in his chair. Then he smiles.

  “Buses. We use that money to buy buses.”

  “Buses?”

  “For the demonstrators, man. We’ll have our own transportation. We’ll save a ton on chartering fees.”

  “Brilliant,” I say.

  “Isn’t it? Jesus, I just thought of something else—we could loan out the buses to those fools at CORE and the N-double-A-C-P . . . for a modest fee, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Gant,” Susan, his secretary comes in, and I breathe normally for the first time since I’ve been in here. “A man claiming to be your cousin is on the line.”

  The normal haughtiness disappears from Gant’s face as he just stares at the phone on his desk. “Thank you, Susan,” he says finally. He picks up the receiver, and just the sound of his breathing must have alerted his “cousin” that he is on the line, because he is silent for a while, his eyes blinking and scanning everything in his office except me as he listens. “I understand,” is Gant’s only contribution to the conversation. He cradles the receiver and tells me to wait in his office as he leaves hastily.

  Enough time passes for me to get anxious and consider smoking a cigarette, but I can’t light up in here. I take one out, rest it in the corner of my mouth, and go over to Gant’s office window, letting the coolness of the unlit menthol soothe me. I poke a finger between the blinds and look outside. It’s hot as hell, but there’s some serious rain clouds the color of a hot stockpot on their way. I look down at the alley behind the SCLC where a smoke, a sip from a flask, or a dirty joke is often shared. Even from here, I can see the flash of argyle coming off his hurried ankles.

  Gant waits a while, but eventually his “cousin” shows up—a middle-aged white man in a wrinkled trench coat. The cousin is prepared for these unpredictable Georgia summers, because the rain comes down in fistfuls. The rain doesn’t move the two men. Gant just grabs both lapels, holding them together with his clenched
fist.

  They talk intently, then the cousin hands Gant a piece of paper—a letter or something—and Gant anxiously tucks it into his jacket to shield it from the elements. The cousin turns to leave, but Gant lingers a moment, just watching him go, as the downpour does a number on him.

  Gant walks back into his office, soaking wet. I yank the cigarette from my mouth, crushing it into my pocket.

  “So, those funds will be ready for allocation by . . .” He looks nervous. No, more than that—desperate.

  “The end of the week . . .” I say, trying to hide my own desperation.

  “The day after tomorrow.”

  “Right. The day after tomorrow.”

  I get up to leave and return to my office. I need to think.

  “Oh, Estem, one more thing. If you’re here late, could you make sure that my office door is locked? I think Susan has been in here tidying up. She means well, but I’m a man who enjoys his privacy.”

  “I understand perfectly, sir,” I say as I head back to my own office.

  Mathis and Strobe told me to return the money, but I can’t, I’ve already spent too much of it. I’m not sure I would do it even if I could. Mathis said that money was from communist sources. I’m going to put the information in my possession to good use.

  I pull out a sheet of paper from my desk, feed it into my typewriter, and type: “Forget about the money. They’re on to us.”

  After work, I drive to Candice’s apartment and wait for her to come home. I needed to see her first. Seeing her gives me courage, and what I’m about to do requires barrels of it. I’m not one-sided. I’m more than cunning and ambitious. There’s a quixotic nature to my character that I have to protect in these hard days.

  My preoccupation with her has affected my behavior. I do this, partly, for her and the life I dream of for the two of us. Chicago may just be a lie I told myself. Thinking of her leaves a mental fog in its wake, changing what I see and grasp.

  We grew up together, Candice and I. She lived across the street from us. She defended me when the neighborhood children made fun of my limp. She even brought flowers to the house when the polio first attacked. She was the first Negro I’d known who didn’t have a father in the home. I know they say the “fatherless phenomenon” is common among Negroes, but everyone I knew had a father—and wanted to get rid of him.

  I remember watching her on a Sunday morning, descending the porch steps at fifteen years old, hair in a very neat, long ponytail, her white church dress failing to hide those emerging curves. On the very last step, she stops and takes in her surroundings. She must know how perfect she is, because when she thinks no one is watching, she strikes a grand pose: with one hand on her hip and the other behind her head, she looks toward the sky and smiles.

  At that moment, peeking through the parted curtains of our living room window, I realize I’ll love her forever. But I’m no fool. My heart breaks the moment it becomes hers. Who gives a crippled boy flowers, for God’s sake? I never had a chance, but she strung me along.

  There was a time when I thought there was a chance for us. I wrote her letters from college and she actually wrote me back, appearing to be open to the idea of our love. But when I returned, she grew distant. Perhaps just my being away at school sparked a brief desire in her. Granted, I wasn’t too far from home. Morehouse is in Atlanta. I wish I’d known then to avoid women who long for their fathers—they’re impossible to please. To them, loving and longing will always be synonymous.

  For a time, I avoided her; but throughout that period, I wanted her, and I wanted to hurt her. I wanted to reconstruct myself as an irresistible figure, one who could lure her in and break her heart, break her resolve, and break her down. But then, one night at Count’s, I saw her. And to see her is to forgive her. Forgive her for all her faults, her lack of talent and self-awareness. Forgive her for her silly dreams, for her innocence, and for being so painfully beautiful.

  Her place is a small bungalow, a box wrapped in aluminum siding. There’s a little bush and a patch of grass to make it seem like a home.

  A car pulls up, driven by one of Count’s men. She gets out and walks barefoot through the grass with her shoes tucked under her arm. The car drives away once she’s inside. A balloon of desperation seems to swell in my chest. For some reason, I think she can put me at ease. I wait a while longer before going to her door. I don’t want to startle her.

  She’s still in her makeup when she answers. The soft punch of reefer lurks behind her. An inviting knee peeks through her silk chartreuse robe.

  “Johnny? What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see you. I needed to see you.”

  “John . . . not now.”

  “No. I really came to talk.”

  “It’s late. I don’t feel like talking.”

  I know what follows. I’m all too familiar with it. She begins to close the door, but I stop it with my trembling hand. “I’m in trouble . . . I did it for us.”

  “Us?”

  “I want to be the kind of man you want.”

  “You’re scaring me, John. Just tell me what you did.”

  We stare into each other’s eyes for what seems like a very long while. I’m confused by the moment. I don’t know if I’m about to share my dark secret or a kiss. I don’t know what my next move will be. She must know what I do not, because she places her hand over my mouth. “Don’t. Just don’t.”

  I’ve said all that I have to say. I leave her house, embarrassed by my dramatic display. Maybe I pushed her too hard, expected too much from her. I came to her and nearly confessed, but she wouldn’t let me say anything—maybe on some level, she understood.

  I decide to head home and spend the night drinking up a plan.

  The next day, I go to Count’s before it opens for the evening. I walk in and, at once, I begin to feel uneasy. Pool balls wait silently for a break. There’s something eerie about the place without its usual bacchanalia set to music. Like a body with the heart carved out of it, there’s an almost gothic stillness.

  “I don’t fuckin’ believe it.”

  Count’s goons are behind me.

  “I know this crippled motherfucker didn’t have the nerve to come back here after he left his ass kickin’ unfinished!”

  “I think he did.”

  “Naw, he ain’t got the balls.”

  One of them grabs my crotch from behind.

  “You’re right. He don’t got the balls!”

  I turn around and they slap shoulders and laugh at me. I’m offended, maybe even a bit hurt, but it helps me to remember why I came here, and why I need to get it over with quickly.

  “Look,” I say. “I’m not looking for a fight.”

  “Then why the fuck are you here?”

  “I’m here to see the Count.”

  “It’s just Count, jack. You ain’t in Romania.”

  “I think that’s obvious.” I see them more distinctly now. They’ve given up the coordinated outfits from the other night. Maybe it was a special occasion. One is tall and young—only a few years older than me—and with a dangerous amount of muscle. The other is middle-aged with a medium build, but I know from experience that he has a knack for handing out punishment. I’m sure that’s why Count keeps him around.

  “What you want to see him for?” the older one asks.

  “I have a business proposition for him. One that could be very lucrative.”

  “Lucrative? Motherfucka, you tryin’ to set us up? You got them fuckin’ cops with you again?” He smiles and seems to enjoy giving me a hard time. Just the good, old-fashioned bullying I’m used to. But the younger one? His hatred is very real.

  “I’ve had enough of this crippled sonofabitch! Fuck the alley, let’s kick his ass right here!” says Junior.

  “Just calm down,” I say. “What will Count say when he discovers you’ve prevented him from making money?”

  “Punch him in his mouth real good, so he’ll shut the fuck up!”

 
; Suddenly a voice, like gravel, seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. “Cool it, boys. Let him pass.” The hoods tense up and spring a leak in their bluster. Count certainly has an effect on people.

  Only in mockery, never in actuality, had I studied Count’s appearance. His face seems a bundle of contradiction: mouth relaxed, eyes set in a gaze without intimidation or menace, all under the massive bald head of a cyclops. Muscles visible through his shirt, he appears to be both a prizefighter ready to strike and a child eager to shield his favorite toy from the grasp of others.

  “You know, I’ve always pegged you as a strange bastard. That limp. Those square threads. Not to mention that sweet tooth of yours.”

  “Sweet tooth?” I’m well aware of his reference to Candy, but since he’s playing smart, I decide to play dumb.

  “Man with a sweet tooth like yours could end up with a mouth full of cavities. But I’m here to take care of you. Consider me your dentist, nigger.”

  “Well, I can assure you that I’m in no need of dental work, but thanks for the offer.”

  His office smells like good cigar, and there’s a long one spinning smoke from a crystal ashtray on his desk. The desk is large and made of a dark rich wood, most likely mahogany. Its gentle sheen compliments the large leather chair that Count sits in, and the smaller one in which I sit. A small portable bar, gilt handles and mirrored glass, waits in a dim corner behind Count’s left shoulder. It’s armed with scotch, port, and an assortment of French brandies—the good stuff. Underlining all of this is a large rug that’s just loosely exotic instead of specifically oriental.

  Something about this place seems deceptively constructed, like a stage setting. I look back at the cigar and notice that the head has not been removed by the merciful handheld guillotine—it’s been bitten off.

  “Twenty thousand,” Count says, as he lifts the cigar from the ashtray.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Twenty thousand.”

  “Twenty thousand what?”

  “Dollars. Twenty thousand of them.”

  “Honestly, I’m confused.”