Our Man in the Dark

by Rashad Harrison

  “You don’t get to be me without knowin’ how to read people. That’s essentially all that I do. I decipher the things that people want me to know, but don’t want to tell me. And you—well, you’re an easy read. You’re in trouble. A shitload of it. After my boys cleaned up that alley with your ass, you got the nerve to walk back in here like John-fuckin’-Wayne, and without your mysterious white bodyguards. Business proposition? That means you need me to save your ass, and you want to make it worth my while so I don’t kill your ass after I save it. Man, that’s a whole lotta trouble. About twenty grand worth. Now I could be wrong. Maybe you’re here collectin’ donations for Dr. King.”

  He taps off ash, then chomps at his cigar with self-satisfaction. I’ve held many different feelings toward Count: hatred, envy, even fear. But this new feeling, respect, makes me disgusted with myself. His contempt and pity for me are quite clear, but in his tone, I detect a bit of disappointment, as if he expects more from me. It makes me think of my father and how I look down on him and Count in much the same way. They are both hard, physical men. How they must look down upon me.

  I hesitate to tell him my plan, but then I consider the trouble I am in. This is not small-time stuff, no vig for the loan shark, or debt owed to the pusher. I am now a player in the game of political intrigue.

  “A man that I work with needs to be taught a lesson.”

  “Thought you Negroes were nonviolent.”

  “I don’t want him hurt. I don’t need him hurt. I just need you to break into his home and place this where he can see it.” I reveal an envelope from my inside pocket and lay it on the desk.

  “Now why can’t you do this yourself?”

  “Let’s just say that I lack the agility.”

  “Drop it in the mail. I’m not a fuckin’ messenger.”

  “The mail? Presentation is everything. The man comes home and sees this letter waiting for him, nothing damaged, no signs of forced entry—he becomes acutely aware of his vulnerability. He knows that his walls and locked doors can’t protect him. He knows that he can be gotten to.” I lean back in my chair, feeling as if some spirit had just forced me to speak in tongues. I hope that he can decode what I’ve said. I’m not sure I’m capable of translating.

  He is silent and still, except for the subtle twitching of his eyelids. The twitching stops, and then Count smiles. I speak his language.

  I slept well last night. That makes me nervous. I am glad that Count and I came to an understanding, but how easily we reached our rapprochement is unsettling. I’ve spent a great deal of energy trying to be accepted by Gant and the rest of the SCLC staff—even Martin—with little return on my efforts. Now, I have fallen in with a crime boss with ease, and the agents are waiting for my call.

  I feel uneasy as I arrange to meet Mathis and Strobe at their office. When I arrive, the agents don’t waste any time introducing me to Bureau efficiency.

  “What do you have for us, Mr. Estem?” asks Mathis.

  “Well, Gant has a childish scheme to buy buses.”

  “Buses?”

  “Transportation for the marches, he claims.”

  “Are there any other uses for these buses that he may have revealed to you?”

  “Such as?”

  Strobe looks at Mathis, but Mathis stays quiet.

  “Such as transporting communist agitators around to influence labor disputes,” offers Strobe.

  Mathis cuts Strobe a look out of the corner of his eye. Even I can see that he has missed the mark.

  “No,” I say, “nothing like that. The fact is I haven’t . . . well, he hasn’t purchased the buses yet. He’s waiting for me to return the money.”

  “Which you haven’t done,” Mathis says.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  Strobe and Mathis look at each other.

  “What about King?” they ask simultaneously.

  “What about him?”

  “Communist activity? Any high-profile communists visiting the SCLC?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “What about suspicious behavior?” Mathis asks while crossing his legs. “Behavior that might be seen as . . . unacceptable?”

  I feel the sting of embarrassment, as if it were my behavior being questioned.

  “No,” I say again.

  Mathis stays silent while surveying my face. I don’t make any attempts to hide my discomfort.

  “Listen, John,” he says, leaning in to rest his elbows on his thighs. “It’s understandable for you to be nervous. It happens a lot when you’re first getting started—I’m including myself as well. Primarily, it is important for you not to lose focus. Stay homed in on the task at hand. I’ve already expressed the confidence we have in you and your importance to us. We need to monitor any activity that can be perceived as anti-American. When we enlisted your help, we did not expect you to become a hindrance of any kind. If Gant needs you to return the money, then return it. If it means getting rid of that car, then so be it. It’s too conspicuous anyway. We—Mr. Hoover and the president—are very curious to see what he intends to do with that money.”

  “We need to know that you’re a team player, John,” says Strobe.

  “Right,” Mathis says, moving closer and now standing above me, “a team player. But know this, John,” he says squeezing my shoulder a little too tightly, “If you drop the ball, I’ll have no problem putting you on the bench.”

  Feeling defeated after my rendezvous with the agents, I take the long way home. The thought of Gant and the money makes me queasy. I pray that Count works fast and Gant has already resigned in shame. If not, I’ll have to suffer through another morning, staring at his smirking face. I drive down Peachtree Street, moving in a straight line past the zigzagging art deco of the picture palaces. Window down, there is no wind. The air is heavy and humid and seems to trap my anxiety in a dense cloud around me. I’ve had this feeling before, this phantom weight on my chest.

  When the polio struck, the doctors feared that the paralysis would spread to my diaphragm and the other muscles required for breathing. Had this happened, my permanent home would have been that despicable contraption called the iron lung. An airtight chamber, designed to push and pull on your chest through alternating pressure, fooling your body into believing that it is breathing on its own, reminding your brain that you cannot escape. That was the first and last time my withered leg seemed like a blessing.

  I’m encased in steel, but this Caddy gives me the kind of mobility I’ve never experienced before. I know it’s foolish, but behind this steering wheel, the barriers of class and race seem porous and decayed. At a stoplight I catch my reflection in a department store window. I smile at the idea of myself as a nomadic warrior, armed with a battering ram and attacking the crumbling walls of a citadel that houses the rumored treasures of the American dream.

  I’ve come this far. Further than anyone thought. Smarter than anyone knew. The agents will tighten the screws. So will Count. But I know I’ll come out on top. I’m already feeling better.

  I pull up to my apartment and notice a large white Buick parked across the street. I squint at the driver’s seat, but it’s vacant. I get out and place my hand on Black Beauty’s hood. I feel the warmth of her engine. I head for my apartment, but I am not alone. I look at my small porch, darkened by the awning above it. Someone is waiting for me.

  I’m surprised to see Count going solo, and not accompanied by his men. Depending on the news he brings, I may be happy to see him.

  “Let’s have a talk,” he says, motioning to his car waiting across the street.

  “I didn’t know you worked so fast,” I say, once we are inside.

  He doesn’t respond.

  “I’m sorry to say, I don’t have your money yet . . . but soon.”

  Count interlocks his fingers and gives his knuckles a loud crack. “Maybe it’s a setup, I say to myself. Maybe I go in there and somebody’s waiting for me. Maybe you told this somebody that he shouldn’t be so welcomin
g.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and withdraws the envelope intended for Gant. “Maybe there’s a finger inside this envelope and it’s pointing at me. The way you been eyeing my girl—this would be the perfect chance to get me out of the way. But no, that ain’t your style. First you have to make use of your enemies, then you get rid of them. For you it’s more fun that way. So forgive me for invading your fucking privacy by taking a peek.”

  “That’s fine, Count. I understand. A man in your position should take precautions. I hope your fears have been abated.”

  “‘Forget about the money,’” he reads. “‘They’re on to us.’” He folds the letter down the middle and looks at me. “I really start thinking now,” he says. “Was Little Man putting pressure on somebody and now he’s backing off? No, that can’t be it. ’Cause then where do I fit? Then I realize, no, somebody is putting the screws to him. You’re trying to convince somebody that the man they answer to wants to call it off. But that’s your mistake. You don’t really know how their game is played. Whoever they are, this probably ain’t their style. You’re just pointing the finger at yourself. ‘Forget about the money’—man, you been watching too many movies.”

  He’s right, and he may have saved me from embarrassment. What the hell was I thinking? The letter was lacking in so many aspects, but above all, in credibility and authenticity. I have no idea how communists and homosexuals conspire with each other.

  “So why don’t you tell me what’s really going on?” asks Count.

  I struggle with the idea of telling him about the money and Gant. I’m not sure what to do, but that lasts only briefly.

  “I stole a bit of money from work. Now my queer boss is putting some pressure on me.”

  “Queer?”

  “Yes. Communist too.”

  “No shit. A queer. How much?”

  “Twenty.” I’ve overstated the amount that has me on tilt, but I think I know where Count is headed.

  “Goddamn. Either I’m right about you or I’m really fucking wrong.”

  “They want the money back. They don’t know it’s me for certain, but they are beginning to look my way.”

  “They already got the cops involved?”

  “Certainly. That’s why they were in the alley the other night. They wanted to bring me in for questioning.”

  “You cooperate? Make a deal? Tell them you’d get the goods on somebody big if they’d look the other way?”

  “Of course not. I played dumb.”

  Count looks out of the window and lets his rough voice leak out. “Exactly, motherfucker—you played dumb.”

  “Look, the money wasn’t exactly clean to begin with.”

  “Okay. Now I see. You needed a dirty hand to give it a wash. What happened to the money?”

  “Spent some of it on women . . . at your place . . . so you already have a cut.”

  “Hey, man, you can keep the guilt trip. Ain’t no such thing as free pussy.”

  “Then there’s the car, of course.”

  “Guess that explains the new Caddy. Hell, even I don’t have a Cadillac,” he says almost to himself. “What’s your story, man? How does an accountant get himself in this kind of shit? You think I’d be doing this if I’d gone to college?”

  I don’t have an answer for him, so I just look out of the window at the green stucco of my building, still luminous in the night, like the aftermath of a lab experiment gone awry.

  “Look, young blood, this type of aggravation is bullshit. Cops and queer bosses. I’ll give you the money.”

  “Count, that’s very generous of you, but I can’t.”

  “Generous, my dick. You will pay me back. With interest. Fifteen points,” he says.

  “Fifteen points?”

  “I know that’s strong medicine, but it’ll go down easier than you think. We could learn a lot from each other. I’m looking for associates that are more . . .”

  “Stimulating,” I offer.

  “Right. Stimulating. Don’t get me wrong—Candy’s no knucklehead, but she ain’t exactly gonna cure cancer. Claudel and Otis have to take turns breathing, so that the other can chew gum.”

  “Claudel and Otis?”

  “The gentlemen that roughed your ass up.”

  So those are their names. I wonder which one is which.

  “It’s not every day that I get to rub shoulders with an honest-to-God white-collar professional. Now, your collar ain’t so white, but it’ll do. I’ll even let you work some of that money off by doing me some favors.” He beams a wild grin at me that sends a chill down my back.

  I think Count is finished, so I make an ill-considered move to get out of the car.

  “I’m not done with you yet,” he says looking at his jeweled pinky, gleaming even in the darkness of the front seat. “There’s something I want to show you.”

  We drive for a while. Eventually, we come to a neighborhood that looks as if it were designed by one of those Xerography machines. All the houses appear to be the same single-story structure, a hodgepodge of brick and aluminum siding.

  “Count, what are we doing in Bozley Park?”

  “I know what you’re thinking—two spooks at night in Bozley Park, that definitely means trouble. But don’t get nervous. We won’t be long. I just brought you here to paint the picture. Look out the window. Look around you. What do you see?”

  Bozley Park consists of ten or fifteen houses. None of these people are wealthy by any means. Blue-collar workers live here: plumbers, welders, janitors who call themselves maintenance managers, and the like—not upper-crust professionals. I see two posts, black and white, sunken into the earth, and fortified with cement. A clear symbol of the barrier between the races. Just one block over—just past those posts—is Bozley Place. That’s where the Negroes live.

  “Now imagine black families living in these houses, with their black children playing in the yard.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I say. “It’s still too segregated.”

  He smiles at that, “Whoever heard of one of Dr. King’s men not having any faith? I know all about Bozley Park, and I think it’s time they came face to face with integration—and you’re gonna help me do it.”

  Favors, he says. Do I deserve such generosity?

  Within a few days, Count makes good on his offer. Thanks to him, I’ve returned the money and kept the Caddy. Now that I’m indebted to him, I can empathize with Candy’s situation. He’s not shy about giving you exactly what you ask for and being perceived as your savior. It gives the illusion that he is protective of you, that there is something in you worth saving. When his true nature appears, brutal and mercenary, you’ll be blinded by the memory of him coming to your rescue.

  However, for now, I’ll embrace the relief. I enter Gant’s office with an unusual jauntiness, as if I’ve pulled off a job well done.

  “Mr. Gant, those funds are now available.” I give him a slight deferential bow of the head.

  “Good, Estem, good. Forgive me for saying so, but I was beginning to get worried. Especially with that beautiful new Cadillac of yours.”

  We both laugh.

  “How many buses can you get for a Cadillac?” I joke.

  Gant smiles. “Five? Ten? I have no idea. I’ll probably never know. I’m out of the bus business.”

  “Sir?”

  “Yeah, looks like I got ahead of myself with that bus idea. We’re not going ahead with it.”

  My jaw narrows.

  “Guess I made the mistake of thinking above my pay grade. This place has a way of setting you straight. But I’m sure we’ll find other uses for the money.” He rests his forehead in his hand while massaging the temples. “Estem, how do you feel about your job with us?” he asks without looking at me.

  It takes me a moment to respond. I’m too preoccupied with what has happened, and wondering if I could have anticipated it. Gant removes his hand and looks at me, so I give him an answer. “Yes. I’m very happy here, sir.”

  “Are you
sure? Something about you seems so . . . unsatisfied. Are you unsatisfied, Estem?”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way, exactly.”

  “You strike me as being ambitious, Estem. Is that fair to say?”

  “I guess every man, to a certain degree—”

  “It’s the ambitious ones that you have to watch. They can be pulled away by so many dark forces. You understand what I mean by dark forces, don’t you?”

  “I can’t say with certainty.”

  “It’s a matter of allegiance, Estem. It’s about knowing whose side you’re on when everybody appears to be on the same side. I’m sure those knuckleheads at the NAACP and CORE would love to have any of our people.”

  “Yes, sir, I’m sure they would.”

  “Estem, I’ve decided to give you a promotion—make you my right-hand man. Not that you aren’t already. But you’ll have a new title: assistant financial director. It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

  I feel a headache coming on.

  “You won’t be receiving more pay, unfortunately. As you know, we just don’t have it in the budget. But you will have greater responsibility in the SCLC. More weight will rest on your shoulders. I’ll need you to accompany Martin and me on a trip to LA. Are you game?”

  At this point I can only nod.

  After work, I head home, already feeling the burden of my new thankless title. I go about the business of removing my brace when I realize I badly need a drink. However, not badly enough to go through the ordeal of putting my brace back on. I hop over to my refrigerator to see what I have: just beer, which I don’t like all that much. Staring at the beer, I begin to realize that when I thought I needed a drink, what I really needed was a woman. Not just for the evening, but for an undetermined extended stay. Someone to help me with my brace. Someone to complain to about my promotion in title only. Someone—

  My phone rings. It’s Mathis.

  “John, we shouldn’t have to contact you.”

  “I apologize.”

  “Meet us in five minutes.”

  His tone is all-business, and it makes me slightly nervous. I feel that my performance during our first meeting was a failure, and I worry that I will let them down again. I resign myself to the notion that I must not reveal my apprehension and I should always be direct and forthcoming.