Our Man in the Dark

by Rashad Harrison

  I’m the only Negro in the back of the paddy wagon. Some of the other men seem vaguely familiar, but I’m not concerned with putting names to faces. At the station, I’m photographed and fingerprinted. They corral the white men together in a cell. I have one all to myself.

  Dark corners. Only a single lamp outside the cell. My face is crosshatched by the shadows of the bars, adding a gloomy quality to this already hopeless setting.

  I’m entitled to a phone call, but I don’t use it.

  Hours pass. Upon release, I consider fleeing the country.

  I hear the jangle of keys. A lanky policeman with a boil on his right upper cheek unlocks the cell door. “Well, boy, it looks like you managed to make friends with the right people. C’mon, now.”

  The officer escorts me to the station lobby, where he hands me a file. Inside are my mug shot and fingerprints.

  Strobe and Mathis are waiting at the front desk.

  “He’s all yours,” the officer says.

  Mathis and Strobe are silent. I assume that they will drive me home, but as we pass the city limits, my shame and gratitude prevent me from protesting.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” I say to them. “What you’ve done tonight won’t be forgotten.”

  They do not respond.

  The city vanishes in the darkness behind us, yet Mathis and Strobe continue to drive. They drive into the forgotten rural area, past the old barns and fields, past the shacks of tenant farmers still lit by kerosene lamps. The sound of gravel crunching under the tires gives way to the softer thump of a dirt road.

  Trees suddenly appear. The twisted branches give mind to the mangled limbs of torture and farm accidents. Vegetation suffocates the trunks. Roots push up through the soil, reaching for air.

  We are deep in the Christ-haunted woods of baptisms and lynchings.

  “Relax, John,” says Mathis.

  Finally, we come to a clearing.

  “Here,” says Strobe.

  Darkness is all around us, though briefly interrupted by a light flickering in the distance.

  I blink and take in the brilliance of a burning cross.

  The sight of a cross on fire should be unsettling to any true Christian. To a Negro it is worse. A unique kind of fear enters your mind, one perfected by the South: that you could die for the most harmless of offenses. You could die just for the crime of living.

  This is how it happens, isn’t it? Someone becomes too much of a liability and they mysteriously disappear. But that is not how Mathis and Strobe would get rid of me. I can see the headline now: “King’s Accountant Murdered by Klan.” If I were to disappear, it would be an embarrassment to Hoover and an outrage to Martin. I matter too much. It seems that they brought me here for some type of show—to teach me a lesson. They want to watch me squirm for their amusement.

  Strobe opens the car door and pulls me out.

  “Well,” I say to them, “I see you have a flair for drama, but are these theatrics really necessary?”

  “Shut your trap, for God’s sake,” snaps Strobe.

  There is nothing but the cross and darkness. Strobe pulls something from his jacket and presses it to his lips. A birdlike chirp is released. A duplicate sound echoes from the night. We wait, staring into the dark. And then I see it, what I hope is a trick of the mind, a ghostly apparition emerging from the pitch. I stand in disbelief as the white hood and cloak make their way toward us.

  He removes the hood and reveals his coal black, sweat-soaked hair. “You boys need to start being on time. Been waiting out here who knows how long.” He looks at me, then smiles at Mathis and Strobe. “Would’ve brought my corn liquor if I knew we was having a party.”

  “What’s the news, Pete?” asks Mathis.

  “Might know who killed that salt-and-pepper couple last month, that’s what.”

  “You do or you don’t.”

  “Can’t fully recall. Memory’s been acting funny since my little girl got sick. Doctor can’t tell what’s causing it. Bless her heart.” He seems to swell under that sheet. He has a large brawny build; not athletic, just the ropy girth resulting from years of physical labor.

  “How much?”

  “Two hundred might get her through.”

  Mathis nods at Strobe. He retrieves the bills and hands them to Pete.

  An unwelcome smirk comes to my face. Out here in these woods, I am surprised to see someone I think I can relate to.

  Pete looks at me, money still in his palm. His close-set eyes narrow. “What is that goddamn monkey looking at?” He puts the hood back on. “You want to look at something, nigger? Look at this.”

  Strobe snatches the hood and tosses it to the ground. “One more word and you’ll watch me piss on it.”

  Pete attempts to reach for it.

  “Leave it,” says Strobe.

  “Names,” says Mathis.

  “Frank Billingsley. Sam Cullworth. Brothers—same momma, different daddies. Share a place not too far from here. They been bragging about what they did to the girl while they made the nigger watch.”

  “And I suppose a man of your stature favors discretion, is that it?” adds Mathis.

  “Ain’t saying she didn’t have it coming. But what them boys did was done after she was dead. You got to draw the line somewhere, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Your buddies back there will support a hundred different alibis. What else you got?”

  “Took some jewelry off the girl. The nigger had a guitar that Sam won’t shut up about. Said it’s like the one his daddy taught him on. Sure as hell he’s still got it.”

  A rallying cry echoes in the dark. Pete jerks his head like a dog responding to a whistle. “It’s been fun visiting, boys. But I need to get going.” Again, he reaches for the hood. “May I?”

  Strobe nods.

  “You know where to find me if you need me.” Pete looks at me one last time. “Be sure to keep that dog on a short leash,” he says as he disappears into the woods.

  The three of us are silent as we head toward the city. In my mind, Mathis and Strobe have reached their low point. Allowing me to witness their little display of power reveals their true estimation of me. Despite what they have told me, they see me as corrupted and compromised. An unscrupulous man who can be maneuvered and manipulated by his faults, like puppet strings.

  I decide to speak up. “Good to see you boys are putting your connections to good use. I wish that I could tell Martin what you boys are up to.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Strobe says glaring at me in the rearview mirror.

  “I mean that it would put him at ease. Martin’s been so troubled about the FBI’s lack of protection for us civil rights workers, he’d love to hear that you are going to get those animals.”

  “Hear that, Mathis?” asks Strobe, “Martin would love to hear that we’re going to get those animals.”

  “John,” Mathis says, letting out a sigh, “We most certainly do not, and probably never will, give protection to a civil rights worker. The FBI is not the police. We’re purely an investigative organization. The protection of individual citizens is a matter for local authorities.”

  He sounds rehearsed, and he knows it.

  “So you’ve obtained information regarding the murder of two innocent people,” I say, “yet you plan to do nothing with it?”

  “I can’t believe this son of a bitch is developing a conscience,” Strobe says.

  “We’ll give the information to the sheriff once we’ve followed up on everything.”

  “You and I both know these redneck sheriffs won’t make an effort,” I say. “It’s your job to ensure that justice—”

  “I’ve had enough of this degenerate. Put the bastard out here and let him walk home.”

  “Strobe, enough. John, our job is to know. Period. Now, you need to focus on your job and that is helping us do ours. We brought you out here to show you that we can be trusted—to remove any doubt about whose side we are on. We are on your side, John. When yo
u act in the manner you have, it gives us the impression that you take our relationship for granted—that you don’t trust us . . . and that we can’t trust you. You must stay focused, John. If you fail, we all fail. You will be an embarrassment to the FBI, to King—to everyone. Don’t you see it? We have people planted inside an organization that is the sworn enemy of the Negro people. We’re working to destroy them from the inside out. Yet you continue to treat our arrangement with a disrespect that puzzles me. The barbarians are at the gates, John. Saboteurs, both foreign and domestic, are threatening America. You have to capture, for good, any part of you that wants to flee, and suppress it. Your responsibilities to your people and to this country are too great.”

  Mathis tosses an envelope to me in the backseat.

  I see his eyes in the rearview mirror, surveying me to assess the effect of his words. I don’t have to look in the envelope. I can tell by its weight that there’s cash inside.

  “Get the information,” says Mathis. “The next time we meet, you’d better be a goddamn encyclopedia.”

  As we approach the lights of the city, we pass a billboard displaying our town’s new civil-minded slogan: “Welcome to Atlanta, the City Too Busy to Hate.”

  Heat rises from the pavement, blurring everything behind it. Slowly, they begin to materialize: marchers, headed down a road that bisects a seemingly limitless field. I stand in the middle of their procession, watching them as they pass. They are mostly young and Negro, but there are others as well: college-age white boys with their shaggy beards and shades, nuns and white women of various ages, from those with the legs of their denim rolled up to their calves, to those in loose free-flowing paisley housedresses. A young man missing his right leg hurries past me on crutches. My eyes follow him in disbelief, and then I see Martin up ahead in his preacher-blue suit. “Martin!” I call out to him. I hurry to catch up, but I cannot keep pace. Again, I call to him, “Martin! Wait!” This time he stops, as does everyone else.

  “Come on,” he says. “Come on and join us up front.”

  It takes some time for me to reach him, but when I do, an angry mob appears and begins to throw rocks at us.

  “Well,” he says. “You coming or not?”

  Before I can answer him, shots ring out. Only his shoulders twitch, subtly. The shots repeat in rapid succession. I do not move.

  Martin motions the crowd to move forward.

  I am left alone.

  But the gunfire continues.

  I can’t tell where it’s coming from. I crouch and then lie down on the ground. The gunfire doesn’t stop, and now an incessant ringing accompanies it—over and over and over.

  My phone wakes me. Reluctantly, I reach for the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Is your LA offer still good?”

  Am I still dreaming? If so, how would I answer this in a dream? “Yes.”

  “Good, then I’m coming with you.” Her voice doesn’t sound apologetic; she assumes I have already forgiven her.

  I head to the office, but it takes a while for me to get there. I’m bouncing around between excitement and incredulity. My cynicism had spread like a cancer; now I find myself smiling when I think of Candy and all the possibilities. Her call saved me from a nightmare; how can I not view it as a good omen?

  The door to Gant’s office is open. He sits at his desk while looking at the contents of a large black folder and casually nibbling the end of a pencil. As I look closer, I see that he’s staring at something far away from whatever is in that folder.

  I tap on the door to get his attention.

  He looks up but doesn’t say anything. It’s as if he needs a few moments to recognize me.

  “Yes,” he says finally. “What is it, Estem?”

  “Sir, I had a question regarding our trip to Los Angeles.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I was wondering if anyone would be bringing their wives?”

  “Why do you ask? You’re not married, are you?” He smiles wryly. “Have you been keeping a secret wife? Why, Estem, I don’t know you at all.”

  I manage a smile. I speak through a stifled laugh to show that I am a good sport. “No, but I was hoping to invite a friend.”

  “Invite? Estem, this isn’t a cotillion we’re going to.” He seems genuinely irritated as he closes the folder.

  “Yes, sir, I’m aware of that, which is why I’m asking.”

  He stands, placing both palms on his desk. “Martin rarely sees his wife. The same can be said for Young and Abernathy. I’m quite sure they would love to bring their wives along, but these are the sacrifices they made for the movement. It displays solidarity and commitment if we attempt to make the same sacrifices.”

  “Of course.” I want to explain the importance of female companionship while abroad, but I don’t think a queer would truly understand.

  He sits back down. His chair is on a swivel, and he slowly turns his back to me. “But then again,” he adds, “these trips can be trying, and a certain amount of downtime is required.” He turns the chair to face me again, but he reopens the folder and puts the pencil back between his teeth, letting it rest on his lip as if it were a long wooden cigarette. He removes it before deciding to speak again. “So no one can stop you from making friends once we are there. Discretion is the key, Estem. It is always the key. Remember that next time.”

  “Understood, sir.” I don’t push the issue further. He’s given me enough room to maneuver. I’ll need to get a ticket on another airline and a separate room. Not the romantic getaway I imagined, but it will have to do.

  “Here,” he says lifting a piece of paper off his desk.

  I walk over to take it. It’s the itinerary for the LA trip. His eyes begin to drift to that place he was visiting when I first walked in. I leave him to his thoughts; that’s where he needs to be right now. I am not a mind reader, but I am an accountant; I know the look of calculation when I see it.

  Later, I contact Mathis to give him the details. I call him from a phone booth that I would often use to call Candy. Most of the time I couldn’t do it from my apartment. Looking around my modest means would rob me of the confidence that is necessary when a man talks to a woman. It’s across the street from a pawnshop with abandoned symbols of desperation glittering in its windows. However, the modeling school next to it attracted most of my attention. Seeing those girls—not all of them pretty—saunter after their dreams with perfect posture gave me a much-needed boost of courage. Even before I went into the bank that day, I called her. I wanted to hear her voice one last time, just in case things went horribly wrong.

  “Los Angeles. Ambassador Hotel,” I tell Mathis when he answers.

  “What room?”

  “I don’t know yet, but we will have the entire sixth floor.”

  He thanks me, but I hang up in his face.

  Five days pass, and I haven’t heard from her since the wake-up call. I start packing for the trip to LA. Although the flight leaves in a few hours, I pack mainly to keep myself busy and to keep the disappointment from setting in.

  A knock at my door interrupts the exciting task of mating my socks.

  She has never been inside my apartment before, so I am understandably nervous. I take a moment to catalog the image of her in my doorway. Her wide-brimmed hat is white and tilted at an angle so that only one of her almond-shaped eyes is visible. Her pastel blue dress is sleeveless and shows off her small sloping shoulders. It flares at the knee. Her gloves are short, white, and leather. She holds a suitcase. The suitcase is not leather—maybe pigskin. It’s an unusual cloudy rust color, like iodine mixed with milk.

  I stand there holding the door open, not saying anything, just taking her in, savoring that contrast of blue and white against her brown skin—a rich and luminous brown, like brandy resting above a warmer’s flame.

  “Well, aren’t you gonna invite me in?” she asks, growing tired of my staring.

  “I’m sorry. Come on in. Put your bag down anywhere,” I s
ay.

  She enters my place and I tell her to have a seat before I remember that the only options are my bed and a wicker chair that loves to give splinters.

  She chooses to stand.

  I begin to close the door behind her when I hear a voice far too rough to be Candy’s.

  “Where are your manners, little man? Ain’t you gonna invite me in too?”

  I look at the empty space of doorway that Candy once occupied. It is no longer empty and we are no longer alone. Count has arrived.

  I don’t respond. I just stand there feeling my throat tighten as the realization suffocates me. He doesn’t say anything either—he just gives a sly smile with only a hint of teeth. He watches my face, waiting for acceptance and capitulation to coalesce in my eyes.

  When he finally sees what he’s been waiting for, he walks in without my prompting. His linen suit is eggshell white with ash gray pinstripes. The shoes are yellow and reptilian. He seems better attired for a night of roulette in Batista’s Havana than a Southern summer day. He looks around my place. The yellow stone of his pinky ring flickers as he rubs his chin with genuine pity.

  I turn to Candy, but she looks away defiantly.

  He goes over to the table where my phonograph rests. The copy of Candy’s dance single is still lying next to it. He picks up the record and strokes Candy’s image with his index finger. He looks at me and begins to fan himself with it.

  “So you’re the one,” he says. “Should’ve known.” He looks over at Candy standing in the small space between my bed and the dresser. It’s the farthest away from Count and me that she can get without actually leaving.

  He throws the record at me like a Frisbee. I catch it and place it on my nightstand, surprising myself with my careful display.

  “Little man, things got pretty crazy the other night, huh.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Oh, come on now. My place gets raided and you get pinched. But here you are, lookin’ sharp, well rested, breathin’ free man’s air. But it’s funny how there ain’t no word of it anywhere. Not in the paper, on TV, nothin’.”

  “Why would there be? I’m no one special.” The sides of my tongue burn after saying that.