Our Man in the Dark

by Rashad Harrison

  Claudel stares at me. Silent. His forehead and cheeks feature three long wounds that look like pairs of pink lips stitched together.

  I look at him, readying myself for whatever he has to offer.

  “Cut me up pretty bad, huh,” he says.

  “Looks that way,” I say.

  His eyes narrow and his fingers curl into fists.

  I am not afraid.

  “Count wants to see you,” Claudel says. “He’s waitin’ in the car.”

  I close the door on Claudel, and then put on some pants and shoes. Count’s car is across the street from my apartment. He sits in the backseat. When I approach the car, Count opens the door. “Get in,” he says.

  I do as instructed.

  He motions for Claudel to wait outside, then gives me a knowing smile. “Don’t worry about Claudel. A face like that is good for business. Felt like you needed to hide in your hole, right?”

  “I just needed some time to myself,” I answer.

  “Yeah, things ain’t never really the same after the first time you bring a man close to his death. But just like most of the hard things in life, you learn to accept it.”

  I pray that day never comes.

  “I want you to know something. Even though your behavior has been real shitty lately, I forgive you.”

  “You want me to apologize again?”

  “Did I say that? Just shut up and listen. Even though your little fuckups have been costin’ me money, I’ve decided to cut you some slack. Candy and Lester? I’ll give you a pass on that too. You’ve really pissed me off, but I realize I’ve been thinkin’ small. Now I’m startin’ to see the bigger picture. Do you know what that bigger picture is?”

  “Please, indulge me.”

  “That little goody-two-shoes preacher you work for has been makin’ a real name for himself.” He flashes a wide death trap grin.

  “Yes, Martin is becoming very popular.”

  “Yes, Martin is. I bet a lot of money comes across his fingers.”

  “Money? That’s ridiculous.”

  “Ridiculous, huh? Speeches, books, TV appearances, and you tellin’ me he’s not rakin’ it in?”

  I can already see the target on Martin’s back. But am I fast enough to push him out of the way? “Yes, his fees are high, but that all goes back into the movement.”

  “The movement?”

  “That’s right. He takes just enough to live on. The rest goes toward the operating costs of the SCLC.”

  “So he puts most of the money back into this organization?” he asks under an arched eyebrow.

  “That’s right. He has nothing.”

  “But the organization, this . . . SCLC has all the money?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “So the SCLC is really bein’ carried on King’s shoulders. If something was to happen to him—I mean if for some reason he wasn’t so popular no more, then . . .”

  “What are you saying, Count?”

  “I’m saying it’s in the SCLC’s interest that he stays popular.”

  “He will.”

  “No doubt. But what if somebody had some info on the preacher—some info that he didn’t want made public. SCLC might want to pay to keep that kind of info under wraps.”

  He might as well be sniffing the air. He smells blood.

  “Well, it’s a good thing there isn’t any information like that out there.”

  We stare at each other while he gauges the weight of my lie.

  “C’mon, man what’s he into? Boys? Girls?”

  “The SCLC wouldn’t pay a dime out of pride.”

  “Considerin’ the generous contribution I’ve already made, it’s a good thing I’ve got a man on the inside to convince them otherwise.”

  “Count, I think you’re going about this all wrong. What about that field trip to Bozley Park? If I recall, you were the optimist that night.”

  “I don’t need you to remind me of my plans. I didn’t forget about Bozley Park. This has everything to do with that. Look, this is my way of hedging bets. Call it my integration tax. You see, that preacher of yours, he wants a nigger-free world, one where colored folks can do whatever white folks can do. I lose money in that world. I make money when the white man keeps his foot on the black man’s neck. Negroes come to see me to forget what’s out there. They come to me. Some white man been giving you a hard time while you been driving him around all day? You come to me for a drink, maybe a game of craps. You want a woman—maybe a white girl, a taste of forbidden fruit? You come see me. I get it for you ’cause you can’t get it out there. I’m God in this world. Niggers need me and I need niggers.”

  I feel as if I’ve emerged from a basement illuminated with a thousand lightbulbs. When did the world become such a dark place? How could I have guessed that the interests of the Count and the FBI would someday be aligned?

  I look at him, maybe with too much pity. “Count, I think you’re wrong. Martin is not a threat to you, at least not in the way you think. Negroes don’t go to your place to feel like white men—we go there to feel like men.”

  Through the window, Count watches Claudel pace in front of the car. “I think we’re saying the same thing,” he says.

  “Maybe, but I’m not interested in having any man’s foot on my neck. Surely, you can understand that.”

  He lets out a loud deep laugh, almost theatrical, operatic.

  “You don’t owe him nothing,” he says. “What, you think you and him is friends? You think you’re some type of civil rights leader? You’re not with them—you’re with me. Me and you are the same. That’s your problem, little man, you don’t realize you’re one of us. You still got yourself caught up in some bourgeois Negro dream. You want to be an accountant, a respectable member of the Negro community. Nice car. Nice house. You dream of a day when you can walk down the same side of the street as a white man and he’ll tip his hat at you as if you were the same as him. That shit won’t happen. There ain’t no place out there for you as some Negro professional. You bourgeois Negroes still believe in some fantasy of a black paradise, where all the businesses and the banks are Negro, and the money is Negro too. That’s a dream. All the assets of all the Negro banks combined can’t match a country bank in Kansas. Look around you. Open your eyes. You throw cocktail parties, society parties, and debutante balls, and you speak proper English, hoping that a white man will look at you one day and say, ‘You know what? These darkies ain’t so bad.’ It won’t happen. Stop believing in fantasies. There’s only one Negro business, and that’s vice. I’m talking dope, liquor, gambling, and pussy. That’s big business, little man. That’s how a nigger makes some real money in a white man’s world. That’s how you get your pockets stuffed. Real money, not this fake shit you motherfuckers chase. Meanwhile, I’m over here making real money, providing real services. My customers come to me with confidence. They can relax, because they know I’ll be here night after night. When they put down their money for a good time, they’re investing in their sanity. I don’t know what you Negroes believe in, but it’s a fucking dream. I don’t mean to be so hard on you, little man. I understand your motivations. Even though we have different approaches, we want the same things. I’m just trying to show you the right way to do it. You’ve got to think realistically.”

  “Thank you for your candor, Count. Maybe you’re right. You’ve given me a lot to think about. But I need a chance to work it over.”

  “Take your time.” He gives me a look that tells me I’m dismissed, and I get out of the car. Claudel takes a step toward me, but I keep walking.

  The last few days have overwhelmed me with a feeling of aimlessness and confusion. Mathis and Count have asked me to choose sides, but wasn’t it they who offered me prosperity and inclusion? Hasn’t my choice always been clear?

  When I arrive at work the next day, everyone is already heading home. They’re closing the office for the day. This time, no one tries to pretend everything is all right.

  Gant tells me
what’s wrong and places a consoling hand on my shoulder. He must think my exasperated look is directed toward him, because he walks away without saying another word. Martin didn’t even show up today, and with good reason.

  I get in my car and drive. I drive for a while. I don’t know where I’m headed, until the buildings start to look familiar and I realize I’m approaching the agents’ office.

  I sit in my car for a moment, just staring at the building and the windows that reflect the action on the street but reveal none of what’s going on inside.

  What will I do once I’m up there? Give orders? Demand answers? I don’t know. I decide to surprise myself.

  I make my way up the stairs slowly, one step at a time, gripping the railing so tightly that my forearm starts to tremble. But I am not in a rush. The old man says I don’t have enough steel in my spine. I want to take my time and give my anger a chance to harden. I start to sweat as I drag my dead leg and all its metal up those steps.

  I’m still sweating, but not tired, by the time I reach the second floor. I wait for a moment outside the door of the agents’ office, to give myself a chance to regain my composure. I can see their silhouettes lurking behind the beveled glass. I reach for the doorknob, but quickly withdraw my hand. Their blurred frames have stopped moving. They seem to be looking at me from the other side. It’s as if they see something equally dark and misshapen as well.

  I open the door without further hesitation.

  They look at me without a flinch or tell of surprise.

  Mathis sits with his legs crossed, while Strobe stands and stares with his hands tucked under his armpits.

  “Well, if it isn’t our man in the dark,” Mathis says, rolling a pencil between his fingers. “I hate to say it, but after all the money you’ve received it’s good to see you sweat.”

  “How could you do such a thing?” I ask Mathis, not blinking.

  He stares back at me, eyes surveying my face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He smirks a bit.

  “The tape,” I say. “How could you send that tape to his wife, for God’s sake? Don’t you have any decency?”

  Strobe laughs. “You’re asking him if he has any decency?”

  I swallow and push my glasses up higher on my nose.

  “Listen, John,” he says. “I was just doing my job.”

  “Just doing your job? That’s funny, because I remember a certain night in the backseat of your car when you told me that an agent’s job is purely investigative. How the hell is this investigative?”

  “Okay, you just watch your tone. You be careful right now . . . be very careful.” Mathis stands. I’ve always thought of Strobe as the muscle, but now I’m not so sure. The menace in his voice is real and can’t be ignored.

  “Just tell me what’s going on here. You told me I would be helping to protect the country from communism. You wanted me to see if communism was infiltrating the SCLC. What the hell does this have to do with communism?”

  “Get off of your soapbox, John. You know exactly what this is about. The United States government has the FBI, the CIA, and the goddamn army. Do you think we really need a crippled Negro to stop communism? This is about your ego. The agenda has changed. Deal with it.”

  “The agenda has changed to what?”

  “If I decide to tell you, I will tell you. At the moment, I don’t feel like now is the right time. You need to understand that you will continue to do as I say, when I say, and as long as I see fit. You have no other choice. I work for J. Edgar Hoover, he works for the president, and you work for me.”

  I almost feel sorry for the man. I work for him? He has no idea what line he’s crossed. I turn to walk out, replaying the events in my head. I ask Mathis why he is doing this, but the truth is, I already know. I had hoped I was indulging in some macabre misjudgment, but I am not. The FBI wants to destroy King, and Mathis wants to use me to do it.

  Strobe walks over to me feigning innocence. “I know this is hard to accept, John, but you must accept it. You and I both know that your beloved reverend is a reprobate. You know that, don’t you?” Strobe places a hand on each of my shoulders. “One of the other agents interviewed a Vegas prostitute—a regular and reliable source. She says she spent the evening with King once, and he got pretty forceful—downright violent—with her. ‘He hurt me so bad I’ll never see him again.’ Those were her words. It seems Mr. Nonviolence likes it rough.”

  I shrug my shoulders to get his hands off me. Strobe smirks, then turns to Mathis and asks, “Can I play him the one from LA?”

  Mathis, now seated, gently strokes his chin and nods.

  The tape clicks to a stop. I try my best to appear unaffected by it, but I am troubled. For some reason, this recording of Martin has begun to haunt me. Already my mind has chosen to replay it.

  “Say something, dammit,” shouts Strobe. “Is that enough for you?”

  “Look at the two of you,” I say. “I’ve never seen you so . . . invigorated. You seem outraged, but you’re enjoying this. Is there some sort of FBI commendation for distinguished Peeping Tom?”

  “You heard that tape. You heard it,” says Mathis. “That’s the man who wants to be the moral conscience of the Negro and dictate America’s moral obligations. You heard that tape. That man is a danger to himself, and with his power and influence, he’s a danger to the country. So the mission has changed from assessing perceived influences to administering immediate intervention. Can you take your dick out of a hooker’s snatch long enough to grasp that? Now look, John. None of us are saints. And despite Hoover’s desire to appear so, neither is he. But you have to give the man some credit. He has restraint. And, despite whatever his dark desires are, and we all have them, he keeps his in check. He’s dedicated himself to the American people—that comes at a price. I think it is in the best interest of the country that King knows that he’s being watched, not just his public persona, but his true self. It has been seen, witnessed, and documented, and he needs to know that.”

  His true self has been seen. I mull this statement over.

  “John, no one’s forcing you to do anything. It’s important that you understand that. Since we’ve met, you’ve been allowed to make your own choices. Now I am asking you to make another one. If King engages in any reckless activity, will you tell us? You can say no, but you should remember our financial arrangement. Once you leave our protective bosom, it’ll be cold out there. And you know that among Negroes there’s no warm places for a—what’s that expression? An Uncle Tom.”

  “You have your tapes. You’ve sent your letter. What do you need me for?”

  “I’m not sure what letter you’re talking about, but the FBI can’t go around recording citizens engaged in private acts and then make the tapes public,” says Strobe. “It’s beneath us.”

  “Personal accounts are more convincing. Are you with us, John?”

  Be smart. Bluster and indignation won’t work on them. It never has. I need to stay put until I can think of a better move.

  “Yes,” I say. “I’m with you.”

  For a moment that seems to satisfy Mathis, but his attention shifts to the door and the mysterious figure lurking on the other side of it. No one moves. Whoever it is we can hear him breathing. The doorknob turns, producing a clinking sound that makes its handler stop and try it again. This time, the door opens slowly.

  Mathis jumps up and turns over his chair in the process. Strobe reaches for his gun. The old man, a Negro holding a mop in a bucket, is silent and still.

  I give the agents a pitiful look, and the old man a comforting pat on the shoulder. “You should get that lock fixed,” I say as I walk out.

  The room is smoky and appointed with dark wood and leather. A cone of light shines down on us through the nicotine cloud. Martin puts his arm around my shoulder, bringing me closer to him. “Thank you,” he says, patting my chest with his free hand.

  There is an audience—all of them men, and all of them in gray suits, but the
ir faces are blurred like fogged glass.

  I put my arm around him to complete the embrace, but when I bring back my hand, I am holding a letter opener with blood on the blade. I look at the weapon, then at him. His look of horror mirrors my own.

  I open my mouth to apologize, but my voice does not follow; the only sound I make is a loud mechanical shriek.

  My phone rings. I yawn and roll over to answer it. My mother greets me with a long empty sigh followed by silence.

  “What’s wrong, Mama?”

  “Talked to Mrs. DePlush the other day. You remember her, don’t you? You went to school with her daughter. Hope I didn’t wake you. Thought you might still be up, being a night owl and all.”

  “Mama . . .”

  “He ain’t come home yet.”

  I look at my clock—damn near two in the morning.

  “Don’t worry about it, Mama. Go back to sleep. I’ll go get him.”

  I get dressed and then start the long drive out to Mike’s bar. I hate that he’s gotten me out of bed for this, but there is a certain pride I feel in coming to my father’s rescue—running out into the vast and deep uncertainty that lies hidden in the night, saving him from drowning—saving him from himself.

  I walk into Mike’s and look around at the desperate, lonely souls, a bunch of buzzing barflies that have lost their way inside a maze of wonder, temptation, and danger and have forgotten how to get back outside. They are all white, except for the one Negro sitting at the bar by himself.

  Mike comes from around the bar and stops me at the door. “Look, I don’t want any trouble. We already got one in here and that’s enough. Not everybody is as . . . progressive as I am.”

  I look away from Mike’s big broad shoulders and barrel chest and into his eyes so that he can see my face. “It’s me, Mike.”

  “Oh. Hey, John,” he says. “Sorry about that. He’s at the bar.”