Our Man in the Dark

by Rashad Harrison

  Finally, he turns onto a street with little traffic. We give him some room, and he pulls into a motel parking lot. I tell Lester to park in front of the union hall across the street from the Quiet Time Motel. The hillbilly on their large flickering neon sign slumbers identically to the cover of the souvenir matchbooks. The rooms are designed bungalow style—individual apartments, about twenty-five of them, slathered with stucco. A manager’s office with a cold hard fluorescent light bleeding out the barred window sits up front.

  I scan the parking lot, looking at the cars—the off-duty cabs of Lester’s competitors, an assortment of clunkers, a rusted pick-up with a tin Confederate flag anchored to the bumper with wire, and right next to that is Mathis’s black Ford. I watch him in the rearview mirror, as he runs a comb through his hair, perfecting the deep groove of his right-sided part. He looks down and to his right, presumably at his glove compartment, then rubs both cheeks with both hands, as if he were applying aftershave. He gets out of the car and goes over to one of the bungalows and knocks. The door opens slowly. He enters, but I can’t see who was waiting for him. All the other bungalows are dark. Blurred televised images flicker behind the gauzy curtain.

  “What are we doing here, Mr. Estem?” asks Lester.

  “Watching. Gathering information. We’re trying to find information about a man who has been very dishonest and deceptive, a man who wants to collect the secrets of others but doesn’t want to share his own. So, Lester, we have to seek what he wants to hide. We must find the answers for ourselves.”

  “And this man—does he work at this motel?”

  I look at his dim pupils.

  “We’re going to find secrets about him in this motel?” he asks.

  “Maybe, Lester. Maybe . . .”

  A good deal of time passes, but I am still watching. I need to know who opened that door for Mathis, so I feel compelled to be patient. Lester, on the other hand, is growing anxious and feels the need to talk.

  “All this waitin’ around reminds me of when me and the boys would case a joint before we robbed it,” says Lester. “Man, I was terrible. I was taken in by an uncle after my daddy—or at least the man I thought was my daddy—found out that I didn’t belong to him. He made my mama choose. ‘Him or me,’ he said. She loved that man. So my mama put me out when I was fourteen. But I got a real bad temper, always have. So when that man that I used to call Daddy got in my face, I beat him so bad he reached out his hand and asked my mama for help. They sent me to live with my uncle, but he was too old to handle me. I get real angry sometimes. I know it, but I just can’t help it. I’m better now, but at that age, I was a handful. I used to run with this gang—the Royal Peacocks. We used to get into some real trouble, especially me. I found out I loved to break into places, just for the challenge. I got this strange talent for knowin’ how locks work. I broke into this funeral home once, because I noticed they didn’t have no heavy-duty locks. I wasn’t plannin’ to steal nothin’. It was just for the challenge. But a night watchman found me. He started screamin’ he’s gonna send me to jail, and this and that, so I beat him senseless before I knew it. I guess I found out I was good for that too. My uncle got me out and put me with Mike. He taught me about boxin’ . . . about life . . . about everything. I owe him everything.”

  A police siren kills the quiet of the street and, thankfully, Lester’s soliloquy. The bungalow door opens. Confident, relaxed, and not at all ashamed of what has gone on in that room, Mathis walks out. Behind him is a young girl.

  That’s not his daughter, and that’s not his wife. I’d say she’s no more than seventeen, and that may be a generous estimate. It’s jarring to see Mathis giving in to his desires. I’ve always pictured him as an asexual automaton. But here he is, quite the opposite, romping behind the shed like some teenaged peckerwood. Who is this girl that has Mathis acting on his carnal impulses? From what I can tell, she is beautiful. For a moment, I am proud of myself and pleased with my sleuthing, but only for a moment. I hoped to find something on Mathis that would bring the sort of embarrassment he wished on Martin, but this is the South; seventeen-year-old girls get screwed by middle-aged men all the time. I’m not sure what kind of leverage this will give me, but I’m sure his wife will provide a clue.

  Mathis drives his Lolita to a street corner in Bozley Park, then lets her out. Lester and I continue to follow him.

  The smile on Mathis’s face is gone once he approaches the door. He looks behind him. At first, I fear that he senses he’s been followed, but now I realize he is deciding whether or not to escape with that little girl and head for Mexico. He turns around and enters reluctantly.

  A few minutes pass; then muffled shouting makes its way outside of the house. Then it stops. Lester and I continue to wait and watch. I’m not sure what answers this will provide, but then I see her. A woman—I assume Mrs. Mathis—walks out wearing a form-fitting blue dress, but she doesn’t get into Mathis’s car. She looks up and down the street and then directly at us.

  She heads toward the cab, and I tell Lester to stay calm even though I’m already visibly nervous.

  “Are you waiting for someone?” she asks me.

  “No,” I say. “Just dropping someone off.”

  She’s already in the backseat before I can say anything else. “Good. Then you can take me to the Blue Stripe. It seems my husband has misplaced the car keys. I’ll pay you extra to wait for me.”

  Lester looks at me in silence, but I give him an encouraging nod. He sucks his teeth, sighs, and then starts the cab.

  Her resemblance to Mathis’s young girl is striking. She could easily be her mother—or an older version of her. I guess when Mathis meets her for those secret rendezvous his Ford doubles as a time machine. Although Mrs. Mathis is attractive, she has a world-weary countenance—I suspect weathered by disappointment or liquor or both. My quest began with wanting to know more about Mathis. I had no idea I’d stumble upon the most revealing aspect of a man: the women in his life. Now I find myself asking a very dangerous question: how can a Negro get close to a married white woman . . . without being killed?

  As requested, we stop at the Blue Stripe, a watering hole for the well-heeled. A man can get a woman anywhere, but here a woman can get a man. Lonely upper-crust housewives can have their pick from a bounty of desirable men. A good portion of them are gigolos, the sly and foxy type, with small mustaches and well-oiled hair, a little gray at the temples. Most important, it’s one of the few places in the South where a woman can drink by herself and not be judged. I’ve heard talk of their velvet ropes, vibrantly colored drinks, and tinted-light atmosphere, but I’ve never experienced it firsthand since I’m the wrong hue. Negroes are not allowed in there—that’s fine. I don’t want it to be too easy. After all, this is Mathis’s wife, and it wouldn’t be worth it if I didn’t have to employ some guile.

  I’m glad we drove her here. Mrs. Mathis needed a driver. There’s something about the valet, and I don’t like the looks of him. I can sense that working here has made him cynical, and he would have handed down some judgment if he were to approach the car and see Mrs. Mathis behind the steering wheel and an unmanned passenger’s seat. It’s better that she has avoided all of that.

  Lester and I wait for Mrs. Mathis to reappear.

  A few hours later, she walks out drunk. When she reaches the cab, I start the show.

  I adopt a deferential tone to my voice. “How was your evening, ma’am?”

  She looks around droopy-eyed and then climbs in back. “No luck tonight, boys. I guess they could smell the vengeance and desperation. Just take me back home.”

  “Devonmoore Hills, wasn’t it, ma’am?” I ask.

  “That’s right.” She leans back in the seat, then quickly sits up again. “Wait a second,” she says. “Why are there two of you?” It’s strange how liquor can blur a thousand details while bringing one into vivid clarity.

  “Oh, he’s my boss, ma’am,” Lester says. “I’m new on the job and he’s super
visin’ me.” He smiles, but his eyes narrow.

  That seems to satisfy her, and she relaxes again.

  We drive past Duncan and Claymoore streets, the intersection where they killed that colored boy for whistling at a white girl. I watch Mrs. Mathis in the rearview mirror. She was drunk when we picked her up, and she still is, but now she tries to appear sober as she struggles to apply her lipstick during this bumpy drive. She has just finished the bottom lip, and a bit of her chin, when our eyes meet in the mirror. I quickly look at Lester. He keeps his eyes on the road and hums a Negro spiritual, “Mmm . . . that cross was heavy . . .”

  “Why are men such bastards?” asks Mrs. Mathis.

  We don’t respond. She must be talking to herself.

  “Did you hear me? I’m talking to you. Why are men such bastards?”

  I have to bite my tongue. I want to tell her that women are a constant disappointment to men, and that any pleasure or gratification received is fleeting and momentary.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” I say. “I don’t know why that is.”

  “You give them everything and they just take more.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I know a lot of men like that.”

  “I’m sure you do. Are colored men that way?”

  “Which way is that, ma’am? Are we bastards? Well, I reckon a good portion of us was born out of wedlock, but I don’t have a particular number, percentagewise.”

  Her eyes turn into amused little slits. “Are you having a go at me?”

  “Ma’am?”

  She laughs. “You know exactly what I mean. You can quit the Stepin Fetchit–Amos ’n’ Andy routine. I know when I’m in the presence of a halfwit. Save the act.” I can see her smirk in the mirror. Her ability to see through our ruse impresses me.

  As we continue to drive, Mrs. Mathis stares out the window, smiling and blinking lazily at passing streetlights. With a grin and a sigh, she welcomes the wave of alcohol that has washed over her as she gets comfortable in her seat.

  Lester wants her out of his cab and all of this over. He’s had enough, I can tell. He tightens his grip on the steering wheel and starts driving too fast.

  “Slow down,” I tell him with a stern whisper.

  “Listen, you boys need to slow down. Don’t do anything reckless—my husband is a G-man. Do you know what a G-man is?”

  I assume she’s asking me. “Do you mean a federal agent ma’am?”

  She leans forward. “‘You mean a federal agent, ma’am.’ You see, I knew your Amos ’n’ Andy act was horseshit. Which one of you is Amos? Which one is Andy?”

  “What she mean by that?” Lester queries. “My name is Lester.” I cringe as he gives his real name.

  “Oh, I guess he’s both,” she says, falling back in her seat. “Yes, my husband is a G-man. You know, it’s funny. I used to think it was exciting being married to one of those heroes they always show in the movies or television shows. But I’ll be the first to tell you it may be exciting for the men, but it sure as hell is no fun for the wives. You see, G-men are never really married to you—they’re married to J. Edgar Hoover, and the wives are just glorified mistresses. Nothing comes before the Bureau. Why is it so hot down here? Can you answer me that? So hot . . . and balmy. I have to be honest with you—I do resent you people. When I say you people, I’m not sure if I mean Negroes or Southerners in general. You just can’t seem to get it together down here. Every time some colored person tries to sit at some ‘whites only’ counter, I hate him a little bit—because that means one more day that I have to spend down here. All because a Negro tried to force progress on someone who doesn’t want it. And when a redneck sheriff stops a little colored girl from going to school, I hate him too—that means another damn day. Do you know what a homosexual is? Of course you do. Hoover is one, you know. A homosexual. So I guess it’s quite appropriate that all of his men are married to him. Most people know it, too. But most people know how to keep their mouths shut. There were rumors that he attended parties in dresses. He told me that much, my husband did. I guess he shouldn’t have. Hoover wanted to get some dirt—no, wanted to ruin whoever said such things about him. I guess my husband didn’t do a good enough job. Suddenly, he’s reassigned to the South. And it’s not the glint and glitter of Manhattan anymore. It’s backwoods preachers, redneck sheriffs, and protesting Negroes. It takes a toll on the marriage. I know we’re not making it. I know we’re breaking down. I miss that life, that city life. I could wear a pretty dress and it didn’t get sweated up by the heat. Not like down here. We were alive in that city. One thing’s for sure—the South is killing us. Listen to me going on like a Tennessee Williams play.”

  “I know what you mean,” I find myself saying.

  “I’ve thought about ending it all,” she says, while smiling. I hope she isn’t serious. Negroes and a white woman with a death wish are a bad mix. “Do you know what I mean by that? Taking my own life just to escape this godforsaken place. But who would notice down here? There’s so much violence. But I’d probably take some pills or slit my wrists or something. What can I tell you? I’m from Manhattan—I have a flair for drama. Then I think about my poor husband—not that he’d miss me, mind you. I’m sure he’d find relief in it on some level, but I wouldn’t do that to him. After spending this much time married to an agent, I know they’d think he killed me. They always look to the husband first when the wife ends up dead. I’m not sure I hate him enough to put him through that. What do you think?”

  “About what, exactly?” I ask.

  “No, not you, the other one. What do you think?”

  “I don’t think nobody should be killing themselves,” says Lester. “It just ain’t right. It seems God didn’t put us on this earth to make it easy. Seems he put us here to fight . . . to fight for what we want. If you want it bad enough you got to fight.”

  “You make a lot of sense,” she says. “What’s your name again?”

  “Lester, ma’am.”

  “Yes, Lester, you make a lot of sense. You must fight. But the problem is, I’m tired of fighting—or have I ever fought? Maybe I’m scared of fighting. But you do make a lot of sense.”

  Yes, he does, I think to myself. He makes a great deal of sense for someone with so little of it.

  “Now, my husband,” she continues, “he knows about fighting. Right now, he is fighting for his life—fighting for his youth. Even though I know he’s out here representing J. Edgar Hoover, I can’t help but feel he’s also trying to replace me. He’s out there right now looking for my replacement.”

  We finally arrive at the Mathis home. “Thanks for the ride, boys,” she says with a slight slur. “This was a whole lot easier than driving.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Lester says. We nod our heads and drive off. I sit low in my seat as Mathis comes out to question his wife.

  Lester looks weary. I can tell that he has had enough of me, but I am not through with him yet.

  I look out of the window, projecting imaginary scenes of their relationship against the black night. The Mathises’ bond is a puzzle. I should be congratulating myself, but I am not. She spoke to perfect strangers about her husband without prompting. Suddenly, I feel incomplete, lonely. Is there anyone in my life that would have me be the topic of discussion? I look at Lester. Do he and Candy have that kind of bond? I lack that kind of connection, but then I think better of it and I start to laugh. Mathis and Strobe. I’m sure the agents have had many discussions about me.

  Lester looks at me while I laugh. “I don’t know what’s goin’ on here,” he says, “but I know that man don’t owe you no money.”

  A few days later, I made a visit to the pawnshop that’s next to the modeling school and across from my phone booth. I was looking for the essential tool for my new hobby. Everything was covered with a thin veil of dust—television sets, radios, jukeboxes, record players, even military uniforms, all of it dusty—and I wondered how the pawnbroker stayed in business buying all this junk from people. I thought it must be t
he jewelry that moves, but then I looked at his glass display case, lit from the bottom with a ghostly pale light. Yes, everything was dusty, except those guns inside; they were shiny, almost brand-new. His biggest sellers, he confessed.

  In a dull chrome graveyard of forgotten appliances, I came across something that looked like an antique cigarette lighter, but upon further inspection, I realized it was a miniature camera called a Minox. I removed the slim case, reveled at the small dials for adjusting aperture and speed, and spied the pawnbroker through the tiny viewer. He started with some yarn about two government types coming into the shop and selling old surveillance equipment because they needed to make room for the new stuff. I confess that my mind did wander to my boys coming in with their fedoras tipped at a concealing angle, but then I thought better of it; the pawnbroker had just developed an elaborate sales pitch. There was also a standard camera and an assortment of professional lenses. It seemed an aspiring photographer had hit hard times. The pawnbroker offered me a deal so sweet that I didn’t consider pressing my luck.

  Then Lester and I continue with the business of following Mathis. Although it takes a few days until he sees her again, when he does, I am ready with my new camera as they leave the motel room.

  As Mathis allows his precious cargo to rest in the passenger seat, I press the button and the camera’s shutter gives an audible affirmation. It agrees with me and says yes to everything I decide to document, even the most innocent interactions between Mathis and his girl. But I am patient. And when the young girl makes a bold move, to Mathis’s obvious displeasure, and kisses him in broad daylight, my camera is ready.

  I’m not sure if I’ve seen enough. Do I have all I need? I feel a certain amount of relief, pride even, that I’ve mastered the brand of voyeurism that compels Mathis and Strobe.