“The next time you call or Mathis sets up a meeting, you make sure to ask if I’ll be there. Got it?”
“Like the measles . . .”
He leaves and I follow through with my lie and list the Caddy in the classifieds. I’ll hold on to the envelope for now. Strobe’s already gone, but I know he’ll be watching from somewhere.
I went to the Royal after placing the ad, but I didn’t see a movie. No, I took an unlikely journey to one of the viaducts behind the theater. Early in the century, when the automobile was becoming popular, there was a struggle for space between cars and trains. So they built viaducts that would allow trains to travel underneath and cars to travel above. But to create these passages they merely built a new city on top of the old one. The railways were abandoned long ago, but they have just rediscovered intact and forgotten buildings inside the tunnels of the viaduct. Tanneries, blacksmiths, barbershops, and saloons—there’s an entire city underneath the one we occupy. I am not a historian, I only recently became aware of it, but to me the thought of an underground city is compelling. Two worlds coexisting—one hidden, one seen. Despite the progress and might of the living world, the buried one remains, waiting like lava to reemerge.
The next day, Count requests my presence at court. I’ve been avoiding the place intentionally. I did all I could with Gant, but I don’t want the blame if Count’s crude attempt at blackmail doesn’t pay off.
Claudel and Otis show their usual level of warmth. “Count’s in a meeting,” Claudel says. “You need to wait out here.”
They stare at me, silent. Otis sits hunched over the bar while Claudel sucks his teeth at me. His wounds are beginning to heal. Spots of black are starting to show in the pink webs on his cheeks.
I wait with them for a while, saying nothing, only measuring their gazes for a hint of harm. Finally, the door to Count’s office opens and a paunchy middle-aged white man with receding hair walks out. A teenage Negro girl follows him in her long floral-pattern dress, probably her Sunday best, and a white shawl-cape that clasps in the front. They both wear the same defeated expression, and the reason becomes clear as Count comes out right behind them.
“I wish you two the best of luck,” he says slapping his palm with a thick piece of paper folded in half. “Lord knows you’re gonna need it.”
The man and the girl walk past Claudel, Otis, and me, trying not to make eye contact. The girl does look up as she walks out. I realize she is the one from room 21—the girl that I was with the night I was arrested. I feel a bit exposed seeing her in this context. She looks lovely—excited, and scared, like someone just released from prison, anxious for a fresh start. It’s strange, I don’t know the details yet, but as they leave, I have a nagging suspicion that she may be better off on the inside.
“C’mon in the office,” Count says once they’ve gone.
“What’s going on with those two?” I ask as we go inside.
“Love, little man. Can’t you tell?”
“What do you mean?”
“Ol’ Bob fell in love with our little Clarice after spending a lot of money on her these past months. Said he wanted to be with her, so he agreed to sell me his house for a trade. The house for the girl. I felt it was an easy choice. He gave me a good price.”
“Where will they live?”
“Well, he couldn’t live in that house with her, now could he? These crackers would kill them both. They’ll probably head out west to California. But they’d better be careful out there too.”
I give a soft nod.
“Ain’t it strange what a man will do for a woman,” says Count, smiling. “I mean look at that fool Lester. This ain’t the first time he lost what little sense he’s got over a woman. There was this girl used to work for me, Etta . . . that boy was crazy for her. But she was hooked on that stuff. Hero’n. When she OD’d, the motherfucker tried to blame me for it. Can you believe that?”
I don’t respond. Instead, I think of a girl that used to be around Count’s. A while back, she offered me a good time when I was low on cash. I was grateful for the offer. I never saw her again after that. I hope it wasn’t her. I don’t push the topic further. Count looks like he wants to change the subject. His jaw angles and his cheeks narrow, like he has just tasted something foul and can’t wait to spit it out.
“Look, most of this is my fault,” he says. “Getting you involved in this fight-fixing shit was too much to ask. That was a mistake. Sometimes this kind of thing comes easy to people, sometimes it doesn’t. Everybody isn’t like me—I need to remember that. I didn’t use your talents in the right areas. I fucked up. I admit it. But now I’m about to correct that.”
I’m relieved to hear Count take responsibility for his actions, but that pleasure is short-lived. Now I know that the stakes will soon be raised. Whatever he has in mind will make me long for the smoky boxing venues and their smelly locker rooms. Negotiations with shady underworld figures will seem like a cakewalk.
“What I got planned is even bigger than fixing fights. Hell, I was just trying to prove a point to Lester, but I’m getting too old to be doing shit for bragging rights. You see what I mean?”
Not quite, but I nod anyway.
“I can sense that things are changing, and they’re changing fast—and I need to be on the right side of it. I need to take advantage of it.”
I nod again and look at Count above the rims of my glasses, hands clasped in front of me, as if I were listening to Gant relay the details of the budget.
“Remember that Bozley Park thing? It’s ready to roll,” he says. “I just got some property over there.”
“How did you get a house in Bozley Park? It’s still very segregated.”
“I know,” he says holding up the folded piece of paper. “But ol’ Bob sure does love Clarice . . . so says the deed to his house. But I’ve already stopped wanting the house. Yeah, I just ate, but I’m hungry again. Now I want the whole neighborhood.”
I raise my eyebrows. I’m not sure what he means.
“All those white people will want to move out when they see a bunch of colored folks moving in. When the white folks leave, all those Negroes that want to buy will have to pay a premium if they want to get in. White folks will sell low to me, and Negroes will buy high from me. We’ll come in there and buy up the whole damn block.”
“Count, that sounds . . . compelling, but I don’t see how I can help you. You do know that I’m an accountant, right? I don’t know anything about real estate.”
Count stares at me. The humor provided by this scheme has faded from his face. “I know exactly what you are—even better than you do.”
“I guess you’re flush with cash now, right?”
“Yeah, that’s right. Claudel was the pickup man. The pansy went down to Buttermilk Bottom and left a present in a rusted-out Packard. Just like we told him. What? You want me to say thank you?”
So Gant gave in. I know the point was to persuade him, but part of me wanted his better senses to prevail.
There is an awkward tension between us, as I can’t tell what his next move will be, but that passes as he smiles and continues with his plan.
“You can do this,” he says. “You’re good with the numbers. After you do this, little man, you and me are square. Consider your debt to me paid.”
The thought of not owing Count anything is too enticing. I’d join the circus if he asked me to. Why am I so drawn to danger? I’ve just followed an FBI agent gallivanting around with a young girl, and now I am taking it upon myself to desegregate a neighborhood. I am appalled by my recklessness, but not slowed in the least. I just want to be free of Count, but I am not going to make myself vulnerable in the process.
Count’s plan was far more effective than I could have anticipated. There was a lot of interest once the Negro community got word that there was a house available to colored buyers in Bozley Park. Professional Negroes were especially interested. I met the first couple at a makeshift office that Count set up for me
above a pool hall. The husband was a dapper insurance salesman; his wife was irritable and pregnant. It was obvious to me that he had a few women on the side. I could tell by the way he never walked or stood next to her. Always a few paces behind, he would let her drift away and then, after considerable distance, respond to the tug of her imaginary string, as if she were a bloated kite. But they were eager for the symbols of successful domesticity, and it showed. The husband tried to play hardball with me and negotiate stubbornly. I only agreed with him in a very calculated way, and I paced, for no other reason than to showcase my limp. It must have worked, because he agreed to a down payment that was ten percent above what Count paid for the place in its entirety.
And how savagely predictable it was that when the Negro family moved in, it only took a few weeks for the evacuation of the white residents to begin. Sure, they tried the usual acts of intimidation like burning in effigy a life-size Negro doll in their front yard, but it wasn’t effective—their hearts weren’t in it. Ever since the passage of the Civil Rights Act, they seemed to behave as if they were on the losing team. Martin even condemned the deplorable acts to the press, without knowing of my involvement. The juggling act between my job at the SCLC and Count’s scheme has been tiring, but the thought of independence spurs me on. Eight homes have been installed with Negro families, but there is one house that remains occupied. My many offers and solicitations to buy the house have gone ignored:
You may have discovered that the house
on the corner has been bought by a Negro.
Whether you like it or not, integration has come
to Bozley Park. I don’t mean to insult your
intelligence, but when undesirables enter
a neighborhood, property values drop.
But do not worry. I am here to help you!
I want to buy your property. Name your price,
and I’ll try my best to match it!
Here I am, back in Bozley Park, in front of the house built in the old cottage style. Something about this place strikes a sentimental chord—it even has a white picket fence. It makes me think of Candy and the life I hoped we’d share. Maybe there is still time for us. Maybe if there were no agents and no Lester and no Count, I could just focus on my certification. I’d become a CPA, and maybe then we could live the American dream in this house. I’ll save the sentimentality for another time.
I decide to be bold and knock on the door. A man answers, and I’m surprised to see a familiar face. That dark night in the woods and its ghostly visions come toward me once again. Pete stares at me, filling up the doorway. I’m not sure if there’s any recognition there.
“What do you want?” he asks.
I pause for a beat, giving him the opportunity to place my face. “I came to drop off a flyer, sir.”
He takes it from me, looks it over, lets out a laugh, balls it up, and throws it at me. “Let me tell you something, boy. I just bought this house for me and my little girl. Cost me everything I had—everything. And I’ll be damned if I let some niggers come in here and take it away from me. See what I mean?”
“Yes . . . Yes, sir, I do.” I smile. Maybe now he will recognize me. I wish we had matching rings or a secret talisman worn around our necks that we could flash at each other to give the signal that we’re brothers. But in the secret club that Pete and I belong to, there is nothing of the sort.
“Well—” I almost call him Pete. “Sir, you do realize that with Negroes moving in, the property values are likely to decrease.”
His face becomes redder underneath the already ruddy color that dominates his skin. “Now listen, I already told you I’m not letting any coloreds take what I worked hard for. You have no idea what I’ve done to get this place.”
I pity his lack of awareness. My expression must show that.
“Don’t look at me like that. It’s not that I hate the Negro—it’s that I love myself. The Negro is always screaming about his rights. Hell, I ain’t fighting against his rights, I’m fighting for my rights. White man’s rights. I fight everyday for the right to choose who I live near and who my child goes to school with. Isn’t a man supposed to be free in this country? Do your people get their freedom at the expense of mine?”
As he says that, a female voice calls from within the house. “Daddy, what’s going on?”
“Nothing to concern yourself with, Lucinda. Go on and get occupied. This here’s grown-up business. Nothing to do with little girls.”
She emerges and walks toward the front. A little girl who isn’t so little. In fact, she’s all grown up. I recognize her too. Not only is this Pete’s little girl, she is Mathis’s as well. I’ve seen her from a distance. Even then her beauty was apparent, but up close it is even more so. I see the spell Mathis is under. It’s the sweet contradiction of her face: her lips are innocent pouty ribbons, but her eyes are large almond-shaped pools of accomplished curiosity. Even with her redneck father standing here in front of me, I have to break racial protocol and take her in. Pete’s forearm interrupts the moment, quickly presenting itself in the doorway and blocking my view of his daughter. “Are we done here, boy?”
“Of course . . . I’ll just leave this flyer in case you change your mind. I’ll place it right here in your mailbox.”
“You can put it up your ass for all I care. Now go ahead and leave already.”
I leave Pete’s porch, hoping that he will stay. Hoping that he will be stubborn and unwavering, allowing himself to be overcome by well-to-do Negroes who don’t shuck and jive, who are not shiftless and lazy. No, they are too busy working for the American dream to worry about the rants and rhetoric of racist Pete. He’ll be powerless and alone. He’ll be outnumbered and rendered ineffectual by his lower-class anxieties: an angry man in a city too busy to hate.
Seeing her and Pete kick-starts a narrative that fills in the gaps of how she and Mathis may have met. Mathis may have gone to meet Pete to find out what was happening at the next Klan rally. After Pete gives him the information, and Mathis hands him the padded envelope, Pete’s daughter comes outside with a bucket of water to wash down the porch. Mathis sees the beautiful creature that Pete has been hiding in his cave. In that very moment, Mathis becomes infatuated. She’s everything his wife was and is not. She’s beautiful and young, and he’s already devising a way to get close to her, alone with her. He sees his salvation in her. Immediately, he begins to plan.
“What do we have here?” Mathis says, making sure she sees and hears him.
She turns around and looks at him.
“Good day, ma’am,” he says, tipping his hat, addressing her formally, making her feel all regal and special.
“Go on inside, Lucinda,” Pete says.
She does as she is told.
“You take care, ma’am,” Mathis makes sure to say. “Fine daughter you have there, Pete.”
Pete probably looks at him with cold, knowing eyes—a flash of warning each time he blinks, but that doesn’t deter Mathis; he’s already on a mission. It must have been a cakewalk for him.
He follows her to school one day and waits. He spots her and approaches her as she’s coming out. “Hey,” he says. “Do you remember me? I met you the other day. I’m your father’s friend.”
I’m sure she’s nervous and uncomfortable seeing this man here. Pete has warned her not to talk to strange men. But this time is different. She had already noticed him, even before Mathis decided to tip his hat at her. She peered through the curtains when her father met him. She watched the mysterious and stern man that her father—the symbol of strength in her life—deferred to. This man intrigues her. When she walks out to toss that bucket of water, she does it on purpose. She makes sure to wear her shorts from gym class, the ones that always elicit a whistle whenever the stray teenage boy catches a glimpse of her in them. Yes, she puts those on and runs out there pretending to toss that bucket of water, to get a better look at the strange man who wears wool suits in this heat. What will he say? What will he th
ink when he sees her? When she sees the man in front of her high school, waiting for her, she realizes that all boys respond the same, no matter what age.
He asks to give her a ride. She agrees. Mathis must feel the need to make her comfortable. She appreciates that, but she already is. She tells him he has nice eyes. He likes her eyes too. What kind of music does she listen to? Who’s her favorite singer? It’s someone he has never heard of, so he just laughs. She realizes he’s never heard of them, so she laughs too. They bond. They talk. He wants to go about this gradually, but he can’t help but tell her how beautiful she is. She thanks him, but Mathis is already regretful. He feels he’s coming on too strong and doesn’t want to scare her. He is surprised when he sees that she is not scared or uncomfortable at all.
As they get closer to her house, Mathis wants to tell her that he must stop and let her out. He has an appointment. She’s already aware of how it would seem to her father or anyone who sees her getting out of the car of an older man. So she tells him to stop here. She’ll walk the rest of the way. Mathis was going to say it himself, but she beat him to it. That impresses and, to a certain degree, emboldens him. This is where Mathis’s latent quixotic nature surfaces. He sees this as a sign of their connecting on a hidden level—the two of them speaking an intuitive language beyond the communication of words. He didn’t even have to say anything. All of this is confirmed when she says, “You can pick me up from school at the same time from now on . . . if you want to.”
Mathis probably feels like a teenager. He thinks about when he began courting his wife, after a first date that he thought was disastrous, and he had no chance of ever seeing her again. She saved him from a broken heart. You can take me out again . . . if you want to. This is the same kind of feeling that Lucinda has given him, but this time it is more profound. He is not a teenage boy; he’s closer to death than he is to that boy. Yet here is this young girl reaching into the grave to save him.
Our Man in the Dark Page 20