The letter was typed on a lined piece of paper and signed: “A True Friend of Our People.” “Who’s Aden?” Sam asked Suzy.
“Mr. Clair said that Marian could give you all the details if you want them.” Suzy raised her voice. “Marian, come in please.”
Entering, Marian Burrow smiled at both of them and Suzy said. “I’ve told Sam about that Aden letter.”
“Yes,” Marian drawled. Against the partition, her yellow dress and black hair and red painted lips were as vivid as a poster.
“Mr. Clair said you’d tell Sam about Aden if he was interested.”
“You interested, Sam?” Marian asked.
“Of course, Marian.” Sam wondered if Suzy had noticed the innuendo in Marian’s phrase, or was there an innuendo? He would have to ask Suzy tonight at dinner.
“We get these letters all the time here. They’re always insulting or praising some Negro personality. Some’ll warn us that, say, Marian Anderson or Joe Louis is paid off by the communists. This Aden letter warns us Aden is paid off by white folks. So they go. Up and down. Full of name calling mostly.”
“But who is Aden?” Sam said. “You have no idea how often real tips come to the Police Department during an investigation in such anonymous letters. Suzy!” he cried out. “This letter gave you the notion about that ad in the Negro papers, didn’t it?”
Suzy smiled. “Maybe.”
“What’s Aden’s full name?” Sam said to Marian.
“Ahmed Aden.”
“Sounds Oriental.”
“But he isn’t. He’s a Negro from Sugar Hill. A nationalist. He was for Haile Selassie in that Ethiopian war. He was for the Japanese in their wars. He’s always for the Negroes and the colored races. Five years ago, he was pro-Russian.”
“Pro-Japanese and pro-Russian?”
“He said the Russians have Tartar and Mongol blood and they wouldn’t have been a scourge on the earth but for their white blood. That’s Aden’s philosophy, I guess you’d call it. He says the whites have been a scourge on the world for hundreds of years. He says the Japanese became a scourge because they learned it from the whites.”
“Has Aden been active lately?”
“Not that we know of. Not since Pearl Harbor. Before Pearl Harbor, Aden was pro-Hitler. He said Hitler was a great benefactor to the colored races because he was killing off more whites than anybody else, his own whites, the Nazis, and the other whites.”
“You think Aden would be for the Japanese now in their war with us?”
Marian shrugged. “He was only sorry that the Chinese and the Japanese were killing each other. Is that all, Sam?”
“Why, yes. Thanks.”
She smiled and went back to her office. Suzy put her hand on Sam’s sleeve. “What are you going to do?”
“I’ll see if the police’re really doing anything about the synagogue. I want to get hold of a cop, a Jewish cop I know, Matty Rosenberg. He might have some ideas. Then, I might try to dig up some dope on Aden. I’ll see you at five here, won’t I?”
“If you’re a minute late I’ll worry. In fact, I’ll kill you.”
“Runt, I love you. You get a big dinner tonight to fatten you up. Aden isn’t the only oriental. I like my women fat.” He kissed her smiling tremulous lips and the lilac scent of her lipstick floated through him, evoking the bathroom at her house, her towel in the bathroom, evoking a hope for some lilac room together, a life shared together and filled with her, her lipstick, her clothes, her powder, her pyjamas, her love. “God,” he whispered in her ear. “I love you, damn fool that I am.”
At ten minutes after five, Sam tramped up the stairs to the Harlem Equality League. His sweaty shirt was plastered to his shoulders. His toes itched in their socks. Damn athlete’s foot, he griped to himself. The wooden stairs squeaked under his tread. The crisp clean letters on the frosted glass: HARLEM EQUALITY LEAGUE seemed out of place in this old building with the musty smell of a thousand ledgers. He stared at the three words and each tapped a thought in his consciousness. Harlem — Negroes in slums; League — Men talking together in some meeting hall; Equality — a flag in a wind; Negroes in slums, men talking together, a flag in a wind …
There was no one in the outer office but from the inner office, he heard Clair and Marian debating the price of some letterheads ordered recently; Clair said it was too much; Marian disagreed, insisting the cost of paper was skyrocketing. Sam knocked on the partition door. Clair told him to come in and when he did, Clair smiled and said. “I’ve got good news for you. Cashman and I lobbied successfully. The Committee will be happy to hear your story at ten-thirty tonight. We are making progress slowly but surely, not as rapidly as Cashman would prefer. But the Cashman type will never be content until they achieve the millennium.” His satisfaction glinted in his eyes and curved his prim lips.
Clair, Sam comprehended, seemed especially glad that the progress they were making was slow. That was Hal Clair, a believer in progress, but afraid of any progress that came on airplane wings. Sam felt that Clair would be at a loss. if Negroes were granted full social rights by proclamation; that would require too many adjustments to be made in too short a time; Clair would prefer, first, to abolish the poll tax; then a few years later to achieve a federal anti-lynch law; then, then. He wondered what forces had made Clair, Clair? “In addition,” Clair said, beaming, “both Negro papers will be happy to run an editorial I wrote for them, explaining the recent events in Harlem and calling on the citizenry to be on the alert. Both managing editors agreed that the clearing house for the information that may result should be both newspapers and the H.E.L. That was a fine idea of Miss Buckles,” he admitted with a gracious nod.
“Swell,” Sam said. “It’s all swell. Where is Suzy?”
“She should have been back,” Marian said.
“Back from where?”
“Why don’t you know?”
“No. She was to meet me here at five sharp. It’s after five now.”
“She left with that friend of Ellis. It must’ve been around — ” Marian half-slitted her eyes. “ — around two o’clock.”
“Three hours ago? A friend of Ellis? Who? Somebody from the warehousemen’s union, I suppose?”
Clair wasn’t listening to them. He was reading through a pile of letters his secretary had brought in for his signature and signing his name with long strokes.
“I guess so,” Marian said. “He was a Negro. First, when he came in — Don’t you know about it, Sam?”
“No.”
“That’s odd. He asked for you first but Suzy told him you wouldn’t be in until five. So he said he’d be back at five because it was very important. Suzy said if it was so important why didn’t he tell her what it was. She said she would be seeing you at five. He said it was too important, it was about you. Suzy said then she was your girl and she smiled and made some joke, Sam. She said couldn’t she be a sub for you but he said, what was the sense of that as nobody would be seeing you until five anyway. Then he said that Ellis wanted you to see him right away where he worked. So Suzy said why couldn’t she see Ellis as your sub because she knew all your plans. And the man stood there, scratching his head, and then he said if she wanted to see Ellis that ought to be all right.”
“I wonder why Johnny didn’t phone?” Sam said, scowling. “It’s true his boss wouldn’t like it but if it was so important, I’ll ring him now.” He rushed out to Marian’s office and called Johnny’s number. A gruff voice answered and Sam said. “I’d like to talk to Johnny Ellis, please.”
“What the hell is this,” the voice complained. “No poysonals in workin’ time.”
“It’s important.”
“What ain’t important?” the voice retorted. “He’s gone home anyway. No more poysonals — ”
“Hold on, please. My name’s Miller. Did Johnny Ellis send a friend to the Harlem Equality League at two this afternoon, that you know of?”
“Nope, mister.”
“Are you sure? He
sent a friend here. I was supposed to go over to your place. Are you sure?”
“Sure I’m sure. Goodbye and good luck.”
Sam heard Marian laugh. She had come into the office. “Suzy’s given you a standup.” Sam didn’t answer. Marian seemed far away from him, receding further as he glanced at her as if he were on a subway rolling out of a station and she was on the platform, one of the city’s million faces, glimpsed, wondered about and forgotten all in one second.
“Suzy’ll be up soon,” Marian said. “If she isn’t, you can take me out. Nothing’s wrong, Sam.”
He was jarred by what she had said, shocked and aware of her now as if the subway he had been on had reversed right up to where she was, to her body in the yellow dress. He stared at her, lifting a buttonless camel hair coat from the hanger in the corner. She put it on, belting it snugly, a little smile on her full red lips. She opened her big brown bag, took out her lipstick and studying herself in her mirror, she rubbed two fresh vivid lips on her mouth. She replaced the lipstick and the mirror. In her camel hair coat, hatless, she looked as jaunty and elaborately casual as some Hollywoodite. “I’d like to ask you some questions,” he said.
She sat down on her desk, her legs dangling, her two arms behind her and bearing her weight, her short yellow dress lifting above her knees. “Ask away.”
“What did that man look like?”
“Kind of ordinary.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was dressed in rough clothes, work clothes I guess.”
“What kind of clothes?”
“Blue or black pants. And a brown jacket. He looked funny. No tie. Let me see what else? A work shirt, too, I think.”
“What were his features like?”
“I think you’re taking it too seriously, Sam.”
“What were his features like?”
“Ordinary. Average. Flat nose. Just an ordinary colored man.”
He noticed the superior tone, the tone that differentiated between herself and her light skin and the man in the work clothes. “How old was he?”
“I wouldn’t know? Forty or fifty. I didn’t look twice at him. I didn’t care for his looks at all. So ordinary. I did tell Suzy the news, whatever it was, could wait. But she said time was important. She said if Ellis really had important news you’d have a real story when you met with the A.N.H.C. tonight.”
“Did you know then at two o’clock that I had the appointment?”
“Not real definite, Sam. But Hal had phoned in to say it looked promising.”
“I see. Why didn’t you care for this man’s looks? Had you ever seen him before?”
“No.”
“Did he seem furtive to you as if he were lying?”
“No, he seemed to be telling the truth. I just didn’t care for him. That’s all. You’re silly getting upset, Sam.”
He glanced at his wrist-watch. He would wait until half-past five he decided.
“That won’t get her here,” she smiled. “She wants to keep you waiting. All of us like to keep our men waiting. But I wouldn’t keep you waiting. Goodnight.” It was a sly goodnight, a sensual goodnight with a teasing undernote that had said unmistakably: It doesn’t have to be good night. It made him stare at her again. She wasn’t kidding, he thought. Her eyes met his own boldly and she tossed her head back, laughing. She sauntered past him. She was gone. He stared after her. She was on the make for him, he thought; she wasn’t kidding, the little whore. She was one of those colored girls hot after white men; she was like the white women he had seen in Harlem who have an equally strong desire for colored men; it was so strong in her that almost from the first time he’d seen her, she had waved him to come inside the door, the little whore with her damn lech. He was glad she had gone. He gazed at his wrist watch. The second hand circled, circled, circled. Twenty seconds. Forty. Sixty. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Forty. Fifty. Sixty. He sat numbly. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Forty. Fifty. Sixty. Five-thirty.
He lit a cigarette and as he inhaled, thinking it was half-past five now and she wasn’t back, terror clutched him by the throat and choked the cigarette smoke back into his lungs. She had been gone over three hours. He picked up the telephone. “I want to send a telegram,” he said, and seconds later, years later, he relayed the message. “ ‘Phone me at Clair minute you get home. Urgent.’ ” He hung up and the meaning of what he had done throbbed in him. He felt a terror beyond terror sitting here, safe and sound, and Suzy God alone knew where. For it was no use deluding himself. Johnny Ellis had never sent anyone over to the office this day.
Clair poked his head in at Sam. “You still here? Marian’s gone, has she?”
“Yes, she’s gone.”
“May I inquire why you are waiting here?”
Sam thought, he doesn’t know a thing of what’s been happening. “I’m waiting for Suzy.”
“Of course. I’ll be going home. Will you be certain to lock the door when you leave?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks.” Clair disappeared and reappeared, a straw hat on his head, a stack of stamped envelopes in his hands. “I’ll see you at ten-thirty tonight, Miller. Have I told you where the committee’s meeting.”
“No.”
“At the Harlem ‘Y’ on One Hundred and Thirty-Fifth Street. Goodnight. I am positive we will accomplish something tonight. Slowly, the wheels are turning. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.” He sat alone in the office. At six o’clock the phone rang. It was Johnny. “Sam? Hello, Sam. Just got home. What’s the fire?”
“No fire.” Even as he spoke, even before asking Johnny about Suzy he knew what the answer would be, must be, as a condemned man in the death house knows the answer. “I want to ask you a question, Johnny. Did you send a friend of yours over to the office? About two o’clock?”
“No, Sam.”
The NO scorched him like electricity, shocking his heart and nerves so that he felt withered and charred. In a shred of voice, for that was all the voice left him, he croaked. “This friend — This friend — ”
“Sam, what’s wrong?”
“This friend — ”
“I sent no friend over. What’s wrong?”
“So long.” He returned the phone to its base. “Maybe,” he croaked in the silent office. “Maybe, Suzy’s mother was sick and she had to go home.” His eyes glued to the table where Suzy had been working since Tuesday. He reeled to his feet but he couldn’t walk a step, his legs hollowing out, boneless, bloodless. His hand flattened against the partition to support himself, his eyes on the table for that was all that was left of her. He felt he would go mad if he stayed here any longer. He advanced one foot like a baby learning to walk, then another, and blundered out of the office. He shut the door and feebly like an old shoelace man he descended endless stairs into an endless street. In a few seconds, he had learned to walk and in a few seconds his life was over. He moved out among the endless faces and none of the faces were Suzy’s. Like an old shoelace man he stared blearily into the faces, the black faces, the brown faces but there were no buyers left in the world for him. Sometimes, the face of a white girl penetrated into his consciousness but it wasn’t Suzy, it could never be Suzy, never, never, never. His shoulders bowed, his lips slack and witless like the lips of the senile and he walked with plodding footlessness on a nameless street, unthinking, his brain centers paralyzed, his purpose so slowly won to and only clear and whole after Cashman and himself had spoken with Clair in the morning, this purpose gone, flying away in a thousand particles like a good piece of metal ground into nothingness against an emery wheel. So he wandered the Harlem streets. Everywhere, the subways were emptying out their loads of working people who walked swiftly homewards to supper and to family. But he walked alone under a sky that had a sheen to it like tin. Light was refracted from the tenement cornices and the sun broke its mighty ray on the eastern windows.
He trudged past fish and chip places, Negro chefs inside frying slabs of mackerel and sea bass a deep burnt
brown, and the smell of cooking from these places, from the bar-b-q’s, from the open doors of the cafeterias, at last, singly and cumulatively, shaped an idea upon his consciousness. Dinner. He and Suzy were going to have dinner together. Dinner. Then they were going to a movie. To an early movie. Then they were going to talk to Suzy’s mother. Marriage, maybe, marriage, maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe …
How long his stupor lasted, Sam would never know, but slowly the thousands of sentiments, the thousands of memories, the thousand hopes, expectations, experiences that constitute a human being whirled back into him out of the nothingness, the living death beyond the last gritted-jawed endurance. The street had a name, the pedestrians had shapes, and he, who had been dismembered, recognized himself as he was, recognized what had happened, recognized what must be done. You idiot, he cursed himself and looked about for the nearest subway.
He rushed down stairs to a change-booth, to a face behind glass and fingers sliding out nickels into the hollow wooden change-booth pocket as dexterously as the change makers at the Automat. God, he had wasted time! What kind of a man was he, what kind of a cop?
He bit on his fingernails as the subway roared him downtown. Oh, Suzy, baby, he thought and clapped his hand across his mouth. Stop your crying, he cursed himself. Stop! Frenziedly, he tried in minutes to amputate all the thousand holds of flesh and spirit and mind between Suzy and himself. He had to, must. God, he must, must, must. Please God, he prayed to the God of his orthodox father and mother, the God whose Torahs had been destroyed the night before; please let her be all right. Please God, he prayed to the God of all men; please let her be all right. God, god, he prayed in his anguish to a god more primitive and more ancient than Jehovah, a god that had preceded the God of the Jews and the God of the Christians, a god far away in time and yet always present in spirit, a god of revenge, a god that might be bribed with sacrifice, a god of blood and disaster; let it happen to me, let anything happen to me, let me die before she dies. Stop, he tore at himself; stop! He must forget her. Must. For her sake. He must view Suzy as another incident in the series of incidents that had begun when his trigger finger had ejected two bullets into Fred Randolph. Must.
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