“Of course I remember you, Archie. Tall, charming and a staunch defender of the old South.”
“Of old Southern ways, not its prejudices.”
“They’re different?” Emma teased. Archie was in no mood to joust, friendly or not.
“I need to see you,” Archie said.
“Well, my door is always open to those in need, Archie. When would you like to visit?”
“As soon as possible. It is of the utmost importance.”
“I’m free tonight. Say, 7:30?”
“It needs to be just you and me. It concerns a serious matter. No other friends of yours.”
“Of course, Archie. Just you and me.”
The 1:15 train from Washington pulled into Grand Central Concourse at 6:48. By 7:30 p.m. Archie was standing outside 210 East Thirteenth Street, on the edge of Greenwich Village. The sun had not yet set and the New York streets were burnished in shimmering ochre light. Archie was getting comfortable in this part of the city; it offered a unique flavor of life that oddly attracted him.
Emma’s apartment was on the third floor. He rang the doorbell and rehearsed what he would say. When the door opened Archie was surprised to see Emma dressed far more casually than usual. Gone were the dowdy dress and thick clumsy shoes, replaced by a loose skirt and a clingy white shirtwaist with its top three buttons casually undone.
“Mr. Davis,” Emma said, smiling warmly. “So good to see you again. Do come in.”
Archie entered the small apartment. He somehow assumed that the living quarters of an anarchist would be a wild, disheveled place strewn with papers, pamphlets and books. It turned out to be a respectably tidy room, modestly kept with several worn, overstuffed chairs, a low sofa and a coffee table.
“Let me take your coat, Mr. Davis,” Emma said, already slipping his coat from his shoulders. “Hmmm, you’re quite solid. You must do manual labor.”
“I do a variety of things, Miss Goldman,” Archie said guardedly.
“Do make yourself comfortable.” Emma gestured for Archie to sit on the sofa. He noticed a decanter of bourbon and two glasses placed in the center of the coffee table. Emma eased onto the sofa next to Archie and began pouring two generous shots of the bright golden liquid.
“As you are a Southern gentleman, I made the assumption that you like Jim Beam.”
“One of my favorites, Miss Goldman, but…”
“Call me, Emma, please.” She handed him his drink and clinked her glass to his. “Cheers.” Emma took a sip. Archie put his drink back down on the table. “Miss Goldman…”
“Emma.”
“Emma, while your hospitality is certainly appreciated, I came to discuss a subject of utmost gravity.”
“Of course you did. Do you like literature, Major?” Emma put her hand on his leg.
Archie started to answer when he realized that Emma had referred to him by rank. He slid to the far side of the sofa. “Why did you call me ‘Major’?”
“Slip of the tongue, I guess,” Emma said, and then let out a laugh. “Excuse me, Major Butt, I really wanted to indulge in the charade a little longer. It was so much fun.”
“You know who I am?”
“Oh, of course I do. It’s all the more delightful that Taft’s Military Aide would be calling on Emma Goldman, the most dangerous woman in America. Trust me, I don’t hold it against you. You seem to be a man of taste and intelligence. I like you very much Archie, despite the fact that you are the enemy. It’s my opinion that if we all communicated a little more, there’d be better understanding between us. I talk about that in my essays. Have you read any of them, Archie?”
“I can’t say I have.”
“You should. I think I have one right here.” She began searching through a pile of books that sat on the edge of the coffee table. “I’ll even autograph it for you.”
“Miss Goldman…”
“Please, it’s ‘Emma.’ Oh, here it is!” She picked out a leather bound book. “And it’s a good one. Very informative. About freedom and liberty. If I’m not mistaken, that is what America is supposed to embody, yes?”
“Of course it is. But I’m not here to talk politics.”
Emma took Archie’s hand and brought it to her lap. “Oh, good, then we can have some fun.”
“Excuse me?!”
“You can read about it in this book. It’s about one of the freedoms I believe in: free love. Monogamy is such a silly concept, and it so goes against our human nature.” Emma started rubbing Archie’s leg. “I like you, Archie. You’re very sensitive. But in a manly way. I think we should take it upon ourselves to bridge the gap between our camps. Let’s see if we can’t start a rapprochement in this country.” With that, Emma took Archie’s hand and slipped it under her unbuttoned blouse. Archie choked, feeling her heavy breast drooping in his hand. He snatched his hand back so forcefully it popped the thread of Emma’s next button, pulling her shirt open and exposing the one sad breast.
“Oh my god!” Archie blurted.
“Oh, come now, Major, you’ve seen a woman’s breast before…Haven’t you?”
Archie shot up from the sofa. He was red-faced and pouring perspiration. “Please, Miss Goldman, make yourself decent.”
“I am decent,” Emma smirked, and then added, “Would you be reacting this way if it was Belle Greene’s tit hanging out?” Archie was dumbfounded. “Don’t think we don’t know,” Emma said as she tucked her breast back in and began buttoning her shirt. “But let me tell you something. The lovely Miss Greene who has you so bewitched, is a dangerous cobra. She’s not what she seems.”
“I just want one bit of information,” Archie said, trying to act businesslike. “That’s the only reason I’m here, Miss Goldman.”
“Oh, yes, of course. You want to know if Mick Shaughnessy was giving us dangerous radicals secret information about the government.”
Archie was surprised again. “How did you know that?”
“Oh Archie, I feel so badly for you. You’re four steps behind in a three step game.” Emma reached out and tenderly took his hand again. He tensed. “Don’t be afraid, I’m not going to rape you, though you should have made love to me when you had the opportunity. It would have increased your chances of survival.”
“Do you know who killed Mick Shaughnessy?”
“I don’t. But I know someone who does.”
“Who?”
“He’s waiting for us at the Brevoort.”
The air in the Brevoort bar was thick with cigarette smoke. Archie pulled his hat low so not to be recognized, as if anyone in that crowd would. Emma led him through the tight maze of people toward a small table near a corner fireplace. When Archie caught sight of the man he was to meet, a panic shot through him. Hunched over a table, sitting in the murky darkness, was a hulking, oversized man. The only thing Archie couldn’t see was the man’s jug ears.
Emma sensed Archie’s distress. “Don’t worry, Archie, he’ll be a perfect gentleman. He’s not as bad as you believe him to be.” Then the man lifted his head. Archie gasped. Peering up at him was a dead milky marble floating in an eye socket. The owner of the menacing glass eye had a look of contempt and made no move to greet his guests even as they edged to the table.
“Major Archie Butt,” Emma said. “May I introduce you to Bill Haywood.”
“Mr. Haywood,” Archie nodded, regaining his poise.
“Sit down,” Haywood sneered, then took a gulp of beer and dragged on his cigarette.
“Perhaps you should offer our guest a drink, Bill,” Emma said while taking a seat.
“Why?” Haywood grunted.
“Because that’s what polite people do.”
Haywood let loose with a big belly laugh. “But I’m not polite, Emma. You know that.” Then Haywood glared at Archie. “What do you think, Butt? Should I be polite to you?”
“It doesn’t matter a whit to me one way or the other, Mr. Haywood.”
“You see, Emma, he doesn’t give a damn about politeness
, so why should I? Fuck politeness,” Haywood shouted. “It’s a bourgeois pretension. If people didn’t put out so much bullshit the world would be a better place. What do you say to that, Butt?”
“I concur, Mr. Haywood.”
“Good. No bullshit from me then. So what do you want to know?”
“Emma said you knew who was behind the death of Mick Shaughnessy.”
Haywood leaned back in his chair and took another long drag, savoring the cigarette before blowing the smoke into the air. “Did you know that Mick Shaughnessy was a spy working for the government to infiltrate the progressive movement in America?”
“I didn’t know that initially,” Archie answered coolly. “But, yes, I found that out after his death. Was Mick Shaughnessy delivering government information to you?”
“Listen, Butt, what happened to your friend is the consequence of double-crossing honest people.”
“Honest people don’t go around murdering other people.”
‘Oh, but they do. Mick knew that. Despite the fact that he was a rat, he wasn’t stupid. I liked the guy, actually. It’s a shame what happened to him.”
“Did you have him killed, Mr. Haywood?”
“No, I did not.”
“But you know who did?”
Haywood gulped the remainder of his drink. “That is correct.”
“Who then, Mr. Haywood, who killed Mick Shaughnessy?”
Haywood let loose with a snide sneer. “You didn’t think I would suddenly blurt it out to some government flunky? I mean, honestly Butt, what good would that do?”
Archie was confused and looked to Emma. She gently took his hand. “We would like you to help us get some information then we will help you.”
Archie flushed with anger. “You didn’t tell me this, Emma. I didn’t come to New York to bargain with anarchists.”
“If we all serve each other’s needs then we all can be happy,” Emma said, still caressing his hand. “That’s the way the world works.”
“Hate to interrupt this lovers quarrel, but let me spell out it for the Major,” Haywood jumped in. “We’ve got word that there’s some power play going on by a group of robber barons. Now the rich are always grabbing for power, that’s a given. The working people have it bad enough. I won’t let us be exploited any more than we are.”
“Forgive my cynicism, Mr. Haywood,” Archie weighed in, “but that sounds like the standard fear mongering you and your movement always use against the capitalist system. Which, I might add, provides the workingman with jobs and income.”
“Backbreaking jobs at a pittance of pay. If the bosses had their way slavery would still be legal. I mean, slavery provided jobs, you should know that, Butt.”
Archie shot up from his seat. “I’m sorry, Miss Goldman, but I can’t bear this nonsense any longer. Good evening.”
“Oh, sit down,” Haywood snapped. “You can’t be running off every time you hear a little challenge to your dearly held beliefs. We’re just having a difference of opinion. Don’t take it so personally. We still have business to discuss.”
“No, we don’t. Good evening, sir.” Archie turned away from the table, only to be grabbed on the scruff of his coat by Haywood’s giant hand.
“Sit down, Butt. We’re not done yet.”
Archie spun out of Haywood’s grip, turning right into the brutal glare of Haywood’s one good eye. “We need you to get us some information,” Haywood growled. “What’s true, what’s not true. You’re on the inside. We know that. Just poke around a bit and get back to us with the information.”
“You’re out of your mind, Mr. Haywood.”
Haywood broke into a huge grin as if Archie had just paid him the highest compliment possible. “That’s what they tell me. No matter, I always seem to get what I want.”
“Not this time. Good evening again.” Archie started away again when Haywood blithely dropped, “Sue Mann.” Archie stopped cold and turned back to Haywood. “You’ve been asking about her,” Haywood said.
“You know who she is?” Archie asked.
“As a matter of fact, I do. But for me to give you that information, I need to get the information we’re interested in from you. Fair deal.”
“You keep talking about a deal. What is the deal, Mr. Haywood? Will you tell me who killed Mick Shaughnessy?”
“You will know who Sue Mann is, where to find her, and who is responsible for the death of Mick Shaughnessy. All of the above. You just have to help us a little bit.”
Archie looked at Emma and Haywood then slowly began shaking his head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t make deals with enemies of the United States.”
“A shame,” Haywood shrugged. “But let me make this clear: we are hardly enemies of the United States.” Haywood reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded broadside. He slid it across the table toward Archie. “This is a little token of our appreciation for coming to see us. We figured you might be a little hard to convince so we decided to give you a bit of the puzzle you’re trying to piece together. To show we’re serious.”
Archie unfolded the cheaply printed broadside. It was for a lecture entitled America’s Great Challenge. The address at the bottom of the sheet said Marshall’s Hotel, 129 West 53rd Street. Haywood tugged an old engineer’s watch from his pocket, clicked it open, then said, “If you get there within the hour, you should discover something that will make this whole trip worthwhile.”
“I’m sorry, as I told you, I’m not interested in your proposal, Mr. Haywood.”
“Fine,” Haywood answered, then picked up the broadside and stuffed it into Archie’s coat pocket. “Go back to your clean, safe world, Butt. Ignorance is bliss. It would probably be too much for your system if you began to see who is really acting with honor and who is playing fast and loose with the truth.”
“Good evening to both of you,” Archie said, taking a quick step away and scampering out of the bar. On the sidewalk he gulped a breath of fresh, cool air, flushing the café’s smoke from his lungs. He traipsed the two short blocks to the edge of Washington Square where several hansom cabs were lined up, waiting for late night fares. Archie climbed into one.
“Where to?” the cab driver asked.
“Penn Station,” Archie answered. The cab driver snapped the reins and his horse started clomping over the cobblestone street. Archie felt the broadside in his pocket and pulled it out, ready to toss it. In the dim half-light he reread the boldface of the lecture’s title: “America’s Great Challenge.” Archie leaned forward and showed the cab driver the paper. “Is this address nearby?”
“You want to go there?” The driver seemed puzzled.
“Yes, I think I may want to go there first.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
“Whatever you’d like. But you know, that’s San Juan Hill.”
“Cuba?”
“Cuba?” the cab driver smirked. “Niggertown.”
CHAPTER 32
Sometime in the future, New Yorkers would travel to 63rd Street near Amsterdam Avenue to attend a concert at Lincoln Center. Before a performance they would admire the majestic Chagalls hanging in the lobby of the new Metropolitan Opera House. On the evening of June 5, 1911, Archie’s cab bumped down a pot-holed, garbage-strewn street that would one day be center stage of the Met. The cab stopped a few blocks south, at an old five-story brownstone. “129 West Fifty-Third,” the cab driver said, “where no smart white man would ever set foot.”
Archie paid the fare. As the cab pulled away Archie noticed four young black men eyeing him suspiciously from across the street. He turned his attention to the massive brownstone. The building stood in contrast to the rest of the street – it was cleanly scrubbed and brightly lit, handsome amid a row of crumbling tenements.
“Good evening, sir,” a young doorman said, trotting down the steps to greet Archie with a careful smile. “And welcome to the Marshall’s Hotel. Can I help you?”
Archie held out the
broadside that Haywood gave him. “I was told this event might be of some interest to me.”
“Well, there’s always something of interest at the Marshall’s. Step this way.” The doorman gestured toward the entrance. Archie hesitated. “Don’t be shy, sir.” The doorman took Archie’s arm, led him up the stairs and ceremoniously swung open the hotel’s wrought iron doors. The clamorous energy that buzzed through the hotel lobby hit Archie like a bracing spring gale. The vast room was as ornately decorated as any upscale New York lobby. Its dark hardwood floor gleamed under the layers of wax that coated it; the numerous plants – tall ferns and mini-palms – were green and lush; the walls were brightly painted in reds and blues, accented by gold leaf along the molding. And then there were the people: Negroes of all sizes and shades – tall and tan as caramel, dark and dusky as coal. The men were fastidiously dressed in pressed white shirts with stiff collars. They wore tight vests under stylish coats that were long and slim and hugged the contours of their bodies. The women seemed to glow with a radiance Archie had witnessed only once before, when he visited a backwoods church in Georgia. But here the sacrament of the Holy Ghost transmuted into something earthy and sensual, pulsating with a spirit that was far more of this world than of the next.
“The lecture is down the hall,” the doorman said to Archie.
“Yes,” Archie mumbled, completely captivated by the scene.
“Let me show you the way.” The doorman guided Archie through the lobby to a hallway. Archie heard music coming down the long corridor. He recognized it – ragtime – but he had never heard it played like this: wild and looping, with a syncopation that was subtle and sophisticated, yet deliciously vulgar. He peeked through an open door into a dancehall chock full of men and women jittering to the pulsating rhythms. Most were colored, though scattered amid the sea of dark faces were several white women enwrapped in the arms of their Negro partners. Archie watched those couples, their dance steps synchronized, their bodies wedded close, undulating to the driving tempos like some ecstatic, feral beast.
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