The Strivers' Row Spy Page 19

  “That’s Ginger,” I said, all of us looking.

  “Ol’ Max is at it again,” said a smiling Claude. “He has a way with the ladies. And don’t be fooled by his mop of white hair. My boss is still in his thirties.”

  I watched Eastman and Ginger conversing and could see Knox making his way over to them. Claude’s boss was here to possibly help Loretta, and I had to make sure Knox didn’t mess it all up, he with his obvious agent look and stupid talk. Plus, he probably didn’t yet know it was actually Eastman, a man high on Hoover’s enemy list, and wrongly so.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” I said. “I see the landlord of my office building over there about to leave. He has a car he wants to show me that I may purchase for Loretta. Told him I’d take a look before he heads home.”

  Before they could even respond I was pushing through bodies. Just before Knox was able to reach Eastman, I cut him off.

  “You won’t believe this,” I said with a pressing tone.

  “What?” Knox frowned.

  “This could bring Garvey down tonight. Come with me. Now!”

  As we made our way back toward the dining room, I glanced over at Claude and James who were fully engaged with Peavine. “What’s the news?” Knox asked, following me through the kitchen toward the back door.

  “I’ll tell you outside,” I said. “This is too sensitive.”

  Outside, we approached the rear end of my vehicle and stopped. I looked up and down the dark, quiet alleyway. There wasn’t a soul in sight.

  “You know which major law Garvey has finally broken?” I asked.

  “Of course not. Tell me.”

  “Neither do I, you stupid sonofabitch! That’s why I’m still undercover and putting my life on the line every single day. Unlike you.”

  “What the fuck are you—”

  “Shut your damn mouth!” I said, pointing my finger into his chest. “You’re putting my entire mission in jeopardy because you’re playing damn games. And if Hoover indeed doesn’t know about this little solo act, you probably don’t want me telling him. I know he wouldn’t approve of this. He wants Garvey far too bad and I’m his ticket, not your country ass.”

  “Look, nigger,” he said, slapping my finger away, “I’ll do what the—”

  Before he could finish I slapped him across his face. He stumbled but fisted up and swung real big, missing by a foot, as I ducked. I grabbed him by the knot of his tie and pulled him into three heavy, right slugs, the last of which put him on the ground.

  “Get your ass outta Harlem!” I said, as he squirmed around.

  He spit some blood. I knew he was hurt.

  “Those people in there,” I said, pointing to my house, “are my wife’s friends. Except for a few. Do you understand me? This is her night!”

  He rolled up into a seated position and tried to right himself.

  “I’m a man, just like you. And this is my house, not some playground you can just show up to whenever you’d like. Now sit there as long as you need to. And when you can manage, walk your ugly behind over to the gate and Ivan will let you out. But do not come back inside my house. If you do, so help me God I’ll break every bone in your body.”

  He nodded.

  “The boys back in D.C. don’t need to know you got your ass whipped by that nigger named Sidney tonight. That would be quite the embarrassment for you. Just go on back and tell them that all is well with Q3Z.”

  I stood there a bit longer, then made my way back inside, rejoining James and Claude, who were now conversing with Loretta, Ginger, and Max Eastman. The music seemed a bit louder—the house a bit fuller.

  “The world will change when the artists take over,” said Ginger, who was obviously a bit tipsy at this point.

  “I agree,” said Mr. Eastman.

  Ginger was stunning in her blue dress, pearl earrings, and pearl necklace. Her hair was in a bun and she was also wearing a clear beaded necklace around the top of her forehead with a blue gemstone hanging from the middle of it—practically reaching the middle of her eyes.

  “It’s nice to finally meet you, Mr. Eastman,” I interjected. “Sidney.”

  “Call me Max.” We shook. “The pleasure’s mine, Sidney.”

  “Wonderful,” said Ginger. “Now we’ve all met. So! All of you! Come! Let me show you the birthday girl’s contribution to changing this crazy world we speak of. Ce monde de fous!”

  We all followed her from the dining room to the studio down the hall.

  “Ta-dah!” said Ginger, walking through the doorway and pointing at the pieces along the floor as we all filed into the studio. “Only peace can come from taking in such beauty.”

  “Indeed,” said Eastman. “This is the beautiful thing about art. A painting cares not about the color of the hands which grip the brush that paints it.”

  “Oui,” said Ginger. “It cares not about the color of the man who stands before it, staring with appreciation.”

  Ginger and Eastman stood arm in arm as if they’d been a couple for years. In fact, one would have found it hard to believe they’d just met, considering the difficulty they were having keeping their hands off one another. Their unfettered behavior made me laugh on the inside.

  “Each piece tells a different story,” added Claude. “I see abstracts and realism. Many painters choose one form and stick with it. You’re truly talented, Mrs. Temple.”

  “Thank you,” said Loretta, beaming with pride as I held her hand. “If only my paintings were as rich as your poetry. Sidney has told me all about you, Claude.”

  “Don’t go tellin’ no lies ’bout me, Sidney. I’m just a simple poet.”

  “Simple you are not,” said Max, gulping down the rest of his wine. “You’re one of the greatest!”

  Max’s charm and confidence were serving him well in the case of Ginger. She released his arm, walked over, and picked up one of the paintings.

  “This is my favorite. Magnifique!”

  It was a painting of a nude man and woman interlocked like a pretzel. Their skin was olive-colored and the backdrop powder blue.

  “Why your favorite?” asked Claude.

  “Because it says no inhibition,” said Ginger. “It says two in love is one. It says you can have all of me because I surrender. Je me rends!”

  Ginger smiled and looked directly at the blushing Mr. Eastman whose face was growing more pinkish by the second. Claude discreetly patted his boss on the back, and the two raised their eyebrows at each other. Without speaking it, Claude seemed to be jokingly saying, Aren’t you lucky, boss!

  Eastman took the painting, studied it, and then passed it along to Claude. Claude handed it to Reverend Eason who had a puzzled look on his face.

  “Lord have mercy!” he said.

  The entire room laughed as James turned the painting from side to side, looking at the bodies from different angles.

  “You like it, James?” asked Loretta.

  “Boy, I mean to tell ya! Hope you done asked for your forgiveness, girl.”

  There was more laughter as James handed it back to Ginger.

  “There is no sin,” she said, “in admiring the beauty of the naked body, Reverend. An artist must be free of the hindrances that plague greater society.”

  “I ain’t mad at ya!” he responded in a high-pitched voice—raising his hands to suggest his innocence.

  “Good, Reverend. Bonne. I am happy. Je suis heureux.”

  “Call me James, sister. And in the case of Sister Loretta’s painting, God never created anything more beautiful.”

  Loretta walked over and gave him a hug. “You’re far too kind, James. I know it’s not your taste.”

  James took out a handkerchief and began dabbing the moisture on his forehead, raising his eyebrows. He was still slightly taken aback by the painting but was also trying to be a bit funny.

  “I just wanted you all to see the beautiful work the birthday girl is creating,” said Ginger, walking over and returning the painting.

  �
�Well, Mrs. Temple,” said Max, “you certainly have enough work on display here to do a showing. When and if you decide to do so, maybe we could give you some coverage. Readers of the Liberator would certainly be interested in learning more about you. We can send Claude here to do a write-up. What ya say, Claude?”

  “I’d love to. I’d actually like us to start covering some of the Negro theater and jazz also. There seems to be something rooting up here in Harlem—a colored renaissance of art and music, you might say. I’d like the Liberator to be on the forefront of featuring burgeoning artists such as yourself, Loretta.”

  “I’d be more than honored. Whenever Ginger thinks I’m ready for a public showing. She’s the renowned one.”

  “You’re ready now,” said Ginger. “Maintenant! We will put it together. But today it’s time for the birthday girl to dance. It’s time for all of us to dance.”

  Ginger took Eastman by the hand and led him out of the room. I took Loretta by the hand and followed. Making our way into the crowded living room, Ginger took charge, walking over to the Columbia Grafonola, ignoring Peavine, and turning the music down.

  “Can I have everyone’s attention,” she said, tapping a wineglass with a spoon repeatedly. “We are all gathered here tonight to celebrate the birthday of my dear friend Loretta. Mon bon ami! And what a beautiful gathering we have here. You have all come to know Loretta over the past year in your own way, just as I have. So we all know what a warm, considerate, and passionate woman she is. And we’re all delighted to be in your new, beautiful home, Loretta and Sidney. The fun is just beginning. But enough of my bad English. Please join me in song before we continue the festivities.”

  “HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU . . .” she began to sing. “EVERYONE!” she shouted as we all joined in, raising our cups and glasses.

  As the song ended, there was whistling and light cheering all around before Ginger spoke up again. “NOW LET’S DANCE!”

  She turned the music up very loud as folks scurried about, some setting their drinks down on end tables, others on the living room mantelshelf. Everyone then coupled up and began dancing to “Blues My Naughty Sweetie Gives to Me” by Ted Lewis and his Jazz Band.

  “Are you happy?” I asked Loretta as we shuffled our feet and twisted to the tune.

  “I’m happy and in love.”

  I took her hand and spun her around. Hardly a soul in the place wasn’t dancing. I even saw Reverend Eason standing to the side with his coffee, bobbing his head and having a ball. Claude was dancing with a gorgeous redboned girl, Ginger with Max, and they were certainly the most flamboyant. It was a sea of white and black moving as if they hadn’t a care in the world.

  “Ginger certainly seems to be enjoying herself,” said Loretta, leaning in to make sure I could hear her.

  “So does James,” I said.

  I pulled her close to me so we could hear each other above the noise. Her arms were wrapped around my neck, mine around her waist, as we casually dipped from side to side and circled to the rhythm.

  I watched Max pinch Ginger on the leg. She took him by the hand and led him through the crowd toward the stairway. They made their way to the second floor, presumably en route to one of the guestrooms.

  “By the way,” said Loretta, watching them as well, “Ginger is sleeping here tonight.”

  “By herself?”

  “Stop it, Sid. Yes.”

  “Whatever you want. It’s your birthday.”

  20

  AFTER A FEW MONTHS OF RELATIVE INACTIVITY, DECEMBER BROUGHT with it a more than usual amount of snow. Several of Garvey’s entourage had been called to a meeting at UNIA headquarters where Black Star Line business was to be discussed. I was sitting at a large conference table by myself, waiting for Garvey and company.

  Two Legionnaires were keeping guard at the door. One of them was Peavine, who stood at attention with great discipline—following orders much better than he had at Loretta’s party. As usual, the two Legionnaires made it impossible for anyone not connected to the UNIA to enter the room.

  In walked a young lady with a platter of cheese and crackers. She placed it at the head of the table where Garvey always sat. She also placed beside it his customary carafe of fresh mango juice. Whenever his mango juice arrived, I knew the meeting would start within five minutes.

  I began the countdown, and just like clockwork, in walked everyone. Many removed their snow-covered overcoats and hung them on the rack next to the door before taking their seats.

  Two of Garvey’s accountants and one of his lawyers were present, as well as John E. Bruce, Orlando Thompson, Hubert Harrison, William Ferris, and Reverend Eason. His two top security men were also there—Marcellus Strong and William Grant— one sitting to his right, the other his left. Both were built like prizefighters—tall and husky.

  “I called this meeting,” said Garvey, pouring his glass of mango juice, “to discuss the idea of purchasing a ship that will be used as a luxury cruiser for our people. No more of these broken down war boats. We must secure a vessel that will allow our people to travel abroad in style. The Kanawha is a decent yacht, but we need something much more grand.”

  He took a drink of his juice and savored it. He certainly didn’t share it with anyone—ever. The juice was his and his alone. So were the cheese and crackers, but he always waited for the meetings to end before eating them.

  “It may take more time than I’d like,” he said, sipping again, “before our people can begin moving to Africa permanently. In the meantime, we shall provide them with a cruiser that will at least let them visit the motherland. Speaking of visiting the motherland, as you all know, Elie Garcia is in Liberia now and sends promising news about the land development negotiations taking place with President C. B. D. King.”

  I couldn’t help but wonder where “our” people were going to get the money to take such lavish trips abroad. Amidst the poverty that existed throughout colored America, it seemed foolish to be conjuring up such schemes.

  “This is good news,” said the tall, angular John E. Bruce. “Folks are ready for it. They need it—to be able to travel without being told to sit in this section or that.”

  Bruce, in his sixties, was a veteran journalist who’d helped Garvey gain footing in Harlem. He acted as one of his main advisors and was famous for having once written bold words about the white man. “If they burn your house, burn theirs,” he’d penned. “If they kill your wives and children, kill theirs.” Garvey leaned heavily on Bruce for advice.

  “Shall we mention this search for a luxury steamer in the Negro World?” asked Hubert.

  “It may be a bit premature for that,” said William.

  “Correct,” added Garvey. “It’s premature. But listen, Hubert. I must commend you and William in front of everyone here for the job you’re both doing with the paper. You’re the best editors in New York.”

  “It’s mostly Hubert, sir,” said William.

  “Nonsense,” said Hubert. “It’s you.”

  “Back to the business at hand,” quipped Garvey. “I’ve got my eye on several boats, but want to make sure they are properly appraised before we make a bid on one. It’s in the best interest of Black Star Line stockholders that we broker a fair deal. And as you are all aware, I will be taking an extensive trip to the Caribbean in February to raise money. That leaves you, Orlando, two months to try and negotiate a purchase before I depart.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the bookish-looking Orlando. “In fact, I wanted to know if you think it may be in our best interest to hire an outside brokerage firm.”

  “That may not be a bad idea,” said Garvey. “But who?”

  “Now hear me out here, Marcus. Just hear me out. There’s a broker . . . a Mr. Anton Silverstone . . . who comes highly recommended. Word on the street is he’s known for being fair to colored folk.”

  “What is this you speak of, Orlando?”

  “Well . . . now . . . he’s a white man. A Jew.”

  Garvey placed both hands
on the edge of the table, scooted his chair back, and stood. He began slowly pacing. Orlando nervously tapped his pencil while the accountants pretended to shuffle some papers.

  I stared straight ahead at the door near Peavine, who seemed quite pleased with his special post, one likely assigned to him because of the high praise James and I had given him during discussions with Garvey.

  It seemed to take forever but Garvey finally rounded the table and took his seat again. But before another word was spoken, Amy Jacques walked in and approached Garvey. She whispered something in his ear. After about twenty seconds, she finished and exited.

  Garvey sat there stewing over whatever news had just been delivered. So far this had been a meeting filled with nothing but tension. Such was life around Garvey. Distractions always got in the way of business—hence the many UNIA undertakings left undone.

  Garvey pointed at Peavine and the other Legionnaire.

  “You two!” he yelled. “Leave!”

  Peavine quickly exited and the other guard followed.

  “Well,” said Garvey. “It seems our snitch has finally been pegged—at least one of them. Yes . . . there is a snitch among us.”

  The room was painfully silent. Those five words, “at least one of them,” had hit me like a truck. Ever since I’d heard that an alleged informant had been feeding Kilroe’s office information about Garvey, I’d assumed I was safe. But now my heart raced.

  “There’s nothing worse than a double-crossing, no good, evildoing snitch,” said Garvey. “Their fate be damned!”

  Suddenly, all of the lights went out and we were in the dark. It was a reminder of the electrical work I’d yet to do. Perhaps I should have prioritized better.

  After about ten seconds the lights returned. Garvey scanned the room, then took a deep breath before speaking.

  “Of course, when I say there’s a snitch among us, I mean among us in the broader sense—not among us here at this table. All of you are my closest confidants.”

  A huge relief came over me, but I just sat and watched as Garvey sat there thinking. I’d never seen him so enraged.

  “Strong,” he said, “the snitch is having lunch as we speak with someone from Kilroe’s office. They’re at a place called Webster’s in Manhattan. Take care of this. You and Grant are excused.”