Dark Stain (29 page)

Sam understood the truth he had heard from Blaine; it was Matty Rosenberg’s “truth.” “Maybe Clair kidnapped Suzy for the publicity.”

“Don’t get wise!” Maddigan shouted, his face reddening through the talcum. “You don’t believe us. You don’t believe Blaine, a real Negro with the lowdown. The Department should’ve let you get the hell out. Department treats you like a man and you kick it in the face.”

They were third-degreeing him, Sam realized. They hadn’t locked him in a cell or flashed searchlights in his eyes. They had come into his own home, into his own room to hammer at him, to flatter, to threaten, to explain to. Maddigan had played the tune of cops sticking together. Blaine had been the explainer. And Sam looked at them, knowing at last why they had come. His face was as hard as their faces, his jaw square, his brown eyes concealed behind half-lowered lids. “The Department’s been good to me,” he said. “I won’t hurt the Department.”

“That’s more like it,” Maddigan said but he smiled as if to add: You’re not putting anything over on us.

To that smile, Sam said. “I want my girl back. That’s all I want.” He sat bolt upright. In this third degree, he and not the detectives had called the showdown.

“Miller,” Maddigan said. “You’ve been forgetting you’re a cop but I guess you are a cop at heart. You and me know that the Department can throw the whole works into the Buckles case. It can go all-out or it can handle it routine. The Buckles case means a lot to you but the Department’s got plenty of other headaches.”

“Are you speaking for the Department?”

“Speaking for Frank X. Maddigan. Sure, you want the Department to go all-out! It’s only natural. It’s only natural you cooperate. The Department doesn’t care for this private dick agency you’ve set up for yourself. Of course you can’t sit still with your girl missing. But you can’t help her. You haven’t been trained to be a detective. Where’s your common sense?”

“I want the Department to go all-out.”

“Then listen hard, rookie,” Maddigan said. “The private dick agency is
kaput
, get me. Then there’s another thing.

Councilman Vincent and his pals’re working their heads off to get you up for trial. They want you booked on a homicide. They don’t want a Grand Jury hearing on the grounds that the Grand Jury’ll give you the whitewash. They may get you up for trial. They got pull. But in any case you’ll be up to the Grand Jury and the D.A. How’ll you behave? Like a loyal cop? We hope so. It wouldn’t be so hot if you made some half-baked speech about how you and the muggers are like brothers. It wouldn’t be so hot if you popped off with any kind of a Red speech. Like I said, I figure you for a loyal cop. Rosenberg was saying he thought a Jewish cop ought to be more loyal than any other kind. Rosenberg’s right. Lots of people in the Department don’t like Jewish cops. So why give them more arguments? Be a credit to your race and the Department — that’s only decent. And if you don’t do the decent thing, there’s always some in the Department who’d resent it. The Department’s all-out and it’ll stay all-out on the Buckles case. But you know how it is.”

“I understand.”

“I knew you were okay, Miller. I can tell the boys you’ll cooperate?”

“You can.”

“One thing more.” Maddigan leaned across the bed and tapped Sam on the ankle with one manicured finger. “This is in strict confidence. We’re building up a case, Blaine and me, against some of these faking Negro politicians. I don’t know when we’ll spring it. The time ain’t ripe. But when it’s ripe we might need a little cooperation.”

“I see.”

“How about it?”

“I’ll cooperate. Get my girl back.”

Maddigan stood up. “We will. Ain’t it a shame. So long, Miller.”

“Good bye,” Blaine said. “Glad to know you.”

“Good bye.” He watched them walk out of his room. He shut the door. He thought: It’s clear, it’s clear. Somebody high up wants to smear Harlem. Somebody high up was building a frame against the Councilman. Somebody high up was sick of all the liberal and left-wing attacks against police brutality. What next? Sam knew that the difference between a routine investigation and an all-out investigation was the difference between failure and success. He put his hand to his aching head. His brow was cold and clammy, his hand shaking. Inescapably, he realized that behind all these facts was still another fact, the big fact. Somebody high up didn’t want him crying fascists all over town. Somebody high up was interested in protecting the fascists operating in Harlem. Somebody high up had written him down as a Jew nigger-lover.

“Sam,” his mother was calling. “They’re gone. Come out and eat something.”

His mouth opened wide. He tore air into his lungs, feeling strangled as if the great iron net that he had always feared had at last closed on him. It had caught Suzy. Now it was his turn.

His mother rattled the door knob. “Come out and eat. They’re gone. Such nice detectives. The white one knows a
bissel Yiddish
. He said
‘alles vet zein git.’
Yes, Sam. All will be good yet.”

A
T
F
IVE
minutes after ten o’clock, there were eleven white men and two white women in Suite 23 of the Hotel Pennston. The two women and nine of the men were sitting in a semi-circle of gilt chairs. Inside the semi-circle and facing the gilt chairs, Hayden was whispering to the eleventh man. The eleventh man wore a black suit, a white shirt, a black string bow tie. His jowly face looked red even in the electricity. His nose, thin at the bridge, broadened at the tip; his lips were like the edges of two pieces of paper; he was smiling one of those I’m-everybody’s-friend smiles that takes years to perfect.

Hayden consulted his wrist watch, stood up. “Will somebody please see that the door is locked? Thank you. Without further delay, let me introduce Governor Heney.”

One of the two women gently patted her fingers together as if she were afraid of rubbing off the skin. There was no other applause. The ex-Governor heaved out of his chair. He tossed a silencing hand like a radio announcer’s at the applauding lady. On his feet, he seemed heavier than while sitting. He bulged in his black suit as if he had crashed through the pale green and gold walls of Suite 23.

“Friends and fellow-patriots,” the ex-Governor began. “The logic of world and national events dictates our directives. The minorities of America, the citizens who were aliens only a short generation or two ago, are strugglin’ for power with unmitigated ferocity. It’s goin’ to be mighty hard to limit their ambitions accordin’ to our traditions and the Constitution. Our traditions, let us remember, are not the traditions of the alien, be he Pole or Russian Jew or Greek or Negro.” He pronounced Negro as
Nigreh
; the
eh
sound almost inaudible; smiles appeared on the faces of his listeners. “We are the upholders of the traditions of majority America yet the four million Jews, the fourteen million Negroes and all the other minorities are more articulate than majority America. We need search no further than today’s newspapers to illustrate what I mean. Let us analyze this current situation in Harlem. A Hebrew policeman shoots a Negro maniac on the streets of Harlem. A race riot is in the air. What can we learn from this here situation? One, we have learned that Hebrews are too high-strung to make good officers of the law. The Hebrew just isn’t fitted by his race for many of the jobs and positions he now occupies. A Christian would have handled the situation much better. Two, we have learned that Negro politicians have temperaments that might be called Hebrew.”

The woman who had applauded, now giggled.

Heney silenced her with his waving hand. “The Negro isn’t fitted by his temperament to hold the jobs and positions he now occupies in the North. The job of Government belongs to majority America. Now, I mentioned the directives we want. But first let me relate a story. I was ridin’ in the subway the other day and I overheard two men, two white men, discussing this here Harlem situation. One of them said he hoped Harlem quieted down before the Negroes got so excited they’d bust loose in a riot. He said that suppose a flamin’ cross attached to a speedin’ car were to be seen in Harlem. He said suppose a Negro was shot by a white man.” Heney nodded at Hayden. “This won’t happen!” Bill, in the second row, now knew why Hayden had been upset in the morning. The flaming cross and the shooting must have been Hayden’s plan. And Heney had canceled it for some other wind-up. “This won’t happen! That is, I don’t think so. A flamin’ cross, a Negro shot by a white man — that’s what people expect in the South. It’s too mathematical. A riot grows natural as a plant out of its own native soil. It doesn’t grow out of a mathematical equation. True, a riot can be nurtured like a plant in the hothouse but it’s best when it’s natural. To return to these men in the subway. The second man said that public opinion and some of the press believed that Negro politicians and Negro underworld characters such as Big Boy Bose were promotin’ these troubles in Harlem. I believe that this man’s hit the nail on the head. All of us are askin’ ourselves what’s goin’ to happen up there in Harlem in the next day or two. As a Southerner who has studied the subject, let me tell you of the Harlem riot in the year, 1935. I have read about this riot and it will interest all of us interested in this problem.”

Like all the others, Bill was listening intently. “In
1935
,” Heney continued, “a Negro boy stole a ten cent store trinket in one of the big stores on One Hundred and Twenty-Fifth Street. The boy was caught by the manager. In the struggle, the Negro bit the manager’s hands. At the time, there were hundreds of Negroes in the store. Bein’ Negroes, they became excited and hysterical. A hysterical Negro woman cried out that the Negro boy was bein’ beaten up. That started all those hundreds of Negroes to throwin’ the merchandise on the floor, to shout like wild animals and to riot. A policeman came in and not bein’ a high-strung Hebrew he realized he couldn’t restore order himself. He left quietly and called for help. Emergency squads cleared the store. My friends, this riot grew natural out of its own soil. Well, by six o’clock that night the Reds dived into the muddied waters. Two Negro and two white pickets paraded up and down in front of the store, carryin’ signs that a Negro child’d been beaten. A Negro agitator got up and spoke anti-white talk to the crowds gatherin’ around those Red pickets. The crowd got to be over three thousand. I don’t have to mention that in the South a Negro crowd of one hundredth that size would not be tolerated. We in the South have learned from bitter experience how dangerous a Negro crowd can become. Now, just as that big crowd was listenin’ to that Negro agitator, a hearse pulled up on the street. The sight of the hearse caused those over-stimulated Negroes to run amok. Somebody yelled that the Negro boy was dead and the hearse’d come for his poor body. This wasn’t true as the later investigations revealed. But that Negro mob believed it. The Harlem riots of 1935 now began.”

Heney flung his hand towards the ceiling. “Two hundred plateglass windows were smashed.” He flung his hand to the ceiling again and again as he enumerated the results of the 1935 riot. “Three thousand Negroes were dispersed by seventy-five mounted police, foot police and radio cars. And three hundred thousand Negroes in Harlem, fourteen million Negroes in the nation, believed that that Negro boy was killed for stealin’ a trinket. The riot raged on. Negroes were shot and killed and the riot raged on. The Chief Inspector and the Deputy Chief Inspector of the City of New York had to take charge of the police army sent into Harlem. And did these Negro mobs quiet down? No. They still saw that hearse in their souls. They fought the police. They beat up reporters and cameramen on the streets. Rovin’ Negro guerilla bands ran inside the houses when they saw the police and they ran out when the police were some place else. Like wild jungle animals they were hunted, and they hunted all night long over a vast area. Their jungle stretched between One Hundred and Forty-Fifth Street and One Hundred and Tenth Street. West to Morningside Heights. East to Park Avenue. Six emergency squads stood by on One Hundred and Twenty-Fifth Street and Seventh Avenue alone. Other emergency squads took up strategic points all over Harlem. And to no avail. Pistol shots rang out all that night.” His hand flapped again. “One hundred people were shot, stabbed and clubbed. Hundreds of Negroes were arrested. Police from the Bronx and Brooklyn were called in. The terrorized white storekeepers put up signs saying they employed colored help. Negro storekeepers and Chinese laundries whitewashed the word, colored, on their windows. And how did it all begin? A ten cent trinket. A hysterical Negro woman. Four pickets. And a hearse. Simple ingredients. No flamin’ cross. No shootin’ of a Negro by a white man. Let me read what Dr. R. W. Searle, the General Secretary of the Greater New York Federation of Churches, had to say back in 1935.”

He fumbled for and found a clipping. “ ‘The white race which controls every phase of life in the city must recognize full responsibility. Riots will go on and the helpless Negro will be a victim of exploitation by those who care not for him save as a means to the ends of confusion and disorder.’ My friends, I believe, I predict that history will repeat itself. Race riots will continue until our Republic returns to the traditions of the founders. I predict riots that will shake the nation and that will open the eyes of the American people.”

They all applauded.

Heney said. “I want you to think over what has been said. Begin the good work. You can all go with the exceptions of Mr. Hayden, Mr. Dent, Mr. Darton and Mr. Johnson,” And again he waved his hand like a radio announcer and they filed out obediently and in silence. Hayden locked the door and returned to the gilt chairs. Heney was mopping his face with a huge white handkerchief.

“I did a little too much speechin’. I always do. Now, you boys are the balls of this riot. Let’s begin. You, Darton. I hear you have some ideas for leaflets?” He spoke coarsely as if he had taken off his coat and rolled up his sleeves.

Darton said. “I’ve also got a clipping, Governor. This one appeared in
The Harlem Independent News
. It’s called, ‘A Song For Young Harlem.’ Shall I read it?”

“Go on.”

“ ‘The coppers are riding

The “dagoes” and “micks”

They’re riding in Harlem

With guns and nightsticks.’ That’s the first stanza,” Darton said. “The rest of it has all the stuff we want. ‘We see ourselves robbed by landlords and shops.’ Here’s another line.

‘You can weep for the Frenchman. You can shout for the Jew. But for our youth who are black. You have nothing to do.’ And so it goes.”

“The United Nigger Committee,” Heney said, not making a pretense of saying Negro as he had done before, “will reprint that nigger poem. You will give due credit to the nigger laureate and the paper in which it appeared. You will also run off another leaflet. But I’ll talk to you about that tomorrow.” He smiled at Dent. The insurance man was sitting upright in his chair as if about to testify in a courtroom. “What about Big Boy Bose?”

“It’s hard to say,” Dent said. “Big Boy’s men have been following Miller for days.”

“Will he or won’t he?” Heney said impatiently.

“He told me he wants to get even with Miller. He told me he’d get Miller this coming Monday.”

“I don’t believe it,” Hayden said.

“Why don’t you believe it?” Heney asked Dent and Hayden.

“For one thing,” Dent said, frowning, “following Miller, Big Boy’s found out that Miller was seeing Clair.”

“Damn!” the ex-Governor shouted. “We’ve got niggers in our short hair. Big Boy won’t then. He won’t.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Dent said. “Big Boy has a great deal of respect for Aden and Aden’s told him the cop’s a stool for the police. I’d say there’s a fifty-fifty chance Big Boy gets the cop.”

“I don’t believe it for an instant,” Hayden said to Heney. “Bose has read the Negro press. He has seen the call to the people in Harlem. Bose is — ”

“Hayden,” Heney interrupted. “You had a good idea usin’ niggers to get us our riot. But it’s too damn dangerous unless the nigger’s a fascist like this Aden. Aden’s got his own row to hoe and he’ll work with us. But Bose as I understand it is a nigger for the niggers.”

“That’s right,” Dent said. “He may even talk.”

They were all silent. Heney mopped his brow again. “Why do you say that, Dent?”

“He’s mad. He may talk.”

“You believe it’s a possibility?” Heney said.

Dent stiffened in his chair. “I do, Governor.”

“Who in the organization has the nigger seen besides you and Bill Johnson, here?”

“Nobody else, Governor.”

Heney tweaked the broad tip of his nose. His blue eyes studied Bill and the insurance man. “It’s a possibility, then. Dent, Johnson, you two must face the possibility of that nigger givin’ you away to the authorities.” Bill was too shocked to say anything. His head felt as if it had cracked open. He heard Heney drop the question of Big Boy Bose and go on to details of the riot but not one word registered. Their voices clashed in his ears. Their faces were empty bags out of which sound came. Suppose Big Boy talked, he thought stunned. Suppose? Suppose, suppose, suppose, suppose …

“Two of my men have been tailing Big Boy,” Bill heard Darton saying. “But they haven’t a thing of importance. The nigger’s careful. He sticks to his house most of the day. It’s a house he must use as an office. He eats his meals at his nightclub, The Grove. He sleeps at his apartment on St. Nicholas Avenue.”

Darton’s voice ticked in Bill’s consciousness but louder, louder was the hammering SUPPOSE. That was why Hayden’d told him to use his own judgment. They were going to scrap him. He’d been brought up from the South to be scrapped. They’d known Big Boy was dangerous so they’d brought him up.

“Aden is the head of the International Colored Brotherhood of the World,” Hayden was explaining to the ex-Governor. “The Buckles kidnapping would have been impossible without him. He had managed to plant one of his followers, a Marian Burrow, in the H.E.L. office.”

“Burrow got in touch with Aden?” Heney said. “I understand. Is this Aden nigger costing us much?”

“Not very much. I have the figures if you care to — ”

“Not now, Hayden. Here’s another point …”

The letter about Aden that he had mailed in to the Harlem Equality League typed itself out on Bill’s brain. They
knew
who’d sent in the letter. That was why they were scrapping him. They were just making believe they didn’t know. They knew. They knew. NO! he cried out inside himself as if already protesting his innocence; I never sent a letter. I never sent a letter.

“To sum up,” Heney was saying. “It’s my considered opinion, and I’m speakin’ for the national organization, that progress has been excellent. The mistakes have been minor mistakes. And we’re all men enough to admit our mistakes. Hayden, you planned skillful. Very skillful. Just a little too mathematical. That flamin’ cross, nigger shootin’ was too mathematical. But that’s been remedied. Your real mistake was relyin’ so much on that Bose nigger. And I have to share that mistake with you for I approved it. It was a mistake none of us could’ve foreseen. None of us could’ve foreseen the Hebrew volunteerin’ to work for that Clair mulatto. That gave us the situation we got with the Bose nigger. On the other hand, Hayden, the Buckles idea more than compensates. You deserve credit, Hayden. You, too, Darton, the way you managed it. We’re goin’ to roll up this Harlem situation into a nice ball. We know what we have to do. Darton, you’re windin’ it up. You’re goin’ to see Aden. We need his help to start off the riot.