Dark Stain (6 page)

“I wouldn’t say that,” Hayden disclaimed. “But none of us can escape certain facts. For example, the majority of the world’s peoples are colored. That should be a fundamental factor in all our Negro agitation, a paramount factor as our instructors did not instruct us in Chicago.” He smiled at Bill as if his choice of words were accidental. “Unfortunately, too many people in the organization are still thinking along Civil War lines. In the South, with the exception of Governor Heney and a few other far-sighted leaders, the organization is simply a streamlined Klan. That’s one reason I wanted you. You’re going back South after your work here. You’re going to carry the torch as it were.” He raised one oratorical hand but his eyes were hard cold balls. “Our motives in Harlem are two-fold. A riot? Of course. But we also are going to demonstrate the successful use of new tactics.”

Bill was listening with the concentration of a waiter hovering around the table of a big tipper. He was thinking: This lousy desk genius, this high-toned bastard!

“Harlem is the Negro capital of the country,” Hayden continued. “A riot in Harlem would interest every black belt in the country. It would interest the colored races of the whole world. We are going to organize a riot that will enlist the support of various Negro groups who would oppose us if they knew who we were. This Sunday, the All-Negro Harlem Committee is holding a mass meeting to protest the killing of Randolph. We are going to enlist their support — ”

“How?”

“By using their meeting as a mask for our own activities. I’ll explain this later. But right now I want to give you a general picture of the average Harlemite’s thinking. He resents the newspaper stories of ‘Harlem, the crime capital of the world.’ Some of the press have been sending reporters into Harlem’s brothels, marihuana dens and so on. Their circulation-building yarns have infuriated the average Harlemite. Then again, the Police Department has been very active; the Police Division of National Defense was formed to safeguard the morals of the men in the armed forces, especially the morals of soldiers touring Harlem’s hot spots. Recently, hundreds of Negro mobsters, gamblers, pimps and so on were arrested by the police. The press printed more columns about the Negro underworld and Big Boy Bose, its king. You are going to meet Big Boy Bose. But to resume: the white population of this city is pretty generally scared by Negro depravity and our average Harlemite resents the general public’s opinion. He resents the discrimination against Negroes in war industry, the bad housing and so on. Such recent concessions as Negro air units and the pious exaltation of Joe Louis have not diminished the average Harlemite’s resentment. We are going to fan this resentment. The mass meeting on Sunday stems indirectly out of all this resentment. The Randolph killing has only crystallized what already exists. Our activities will begin as of Monday.”

Suddenly Bill understood. The long rambling speech with its pompous excursions into sociology and its learned global allusions had suddenly made good hard sense. Public opinion would be led to think that Monday’s events were the result of Sunday’s meeting. Hayden was more than a theorist in a skyscraper office, Bill admitted to himself; more than a snob inflated with a sense of his own superior world outlook as compared to the outlook of other men in the organization. There was another Hayden, the penman who’d knocked out the leaflet.

“Before you leave,” Hayden said. “Remind me to give you the keys to the apartment. There’s an apartment in Brooklyn Heights that we are going to use as a meeting place. I live in Brooklyn Heights myself. You understand? We’re not using this office as a clearing house.”

“The F.B.I.?”

Hayden laughed. “No.”

“You frightened me for a minute.”

“You can live out in Brooklyn Heights if you want. The apartment’s furnished. Are you alone or is your wife with you?”

“She’s with me.”

“I’ll meet her one of these days, I hope. No, you better not use the apartment. You will meet me there every morning at half past nine to report on progress. You are not to call or phone either the office or my home except for an emergency. I suggest you engage a room in some hotel in Brooklyn Heights. There is the Towers and the St. George. Both nearby.” He unlocked a drawer in his desk and took out a white sealed envelope. “Here is expense money. Two thousand dollars. You’ll need some of it immediately. All our preparations must be completed by the week-end.”

“I’m ready to begin now.”

“You will first contact Frank R. Dent, our Harlem contact.”

“Negro or white?”

“An Irishman, a fixer. You will pay him five hundred dollars.”

“How do I reach him?”

“At his office. He’s in the insurance business. He expects you to phone him. You will say you’re interested in Harlem insurance.”

“I see.”

“Dent will not ask you any questions. He may mention a Judge Nuhnen. Judge Nuhnen has phoned Dent about you. You understand?”

“Yes. The organization has no direct contact with Dent on this job.”

“Right. Nuhnen is our go-between. If Dent mentions Nuhnen, answer in some noncommittal way. Dent will connect you with Big Boy Bose.” He opened the folder from which he had taken the leaflet and picked up several typewritten sheets. “This is our information about Big Boy Bose. I want you to listen.”

“Has Bose any connection with the mass meeting?”

“None.” Hayden lowered his eyes and began to read: “Big Boy Bose or James Bose, Negro. Born August 24th, 1909 in New York City. Educated in public school. Left school without graduating to go to work. Was a delivery boy, grocer’s clerk, and held other jobs over a period of four years. At the age of sixteen, he was arrested for the first time for petty larceny. He served a sentence. On his release, he went to work for Martin Handley, British West Indies Negro and an operator at that time in the numbers racket. Big Boy Bose received his nickname at this period. He was the leader of Negro mobsters in their battles with the Italian and Spanish mobs of East Harlem. At the age of twenty-two, Big Boy Bose had become one of Martin Handley’s lieutenants. He served Handley as chief muscle man in the continuing strife between the Negro and the white elements over control of the Harlem numbers racket. Big Boy Bose led this fight. The white elements were dominated by Joseph Fuzzello, who also ran one of the biggest chains of brothels in Harlem. Joseph Fuzzello was found murdered in 1931. Martin Handley was murdered in 1932. Big Boy Bose assumed control of the Martin Handley organization. He acquired an interest in night clubs, in houses of prostitution and gambling. In the next five years, Big Boy Bose solidified his control. He contributed heavily to both political parties and formed alliances with influential whites. Characteristics: He drinks but not to excess. He has never been known to use drugs. His most important characteristic is a hatred for the white man. This dates back to the time when he was the leader in the fight against the East Harlem mobs. Investigations show that he has helped Negroes, porters, laborers, housemaids, etc., who have had trouble with whites. He has been heard to make anti-white remarks in night clubs and other public places. He has contributed sums of money to various Negro anti-white groups. He has been heard to speak favorably of such anti-white leaders as Ralph Judson now imprisoned for pro-Japanese activities, Ahmed Aden, Royal Gibney, etc. This anti-white phobia has handicapped him in his relations with the police and the politicians.”

Hayden slid the report back inside the folder. “You’ve got the idea.”

“I’ll have to blackface when I meet the nigger.”

“You’ll have to be diplomatic. If possible, you will try to see Bose this afternoon or tonight. Bose is very important. We are using him to start our activity. In fact, he is our motor. There are three jobs we want him to do for us. These jobs are to begin this Monday — ”

“Using a white hater like that nigger,” Bill said. “It’s brilliant.”

Hayden smiled. “That remains to be tested.” He glanced at his gold watch that he lifted out of its vest pocket. “I have another appointment in five minutes. That’s unfortunate. I had intended to discuss your future in the organization. Let’s see. How about dinner tonight?”

“I’d be glad to.”

“It’s necessary for me to enter into details of a personal nature, Bill. However, we’ll save it for dinner. I can definitely promise you promotion after your Harlem assignment. I am confident you will be successful. I can definitely promise you an assistant executive position in some one of our branch offices in the South.”

“Thank you,” Bill cried. “Thank you.”

“We’ll save that for dinner, too, if you don’t mind. I have this appointment and I still have to discuss the three jobs our Mr. Bose is going to do for us. They are as follows. On Monday …”

O
UT
on the street again, Bill speculated about Hayden’s “details of a personal nature.” To hell with Hayden, he thought. He had work to do. He tapped his hand on the wallet in his rear pocket with its two thousand dollars of A.R.A. money. Dent was first on the agenda. He stepped into the first drugstore, thumbed the fat telephone book’s pages and memorized Dent’s number, dialing it in one of the booths. A girl’s voice singsonged: “Frank R. Dent, Insurance. Good afternoon.”

“I want to speak to Mr. Dent.”

“Who’s calling?”

“The Judge asked me to call. Judge Nuhnen.”

“One minute please.”

Bill bit on the edge of his thumb. Through the glass door of the booth, he stared at women whose makeup seemed to have been applied with a spray gun. He would have to ring Isabelle and tell her he wouldn’t be back for dinner tonight; she’d love to hear that on their first day in this God damned town.

A man’s voice said. “Frank R. Dent speaking.”

“Hello. I want to talk to you right away, Mr. Dent, about some Harlem insurance.”

“I’ve been expecting you. Can you wait until tonight?”

“No.”

“Come right up.”

He stalked out of the booth. He still hadn’t phoned Isabelle.

In Dent’s private office in the Times Square district, Bill watched the insurance man scrutinize his scarred face. The whites of Dent’s eyes weren’t white any more but pinkish; Dent, himself, looked as fatigued as his eyes. He had a wrinkled skin like a not too fresh office towel. His suit was blue serge and in his stiff celluloid collar he could have been a court bailiff. He and his office reminded Bill of the time he had been a real estate collector in New York during the depression 30’s; the green metal files, the ugly furniture might have been the property of his old boss.

“Look here,” Bill said. “I want to meet Big Boy Bose. The sooner the better.”

Dent picked up a paper clip from his desk and set it down again. “How soon?”

“This afternoon. Tonight.”

“That’s short notice.”

“I can’t help it. I’ve got to see the nigger right away.”

Dent rolled the tip of his tongue along his lower lip. “I don’t know you, mister. You come well recommended but it’s plain you don’t understand some things. Take my advice. When you see Big Boy, don’t you go behaving like he was a nigger shining your shoes. That stuff don’t go with Big Boy. He’s a very influential person and not only in Harlem.”

“Thanks for the tip. Here’s your money.” He counted out five hundred dollars in twenty dollar bills.

“And thank you. You drop by here or ring me at six and I’ll know definitely when you can see Big Boy. And if you have any trouble with him, you can always reach me at my home up to half past eight, and after nine I’m at the Mohegan Club.”

“What trouble?”

“The police investigations’re still on, mister.”

“The Mohegan Club? Okay.” He stood up, flipped his hand goodbye to the insurance man, clattered out of the office and down the elevator to the street. Trouble with Big Boy? That washed-out rag of a Dent could have saved his advice. He didn’t intend to behave like Louisiana up here in Harlem. And what about Dent? Was he in the organization or was he just one of the sympathizers who could always be relied upon if the job involved niggers? No, Bill decided. This Dent was in the organization. Five hundred bucks worth. No sympathizer’d ever dream of asking such a price. The God damn sympathizers were all too hot about the communists and the kike labor lawyers ruining the niggers to ever think of snatching any of the big change for themselves.

He passed under the red and gold sign of a drugstore to the booths in the rear. He rang the Hotel Commodore, asked for his room number. His nerves tingled as Isabelle answered. It was as if her hands had suddenly stroked his eyes. “Where are you, Bill?” she asked. “Why don’t you come on to me?”

“Can’t. I’ve got some things to do.”

“Bill,” she pleaded.

“I’ll make it up, sweet. But this next day or so I’ll be busy. I don’t know when I’ll be home tonight. You go to a movie.”

“You don’t know when you’ll be home — Bill, it’s only the afternoon — ”

“Darling, you have a good dinner and go to a movie. I’ll see you later. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Bill.”

He hung up and glanced at his wrist watch. It was a quarter of three, a hell of a long time before he phoned Dent at six. He could have easily walked east to the Hotel. Her mournful goodbye echoed inside of him and he scowled. But, Christ, she would’ve asked him a hundred questions and he wasn’t getting wound up over her on his first day in town. Bill left the booth and sat down at the ice cream counter. “Chocolate soda,” he said. He consumed it slowly like a little boy early on a Sunday. Then he straightened his tie in the mirror opposite. At a distance, the scars weren’t noticeable. Maybe, he thought vainly; they’ll go away in a few more years.

He strolled out of the drugstore over to Forty-Second Street, his eyes reading the bills announced on the marquées of the double row of cut-rate movies that stretched between Eighth and Seventh Avenues. He turned north at Broadway into the sunlight, into the bright-colored throngs. He felt optimistic now; the A.R.A. money in his wallet seemed to be his own; this trip to the Big Stem’d be the beginning of a new kind of life for Isabelle and himself; even Hayden wasn’t such a bad guy; he and Isabelle’d leave New York in a few weeks and they’d move to some Southern city where he’d have a desk job for the organization; they’d live a normal life and join the golf club and go to parties and maybe they’d even have the kid that Isabelle’d always wanted. Who knew? It was all in the cards. Or was it all another pipedream and he, himself, another sucker like one of these thousands of Broadway suckers? Why did Hayden want to discuss “details of a personal nature” and what details? Bill swerved into a news-reel theatre on Broadway.

Slumped in a seat, he stared apathetically at a horse race on the screen, at exploding enemy battleships, at the enlarged giant countenance of the President exhorting the nation to weld itself together more firmly in democracy. Democracy, the new sucker slogan, he pondered, and watched a beautiful blonde in a bathing suit strutting before him. She had been voted Miss War Worker. R.A.F. airplanes took off from an undisclosed air field. Six men and three women, arrested by the F.B.I. for sabotage, paraded in front of Bill’s eyes. His pulse pounded, his blood roaring in his veins. But those six men and three women were only small fry, he assured himself. They’d come and go, these Vierecks, Pelleys, and their followers. Only the organization’d continue and he along with the organization. By God, wasn’t he slated for an assistant executive’s job? He’d be sitting pretty inside some skyscraper like Hayden, passing on the orders to the operatives. Bill wasn’t watching the screen people now. Deep lines had cut themselves from the corners of his nostrils to the corners of his clenched mouth. Yeh, sitting pretty, he mocked himself. Why had he been imported out of the South? Weren’t there plenty of operatives in the New York area who could’ve been assigned to the Harlem job? Why himself?

He rose from his seat. He wanted a drink right away.

At eight o’clock, Bill met Hayden at the Chez Marie in the east Fifties. The white cloths, the waiters, the laughing women, the puffs of cigarette smoke rising from all the tables had relaxed his nerves. The subdued lighting like some omnipresent surgeon’s knife softened the worry lines on Bill’s face. Over his highball, he smiled at Hayden. “I’m meeting Big Boy at ten thirty tonight,” he said. “What a town this is. What a town.” He thought that Hayden looked like a college man, one of those professional college men who attend all the football games. It was hard to believe that Hayden was in his forties. It was hard to believe that this was only his first day in New York.

Hayden sipped at his highball. “Suppose you drop over to Brooklyn tonight after you’re through with Big Boy?”

“Over to the apartment?”

“Yes. You ought to be finished by midnight.”

“Could I phone you?”

“You could. But it would be advisable for me to see you.” He nodded his blond head decisively and offered Bill a cigarette from a silver case.

“Okay. It’s liable to be late.” Bill’s collar felt like a hot band around his neck. God only knew when he’d get back to the Commodore; she’d be sitting up for him and there’d be a scene sure as fate. This God damn Hayden. “I’m flattered to be chosen for the job,” he began, his voice thickening. “But I’d like to know why I was chosen?”

“We have many men,” Hayden answered. “But too many of them are opportunists.” Again, Bill recognized the lofty tone he had heard and resented earlier in the day, a tone of judgment, irritatingly self-complacent. “I’ve always been disgusted, Bill, by the opportunists. They’re necessary at this stage of the game but the historic mission of restoring America to the Americans isn’t just another racket. And that’s just what it is to some of our salesmen patriots.”

Was he sincere, Bill wondered. Could he be sincere? The man he’d attended school with in Chicago offered no clue to this phase-maker; the Walter Tynant of Chicago had been reserved, friendly with only two or three others in their class of twenty, men similar to himself, the sons of industrialists; “the cream of the crop” they’d been called contemptuously.

“Bill, I intend to be completely candid with you. Your question as to why you were picked is directly related to this dinner of ours. In my pocket, I have a report on you that I want you to read.” He took out a folded typewritten sheet and smilingly offered it to Bill.

So they knew all about him, Bill thought with a pang. He glanced down at the typewritten sheet and read: “William Trent or William Johnson. Born in Easton, PA., 1907 of Scotch-English parentage. Educated at Lafayette College, Easton, PA….”

Bill’s lips puffed out and his good looks were suddenly overlaid by a sagging despondency; the hollows under his eyes deepened, the burn scars whitened as the highball flush receded from his cheeks. The restaurant changed into a whirling cloud out of which snatches of conversation sheared off into his hearing. He wasn’t in the Chez Marie any more but far away in the years he had hoped to forget. Forget? There was no forgetting with the organization. They had typed him down on a piece of paper as they’d typed down Big Boy Bose.

“After graduation from Lafayette, he was employed by the Stanger Real Estate Company in New York City. Lost job for petty grafting. Became involved with prohibition period gangsters. Won control of a petty mob. Set up headquarters on Sixteenth Street in New York City and called his mob ‘Young Hamilton Democrats.’ Up to the loss of his job, his record shows no intimate contact with non-American elements …” His heart was laboring as he read and the sheet blurred in his vision. From somewheres, the Big Boy Bose report streaked across his brain and he had an intuition that the same man’d written both reports. “Lafayette College is Presbyterian in its affiliations. The Stanger Real Estate Company is a Protestant concern. But with Trent’s control of the ‘Young Hamilton Democrats’ he assumed the leadership of a motley group of Irish and Italian elements. Affiliated this group to the political-racketeering organization dominated by Jim Kerrigan. He became involved in various of Kerrigan’s rackets. He also specialized in activities that first brought him to the attention of the organization in New York City. He won control of a waiters’ union local, wresting control from its Jewish-Red president, Nate Sigmund. He broke a strike for the Continental Baking Company, using his ‘Young Hamilton Democrats’ as strike-breakers. He was engaged by the Ajax Steel Company at Slagtown, Pa., to check union activities. He was well on his way to success when he was accidentally teargassed in a melee between his men and union thugs. Remarks: Up to this point, Bill Trent had displayed a natural if untrained understanding of fundamental issues. He rightly attributed the Ajax Steel troubles to the activity of the Communists. He successfully recruited the support of the Slagtown police, the Mayor, the newspapers and the responsible citizenry. Other remarks: After his recovery from his burns, Trent was contacted by our organization and enrolled in its training school. His record as a student was excellent. He was sent South — ” That was all. The report had obviously gone on to a second page which Hayden hadn’t chosen to show him. Bill glanced up. He said in a shaky voice. “It seems to me it was written in a hurry.”

“It was. It’s an abstract after all. What I can’t understand is why the organization sent you South to work among the Negroes after your experience in the North. However, why do you suppose I let you see this?”

Bill shrugged. This half-baked bastard, he cursed despairingly: this imitation of a Gestapo chief. He wanted to leap from this table, to get outside. He felt as if he had been locked inside bars by the sentences he’d read. He was deadly afraid of Hayden. What did Hayden’s preliminary remarks about opportunities hide? And this report? Hayden’d practically called him an opportunist.

Hayden sighed, twirling his empty highball glass. “When you’re an assistant executive, you’ll appreciate how I feel now. Before we promote an operative — Well, you understand. It’s always painful raking over old coals. I went through it. So did the Colonel. Let’s have another highball. Waiter! Waiter, two highballs.”

They were silent until the waiter had gone. “Well, Bill,” Hayden said. “I wish I were finished but there are several questions I have to ask you about your wife.” He smiled genially and Bill stiffened. Christ Almighty, he thought: what next, what next?

“Does your wife know of your activities, Bill?”

“No. That is — Only in a general way.”

“Please be specific. Has she any specific knowledge of the organization?”

“No.” They were leaning towards each other, their elbows on the table, their voices low.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“How do you describe your activities to your wife?”

“She thinks I’m connected with a patriotic society of a semi-secret nature. The Klan. I’ve never said so but that’s what I’ve led her to think.”