Our Man in the Dark (13 page)

“Why does she need the suitcase?”

“Why don't you ask her? She's right over there. Can't miss her in this place.”

“I think I should be asking you. You're the man with the answers.”

A dull thud comes from Candy's corner. She's no longer holding the suitcase. “Goddamnit. I can speak for myself,” she says without any hint of anger or insult, which makes the comment all the more effective. “I have my suitcase because I'll need clothes while I'm in LA . . . making sure that things go the way they are supposed to and helping you if you need it.”

Count nods and smiles. “Good job, baby,” he says. “Tough, ain't she? Little man, I think she makes a lot of sense, don't you?”

She stares at me, but it's strange how easily I look away.

I arrive at the airport and look up at the sky-blue panes covering the terminal's façade. They remind me of tiles shimmering at the bottom of a pool. In LA, swimming pools must be as common as sunshine. Just past the entrance, a stylized mobile hangs from the ceiling: a modernart interpretation of a phoenix rising from the ashes. Since I'm too busy looking up, I bump into a man walking by. “Hey, watch it, buddy!” He wears a sign that reads: F
LIGHT
E
NGINEERS ON
S
TRIKE! 14
A
CCIDENTS—83
K
ILLED BY
S
TRIKEBREAKERS!

After reading his sign, I apologize. I know how it feels to be taken for granted. I shouldn't care if she makes it or not, but I look for her. We took separate cabs. I don't want to have to explain her to Gant. I see lovers holding hands, trotting to the planes that would carry them to some romantic destination. Is this better than spending the weekend alone? In my mind, I do a strange dance between self-congratulation for being wise to her charade and self-flagellation for allowing myself to fall for it. I should despise her, but I can't help but think that joining me in LA means something more than she is letting on. Maybe Count is the one being fooled. Maybe she's breaking it to him at this moment, which is why she's so late.

I stand there looking at the arched awnings above the terminal windows. Long U-shaped shadows work their way inside. A few cabs pull up to the curb, but they all carry strangers.

As I watch cars and people pass, someone grabs my shoulder from behind.

“Estem, are you ready?”

I look at Gant's face and decide that no matter what happens with Candy, I must spend the weekend with someone prettier than he is. “Yes, sir, I'm always ready.” As I turn to follow him, I hear the click-clack of high heels. All of her assets are bouncing in a divine hurry. A lack of
punctuality is among her many faults.

There are two men at the front of the plane, one holding a microphone, the other a Bolex camera. They are interviewing Martin as he tries to talk above the loud whirring engines. Gant sits in front of me, talking with Abernathy. It seems important. I probably should do my best to listen and relay whatever I overhear back to Mathis and Strobe, but my mind is elsewhere. I think about that hotel room and Candy waiting on those crisp white sheets. Entrapping her in my fantasy is empowering. What would she be wearing if I had things my way? A corset? Garters and stockings? Maybe nothing but a string of pearls. After I've had my fill, still sweaty from racing across every inch of her body, I'd slip into a robe with the hotel insignia on the breast. Poor girl wouldn't know what hit her.

Even though Count seems to be in control, I'd be a fool not to take advantage of the opportunity that lies in front of me. Candy and I have never been alone without some obstruction. Through every long night in that city there has been
him
. He is that city. She knows that as well. We have both been sent away to run his errands, but she must have breathed a sigh of relief—as I have—just to be free of him, if only temporarily.

A burst of laughter wakes me from my daydream.

“Like Estem,” Gant says.

This is followed by more laughter.

Yeah, he does seem like the type!

Again, there is more laughter at my expense. Like a fool, I join in.

We arrive at the hotel later than expected. There was trouble getting through the swarm of reporters who wanted to interview Martin after we landed. When my coworkers are out of earshot, I ask the clerk if Candice has checked in. It's hard for me to contain my excitement when he says yes.

My plan to make a beeline toward Candice is interrupted by Gant's instructions to meet him and the others in Martin's room.

Members of the West Coast chapter of the SCLC are here also. The rest of the SCLC sycophants are laughing at Gant's vain attempt to be humorous, but only after the appearance of Martin's approving grin. He gets competitive around Martin, because he knows the man has a savage wit. I see it as juvenile envy. Martin must see it this way as well, but with
his legs crossed, left hand on his ankle, and a cigarette dangling elegantly in his right, he seems unaffected by it. The suits surround him, as Martin assigns nicknames that are both double entendres and biblical in nature. Robinson is Noah, because he likes his women in pairs. Ferguson is Moses because he'll part a sea to reach any woman's Promised Land. Martin is about to bestow me with a nickname when Gant steps in front of me and interrupts.

“Martin, share with us a loving memory of our fallen president,” Gant says, smiling.

He seems reluctant at first, but the rest of the group egg him on by cheering and stomping their feet. Martin smiles back and nods. He then proceeds to tell a story about President Kennedy.

“An unnamed senator routinely disturbed the president while he was in the Oval Office. Every morning, the senator would come to see the president, stating adamantly that he had a question to ask of him. But the president would refuse to see him. One morning when the senator came, the first lady was in the Oval Office as well. The president, having grown exasperated, told the first lady to see the senator, and to say yes to whatever he asked. The president said he would hide behind the door and listen while she spoke with him. She agreed.”

I want to stop Martin, but I don't. I know Mathis and Strobe are listening, from where, I do not know. The lampshade, behind the mirror, Martin's lighter? It's unclear. But it is clear how Gant laid the trap, and how readily Martin stepped into it.

“‘
Do you have a vagina?'
the senator asks the first lady. ‘
Yes, of course,'
is her reply. ‘
Good,'
says the senator. ‘
Then will you please tell the president to stop fucking my wife!'”

The men laugh through the thick wall of smoke and slap each other on their backs. I imagine Mathis and Strobe in their cramped quarters straining to do the same.

I try to slip out of the room unnoticed when Gant reminds me of tonight's soirée.

The plan is to invite her to the event. She has always dreamed of being a celebrity but has never seen any in person. I will change all that. Tonight, I will introduce her to a new world, a different kind of prestige and glamour than she has ever known. Here, among the soldiers of the most important struggle since the Second World War, I have access. Even Count cannot offer her this. I see now that that must be the defining distinction between the two of us. I can't compete with him in the game the he has created. I've been foolish, trying to match his every move. I must focus on the talents that are unique to me. She will love my invitation, not because of my generosity but because it immediately elevates her out of the juke joints and away from the humiliation of being a gangster's mistress. She will feel grateful and indebted to me. She will no doubt try to think of ways to repay me. Unfortunately, I'll have to tell her to remain clothed.

I thought about going to one of those boutiques they have out here, getting a dress and surprising her with it, but there was no need. She must have anticipated that I would ask her to accompany me tonight, because she answers the door to her hotel room already wearing a flattering party dress. It's black with a deep neckline and a knee-length skirt. “I'd tell you how good you look,” I say, “but you're probably sick of hearing that.” She smiles and takes my arm as we head down to the party.

The room is a large, square space. I imagine conventions for insurance salesmen and the authorized dealers of General Motors have been held in this room. The patrons are well dressed, talkative, and influential. Celebrities, politicians, the Adam Chance-Burtons, the Katherine Archer-Fields, and other three-named WASPs bless us with their fame, prominence, and, hopefully, wealth. Gant seems to be holding his breath in anticipation of their generosity.

Candy and I stand silently in the swarm of chatter around us. The conversation ranges from the conflict in Vietnam and the role of religion in a postracial society to that loudmouth Cassius Clay teaching Sonny Liston a lesson.

Martin is on the other side of the room, standing close to the wall while he talks to two other men. I see Candy smiling to herself.

“What is it?” I ask her.

“It's nothing. I just thought he would be . . . taller. But his smile makes up for it.”

We are practically the same height, I think to myself, straightening my posture. I'm not sure if she knows, but she has managed to divert Martin's attention away from the men. He notices that she has noticed him.

I nod at Martin, and he nods back approvingly.

“Is that Harry Belafonte with him?” asks Candice.

I look closer at the men with Martin, and yes, it is Belafonte. Gant always claimed to have many Hollywood contacts. How bloated his ego must be at this moment.

“Oh, sweet Jesus, is that Sidney Poitier?” Candy asks in a breathy whisper.

Yes. Looking at his suit makes me feel like I need a new tailor, but then I look at Candy and I can tell that she loves all of this.

I feel awkward and conspicuous standing here empty-handed, so I tell her that I'll go and grab some drinks. I make my way through the crowd, get to the bar, order two club sodas with a lime twist, and head back to where we once stood. I'm about fifteen people away from her when I see her talking to Martin—and everyone else sees it too, including Poitier and Belafonte. I wonder how those movie star egos are holding up. They probably made a silent wager between the two of them: who will she approach first, the dark knight or the island prince? But they've been outdone by the portly preacher. A silver tongue gets them every time. Martin does most of the talking, and she nods with genuine sincerity and interest in whatever he's saying. I stand there gawking, splashing a bit of club soda on my sleeve as my elbow is bumped by a reckless navigator of the crowd. I should feel jealous, but I don't. I know what's going on and I don't want to interrupt it. Part of me enjoys what's happening here. I've seen her dominated and controlled, never charmed and finessed. It's validating, knowing that he wants something that I have.

I approach them with the drinks. I don't say anything, I just hand Candice her glass and smile at Martin.

He doesn't smile back.

“Well, it was nice meeting you, Candice,” Martin says, glancing at me under an arched eyebrow, “but I have to go and mingle with some other people.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Dr. King.” Candy says as he begins to walk away.

Something about that makes him stop and look back at her over his shoulder before walking away again.

She winks at me and gives me a playful poke in my side. Here she is, standing only a few feet from people of fame and notoriety, and I brought
her here. I made this happen. It makes me smile again, but I mistakenly aim it at Gant. He takes this as an invitation and begins to make his way over to us.

I look over Candice with a critical eye. Is her dress appropriate? Makeup just right? Did her hot comb melt away the coarseness of her hair to an acceptable degree? She passes my impromptu test just as Gant arrives.

“My God, Estem. You do make friends quickly.” He eyes Candice up and down, examining the contours of her face and cleavage. In his mind, that is what real men do. It's very convincing. How many leading men did he observe to get that look just right? It's sad that he feels he has to maintain such a shameful façade.