Free The Strivers' Row Spy by Jason Overstreet Page A

impersonation of a professional. My opponent just stood there, cigarette hanging from his mouth, glaring at me. I lined up the eight ball and stretched across the table to make a difficult shot.
    â€œEight ball, corner pocket,” I said.
    And with that the game was over.
    â€œDouble or nothing,” he immediately demanded.
    â€œI’m through for the night,” I said, knowing my luck would end.
    I picked up the twenty dollars and turned to say good-bye to Drew. But he was nowhere in sight. I then attempted to shake my opponent’s hand, but he didn’t budge. He just stood there clutching his pool stick. I sensed a brewing hatred of me in his jaundiced eyes.
    I brushed off his slight, casually made my way to the front door, and stepped out into the fresh night air. It was time to make my way back to the Sweet Tree.
    * * *
    I woke early the next morning and did my usual hour of meditation and Kodokan exercises. After a good sweat, I washed up and headed over to the newsstand to pick up several papers. I then popped in to Snappy’s Restaurant on Lenox for coffee, eggs, and toast. I opened a copy of the Negro World and read that Garvey was still in negotiations to officially purchase the Yarmouth.
    With breakfast finished and the papers read, I decided to walk up Lenox Avenue from 130th to 145th. I wanted to experience every block, not knowing exactly where I was going or whom I might meet. It would allow me to get a feel for the engine of Harlem.
    I stopped and had my wing tips shined by an old gray-haired gentleman. He talked nonstop about the city and made me promise to try his favorite joint on 144th.
    â€œBest damn sausage in the world,” he kept saying. “Damn near choked to death last time I had ’em. They the best now! I wouldn’t lie to you, young brother.”
    As I walked along each block, I saw artists painting on corners, musicians lugging their packed instruments around—or playing—and poets reading their material. With the war over, thousands looked to be flocking here to take part in some kind of artistic awakening that was uniquely Harlem’s.
    * * *
    A fellow in a convenience store on 145th told me to head over by City College of New York to find a brownstone. The man believed that I would like West Harlem.
    â€œAin’t but a few coloreds be livin’ ’round there,” he said. “But they be the high-livin’ types.”
    He told me that Eighth Avenue was an informal color line—west of it was mostly white. I decided to take him up on his suggestion. My feet were sore, so I splurged and took a short ride in a beaten-up, open-air taxi. I also wanted the taxi to drive by Marcus Garvey’s office at the Universal Negro Improvement Association’s headquarters. We headed south and then took a left on 135th.
    â€œThere it is,” he said.
    â€œSo close?”
    â€œYep. Fifty-six West 135th.”
    I had walked right past the building earlier, not knowing what it was. My heart began to pound as we passed. There it was—Garvey’s office. I had no intentions of stopping but just needed to see it. I wondered how soon I’d be able to penetrate those walls. Hoover’s clock was probably ticking fast.
    â€œWhere is the City College?” I asked.
    â€œ138th and Convent.”
    â€œTake me to the neighborhood near there.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    He dropped me off on Amsterdam near the college. Walking east on West 140th, I noticed an available bow-front brick town house on the north side of the street. I approached the front door and a short, middle-aged brother was there to greet me.
    â€œCome on in,” he said. “Take a look around. Name’s Paul Smith.”
    â€œSidney Temple.” We shook. “I can’t believe my good luck. I don’t even know where I’m at.”
    â€œYou in the Sugar Hill section of Harlem.”
    â€œYou the owner?” I asked, looking