Free Our Man in the Dark by Rashad Harrison Page B

up.”
    â€œTrip?” Mathis asks.
    â€œMartin and I—Gant too—will be taking the message abroad, as they say.”
    â€œWhere?” asks Strobe. “What hotel will you be staying at? Who else will be there?”
    â€œGentlemen, once I have all the details I’ll relay them to you.”
    â€œIt’s important you get that information to us before you leave,” Mathis says. “Let’s say by this time tomorrow.”
    â€œWhy the rush?”
    â€œWho planned this trip?”
    â€œGant, of course.”
    â€œExactly. He could be using the trip as a cover for some communist rendezvous. If that’s happening, we need to know.”
    â€œAgent Mathis, I can assure you that I am taking my duties seriously. I understand the severity of the task at hand, and I am approaching it in a systematic and professional way.”
    â€œProfessional?” Strobe is stone-faced and humorless. He goes over to a file cabinet and reveals a manila folder. He opens it and scans the contents with his finger. “Recently, you were seen in the presence of a Reginald Glover, aka ‘Count.’ A known peddler of narcotics—and women—within the Negro community. Is that what you call professional?”
    The nerve of them, to have the audacity to collect my comings and goings in a file and then read them back to me, as if my life is a performance for their pleasure. I want to feed that folder to him. However, I decide to show some restraint.
    â€œWhat else do you have in there?” I ask. “Your mother’s brassiere size?”
    Strobe drops the folder. “You son of a bitch!”
    â€œStrobe!” says Mathis. “Sit down.”
    He does as instructed. His face, now reddened, is augmented by a wild and savage look in his eye.
    â€œEveryone,” Mathis says as he stares down Strobe, “needs to remember what his job is.”
    He turns to me with a look that practically begs for my forgiveness.
    â€œJohn, I don’t want you to think that we were invading your privacy. We were keeping a watchful eye over you to keep you safe. I apologize for Agent Strobe, but you need to leave here with the understanding that you shall return with results. Understood?”
    I look over Mathis’s shoulder at Strobe, who’s loosening his tie and glaring at me without even a hint of blink. “Answer him, for Christ’s sake!”
    â€œStrobe . . . John, do we understand each other?”
    â€œOf course, Agent Mathis. You and I are on the same page.”
    I leave their office, but I don’t drive home. Their disapproving tone makes me want to see my mother—not to be protected but to be comforted. The dynamic has shifted so quickly, and I know that I am responsible. I made it obvious how much I wanted to gain their approval, which was ridiculous. Why would I raise the expectations so high if I knew I would have difficulty delivering? But it is too late; they’ve seen how eager I have been to comply, and they’ll milk it for all it is worth. Right now, the power is in their hands unless I do something to change it.
    When I arrive at my parents’ house, my father is drinking whiskey in the dark.
    â€œYour mother’s asleep.”
    â€œI figured as much.”
    â€œSo what’s the special occasion?”
    â€œI can’t visit my parents? Say hello?”
    â€œIt’s in the middle of the goddamn night. You in some kind of trouble?”
    It’s never just chitchat with him. Conversations are always ruthless interrogations.
    â€œNo trouble,” I answer. “I’ve been promoted.”
    â€œPromoted?” He slides the whiskey toward me. “Sit down.”
    I pull a chair up to the table and sit. I roll the bottle in my palm before I take a swig from it. I feel it burn my throat, then my chest, but I don’t recoil—I stare deep into the old man’s eyes.
    â€œTell me about this