about too much. Walking up the stairs, his pores seeping alcohol from last night, he surveyed the cracked plaster and broken floorboards, the shabby pipes and doors held together with mismatched planks of wood and cardboard, no doubt kicked apart in some argument or other. Yates could sense the hostility from the people in the walkways, people milling in the communal spaces, with no jobs to go to, no skills to offer, just an inbred sense of injustice. They’d talk for twenty-four hours a day about how they’d been wronged and how their country had failed them. At least twenty per cent of CPUSA membership was estimated to be Negro, far higher than the Negro proportion of the national population – that was their solution to not getting a job, ripping down the whole edifice of their nation. He smiled at them as he passed, knowing full well it would drive them crazy. Hatred radiated from their faces like heat off hot coals. If they thought it bothered him they were wrong. He wanted to ask the young man perched on the window: You think your hatred matters?
Of all the hatred in the world, theirs mattered the least.
At the top of the stairs, Yates knocked on the door. He’d been on the threshold of this apartment before although he’d never been invited inside. He would have authorized a search of the premises but it was impossible to do anything without the neighbours knowing, they all lived on top of each other, in and out of each other’s apartments. Personally, he didn’t care if they knew. He didn’t see any need to be subtle about it. He’d been tempted to authorize it anyway, not expecting to find anything, but as part of the psychological warfare. The issue of race had stopped him. He was told that an illegal search might inflame relations between the community and the police. They couldn’t even make it look like a burglary since realistically no one would rob a shit-hole like this.
He knocked again, louder this time. He knew the apartment was small, no more than a single room. No matter what they were doing inside it should only take a second to reach the door. Perhaps they could recognize the sound of his knock – angry, impatient – perhaps no one else in this building knocked that way. Finally, the door opened. The man who stood before him had been codenamed by the FBI: Big Red Voice. Yates said:
– Hello, Jesse.
Bradhurst Harlem West 145th Street
Agent Yates leaned against the frame of the door, as close to the inside of the apartment as he could physically manage. As though in response, Jesse Austin’s wife stepped forward, joining her husband, shielding as much of their apartment from view as possible – a human barricade. The gesture amused Yates. He knew there was nothing illegal that they wanted to hide, no dope or stolen property like most of the other families around here. This was defiance for the sake of it; the pair were fighting for privacy – a splinter of dignity – pitifully trying to assert themselves against his authority.
Jesse was a big man, tall and broad. Once strong, not any more, his back was hunched, muscle had turned slack – tightness turned not to fat but baggy flesh. In contrast, his wife had lost weight. Fifteen years ago she’d been beautiful with a full figure and elegant curves. Now she was manual-labour thin, skin drooped under her eyes and deep lines ran across her forehead. As for the apartment, it wasn’t much to be protective about: a bedroom that doubled as a living room, a living room that doubled as a kitchen, a kitchen that doubled as a dining room. There were only a couple of paces from the bed to the stove and a couple more to the bathroom. To be fair, it was a little neater and nicer painted than some of the other rat-infested slum apartments he’d seen in his time. The stand-out difference, the only sign that this apartment had a story to tell, was the occasional expensive items of furniture like museum pieces salvaged from the wreck of a sunken career. Out-of-place antique cabinets and decorative side-tables, fallen on hard times, wept for their former Park Avenue homes.
Yates directed his attention at Jesse’s wife – Anna Austin. She was too composed and too savvy to lose control. He admired this lady, he really did. She had been beautiful once, photographed at prestigious events, dressed in furs and jewels like a princess, hanging off her traitor husband’s arm. Looking at the photos Yates could’ve sworn her teeth were carved out of ivory, a perfect smile, unnaturally white. How the mighty had fallen, reduced to this – from diamonds to dust, splendour to squalor. Despite this hardship, this self-imposed poverty, this unnecessary misery of Jesse’s creation, she was still hooked to her husband’s arm. Except now she was more like a broken Christmas decoration, a cracked bauble that had lost its glitter and sparkle.
Yates watched as Jesse reached down and took hold of Anna’s hand. Was that a way of reminding him that they were together despite everything he and his colleagues had thrown at them – including rumours about adultery and accusations that he’d molested white girls? Those allegations had been easy to manufacture. There were plenty of photos of Jesse after concerts, surrounded by admirers, most of them female, some of them young. He was a tactile man, always putting his hands on people’s shoulders, wrapping arms around pretty young girls. The dirt had stuck. Enough newspapers had run with the story, enough girls had come forward claiming he had behaved inappropriately. Of course, they’d only done so after a little encouragement from Yates’s men, a nudge, a threat, worried they’d be accused of being a Communist sympathizer. Anna had never wavered, calling them liars every chance she’d got, publicly pitying them for not having the moral courage to stand up to the FBI. If only she’d been a weaker person, if only she’d left Jesse then he would’ve been broken for sure. She’d stayed true, steadfast and constant – values a woman should show to her husband. Still in love, still by his side, still holding his big hand as if it could protect her. She needed to get real: those big gentle hands hadn’t protected her, they’d done more damage to her than if they’d slapped her. Jesse and Anna were so proud of their love, so proud of their relationship, that it was as though someone had told them about Yates’s useless, crazy wife. Speaking his thoughts aloud, Yates said:
– Who fucking cares?
They both looked at him like he was as strange as he was scary. Yates liked the idea that he was scary.
He felt his pocket for cigarettes. They were in the car. He realized he was still a little drunk from the night before.
– Big Old Jesse, tell me, you got any plans to hook up with your Soviet friends while they’re in town? They’ve been trying to make contact with you, over and over again. Letters, invites… We intercepted them but there’s always a chance one or two slipped past. Or maybe they sent someone in person?
Jesse’s face was blank. In the absence of a cigarette, Yates took out a match, picking his teeth.
– Come now, no games, you and me go back too far. You trying to tell me you don’t know about a bunch of Soviet Communist kiddies singing their hearts out at the UN tonight? They’re singing about peace and world harmony and all the things we know Communists love. I thought I’d stop by, see if you were going to make an appearance.
Anna replied:
– We don’t know anything about that.
Yates turned his face close to hers, forcing her to step back into the apartment.
– You don’t?
Jess answered:
The- No, we don’t. You have no right to interfere with our mail.
Jesse had answered but Yates kept his eyes on Anna.
– I normally find you attractive when you’re being coy, Mrs Austin. Might even have worked twenty years back, when you strutted around town with your long fake eyelashes, attending galas and making the magazines. I might have fallen for it. I’m a sucker for a pretty lady. I would’ve struck a deal with the Devil and fucked you just to take the heat off your husband. I bet you would’ve enjoyed it but told yourself, as your nails scratched my back, that you were doing it for him.
Yates noticed Jesse’s fist was clenched. Anger was bringing the old man to life. He didn’t move, didn’t dare step closer. Yates said:
– Go ahead, Jesse. Stand up for her. Be a man. Take a swing. Might even make up for this shit-hole apartment you’ve forced her to live in.
Jesse’s face quivered with hatred, like a cello string being plucked. He managed to keep his cool, just about, repeating what Anna had already said:
– We no longer have any contact with the Soviet authorities. We know nothing about their arrival here, or
