CHAPTER TWENTY
People came by car, foot, bus, subway and even train from outlying areas to hear Daddy Paradise deliver his “Equality and Prosperity, the Road to True Freedom” speech at Liberty Hall. While the police were not officially safeguarding the negro firebrand, the commissioner had to do something once he got the call from Mayor Jimmy Walker’s office. The charismatic democrat had received too many calls and visits from too many black pastors and other civic leaders—and a few whites as well—about the event, and the need to make sure there was no problems at the gathering. Then there was the stoic presence of mostly white officers around the perimeter who watched as many in their finery, including a number of whites, such as the escorted black arts patron Charlotte Osgood Mason, filed past to hear the celebrity spiritualist.
The ones Matthew Henson had recruited to provide security were either in position or roaming about the auditorium. Though everyone hadn’t been patted down upon entering the hall, Dulane’s crew, given their known associates and associations, kept hard eyes out for those they deemed worthy of such precautions. Due to a suggestion from Miriam McNair, there were several women on security duty as well. Those individuals singled out who objected either relented or were turned away.
Running about forty minutes behind, eventually as the bulk of the people were seated, the program got underway. Miriam McNair came out on stage in a sequined gown to a round of polite applause. The podium hadn’t been set up yet but there was an upright microphone upon which harsh white light shone from the rafters. She spoke into this.
“Some of you know me, many of you don’t. But be assured I won’t be taking up too much of your time as the man of the hour will soon be out to give his address. My name is Miriam McNair, and I want to acknowledge several groups and individuals who worked tirelessly to pull this event off. First off,” she continued, splaying her fingers against a gaudy broach she wore, “I have to, of course, mention the women of my loose-knit organization, the Bronze Orchids.”
That got another round of applause, and McNair continued to name those who had a hand in organizing and doing outreach for the event. She finished, then did an introduction.
“I would like to bring out a young woman, the niece of one of my members. She is quite something and will lead us in song to truly set the mood for this most special evening. You will find her voice amazing.” McNair said her name and turned to extend her arm, waiting for the teenage girl to step out on stage. She got to the microphone, and McNair gave her a brief hug then left. The young woman took a big gulp and began. She was part of the Abyssinian Baptist Church choir and she began a rendition of “Lift Every Voice and Sing” the so-called Negro National anthem.
Dulane, in charge of security, prowled backstage. He and a few of the others had been provided communication wonders by Nikola Tesla. These radio-signaling apparatuses, rectangular, about eight inches long with stubby antennas protruding from there tops, allowed Dulane to communicate with other key personnel. Tesla guaranteed the range of the radios was nearly a mile. The crowd stood, swaying and singing along to the young lady’s exuberant song. Or rather, most stumbled over the lyrics, mouthing words that rhymed with the correct ones but weren’t accurate. When the song ended, there was vigorous clapping and shouts of joy.
“You ready?” McNair asked Daddy Paradise.
“As I’m going to be,” he replied. He was dressed in a three-piece suit, eschewing pin stripes for a demurer look in charcoal grey, white shirt and dark blue tie. A heavy silver chain was attached to his pocket watch in the vest pocket. There was a fob on it of the cross-legged, smiling Buddha. When wearing the watch at dinner parties and the like, the fob invariably garnered attention and an opportunity from the spiritualist to pontificate upon the depth and breadth of his teachings.
As was his custom, he’d rehearsed his speech from the typed text. After doing that several times, he then made key notes on index cards, specific ideas and points he wanted to make sure he covered. Prepared in that way, he could generally speak extemporaneously yet be secure with his cards before him if needed. The two stood in the wings as the teenager came off stage.
“You are on your way to stardom, dear,” McNair said to her as she walked past.
“Thank you,” she said as her mother came over and hugged her tight.
Dulane and a large gentleman, some six feet five of muscle and gristle, were near the couple. He had the two-way radio to his ear, listening. He took it away and said to Toliver, “Everything’s good, Brother Paradise.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“Good luck, Charles.” McNair kissed him on the cheek.
In turn, he kissed her hand and walked out on stage where a podium had been set up for him. The audience rose to their feet again, clapping and waving. In the VIP rows, the gathered were a range of Harlem’s labor, religious and community leaders as well as representatives of the underworld. Those in attendance included A. Philip Randolph, who was not particularly religious, but understood he couldn’t ignore the pull this man had on the members, men and women of the union he headed, the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters. Near him was Queenie St. Clair with Venus Melaneaux resplendent in a tux, tails and a top hat
