Matthew Henson and the Ice Temple of Harlem by Gary Phillips

Author:Gary Phillips [Gary]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Polis Books

Tired and hungry by the time he got back to Harlem, Henson stopped at a grocery store and bought some food. He rode home and parked the motorcycle on the street in front of his apartment. Given the bike was a v-twin, he removed the main spark plug wire leading one from one side of the engine to the other so the machine couldn’t be started and stolen. Gathering his purchases in his arms, he heard the approach of footfalls. He straightened to see two white men standing behind him. One was tall and wearing a fedora, the other short and compact with a snap-brim hat. He recognized fedora as the one who’d tailed he and Kunsler previously. The other had been in the sedan. Henson was also certain the taller agent had been the one pretending to be asleep that night in the tan Chrysler outside the RCA building.

“Are you Matthew Henson?” asked the tall one.

“I am.”

“We’d like a word with you. Won’t take a minute.”

“Make it tomorrow, would you? I’m just about to fix some dinner and hit the sack.”

“You love your country, don’t you, Henson?” the bulldog in the snap brim said. “Or maybe you and that red mouthpiece of yours are two peas in a pod hugging Karl Marx’s underwear?”

“You gents with the Justice Department? The Bureau? That Hoover fella send you to talk with lil’ ol’ me?”

“You ought to be on Amos n’ Andy you’re so damn funny,” the bulldog said.

“How do you know I’m not?”

“Look you smart mouth shine, I—” began bulldog.

The tall one in the fedora slapped the back of his hand against the other’s chest. “Go on and get your chow, Mr. Henson. We’ll take this up at another time.”

“Good to know.”

The tall one lit a cigarette, staring at Henson though the curtain of smoke. He turned and walked away. Bulldog lingered a moment, but then followed his compatriot. Henson went on up. He wasn’t sure what to make of this development. The government men were now coming at him directly. They were probably wise he knew about their tails and figured why not, put the squeeze on him directly. For sure those two must have something to do with Henrik Ellsmere’s disappearance. But if he’d told them about the Daughter, why the kid gloves? Why not just bop him over the head and work him over? Not that he knew where it was, but only he knew that pertinent fact. Maybe they hoped to spook him and have him lead them to it.

Well, Henson concluded, yawning while he fried a pork chop and beans in a skillet, he’d go at this again tomorrow when he was refreshed. He ate at the table in his living room near a window open to the night. A full moon hung in the sky and Henson wondered what his son Anaukaq was up to in his days and nights in his family’s village. Chewing absently, he understood he wasn’t a boy any longer, Ackie would be eighteen or nineteen now—a man by many measures.

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