Only one piece of the puzzle was missing, and once that was in place the picture was there, made sense, and her future was assured. The missing piece was the image of the go-between who could get her offer of service to the new President himself. And she had that, too. Last night, last night, Leroy Poole, living with Dilman, writing about Dilman, last night a senator’s biographer, this morning a President’s historian.

Her mind fitted the last piece into the puzzle, and the picture that she saw and embraced was that of herself and Arthur, captioned by the lettering of her imagination: Secretary of State Arthur Eaton and Mrs. Sally Watson Eaton.

She ran to the cream-colored French telephone beside her bed, and then, as her hand clutched it, she tried desperately to remember the hotel where Leroy Poole was staying. Not the Shoreham, not the Mayflower, not the Hilton or Willard, no. What would that poor, struggling, fat little Negro writer be doing in one of those expensive big places? She eliminated the big hotels. She tried to think. It was some cheap hovel, ridiculously named, in the heart of town. She had heard it mentioned several times last night. It was on-yes, on F Street-heavens, but where-heavens-yes! That was it-Paradise-the Paradise Hotel on F Street.

She picked up the telephone and dialed for information…

The instant after the alarm clock went off, Leroy Poole opened his eyes, reached out and shut off the bell, flung aside his blanket, then settled back on the pillow and, lying perfectly still, began his daily morning exercise.

For five minutes, he performed this Spartan drill, a system of valuable and mystic calisthenics of his own invention, one known only to himself. As he engaged in it, he knew that his daily ritual would have astounded an outsider, especially a white outsider. Where most men did vigorous bends, push-ups, sit-ups to strengthen their muscles, to give tone to their physiques, Leroy Poole practiced an exercise consisting solely of remaining immobile on his bed, first contemplating his gross body, then conjuring up his gross past.

Once, wondering if this physical inactivity could be rightly regarded as exercise at all, Leroy Poole had looked up the word in Webster’s Dictionary. Exercise was, among other things, “Exertion for the sake of training or improvement, whether physical, intellectual or moral.” Pleased with the definition, he had continued to practice his peculiar form of exercise under its familiar name.

Leroy Poole’s morning exercise followed an unvarying routine. After awakening, and removing his blanket, he set his eyes on the mound of flesh before him, gazing at the flabby chest and jelly protrusion of stomach encased in capacious cotton pajamas. Sometimes he studied his hands, the fatness of the sausage fingers. He was not concerned with this obesity of the flesh, the distorted plasticity of it, for he had been told that it was the result of glands, not gluttony. Instead he was concerned that the outer softness so unfairly contradicted the inner hardness, making it more difficult for others, and himself as well, to take his aggressive word sermons and crusading pen seriously.

Since no physical exertion could reduce his body to the same hardness as that of his mind and heart, Leroy Poole compensated for this by toiling daily to invigorate and fortify what lay invisible beneath his skull and skin. Like Richard Wright, a boyhood idol, Leroy Poole had learned long ago that “there existed men against whom I was powerless, men who could violate my life at will,” and that their savage and unjust superiority must be combated, even unto death. He had to toughen his will against white men’s bribes: no money, no comfort, no intellectual rationalizing, no compromise promises of future Green Pastures, no white token acceptance and approval could be permitted to negate the searing helplessness and humiliation that he and his family had suffered, were suffering, or allowed to modify and weaken the determination in his mind and heart. These were the muscles-the inner muscles of righteous hate-that Leroy Poole sought to energize and sustain every morning. The exercise performed was a simple one: he remembered his past, and was strong again.

It was not always easy. It had not been easy this morning. Last night’s party had left him weakened, and a residue of this weakness remained. It had not been the drinks. He did not drink. His abstinence he owed less to the hellfire Baptist upbringing of his childhood than to the fact that drinks made black men as foolish as white men, but while white men could afford such lapses, black men could not. The weakness that carried over from the party was caused by the fact that he had been induced to read aloud a passage from his new novel, and relate some of the story, and he had been applauded and been made prideful and been lulled into believing, briefly, that life might not be so bad after all.

That was one impediment to his exercise this morning. Another was that he despised the work he must do in the next hours, days, weeks. He resented having to abandon his polemics, his angry and effective articles and essays on his experiences as a Negro and on his ideas about equality, for which he was poorly paid, to undertake a hack political biography that would profit him nothing but money. He resented, too, delaying his great novel, a moral earthquake that would shake the mossbacks and crackers of the South and the pretentious tolerators of the North from their fixed poles of prejudice. He resented delaying it in order to feed the vanity of stupid and ignorant Negro readers who wanted to enjoy vicariously the rise to Congress of one of their own color.

And there was more that distressed him after the alarm clock had jarred him from his sleep. He was ashamed of himself for the small corruption of making heroic, to his people, an undeserving ward heeler who, through servility and errand-running and ass-licking, had become a senator. If only he was presenting to his people the figure of a brave and true Negro leader like Jeff Hurley, his beloved friend, his superior in the Turnerites, it would be a worth-while and noble endeavor. But then, he knew, the Hurleys did not become congressmen in the paleface world. Only the handful of Dilmans could make it, because they were puking counterfeit whites. It distressed Leroy Poole that he must spend this precious day typing up notes of his last meeting with Dilman, preparing questions for the next interview, and then spend several months more writing the crummy, phony biography.

If he could not do his own work, he told himself upon awakening, then at the very least he should be at the barricades, where the action was, where the freedom fight would finally be won, just the way the whites had won their fight at Concord and Bunker Hill. He was miserable about the Turnerite fiasco in Hattiesburg, Mississippi, yesterday. He had known for some time, having learned about it from Hurley, that the first step in the new program was planned for yesterday afternoon. He had not known the result until last night. His mind went back to last night.

Because he had been offered a ride, and had research to do, he left the party early, over much protestation. The streets were curiously desolate, but then he supposed this was because T. C. had been killed and everyone was at home or in bars glued to television sets. There had been some talk between his driver, a Howard University boy, and himself about the President’s demise and what it might mean to their cause, and they agreed it meant nothing at all. Since the time Theodore Roosevelt had invited Booker T. Washington to the White House, no white President had proved any better than another for them. It was not yet ten o’clock when Leroy Poole was deposited before the small, three-story hotel, rising between an alley and a grocery store, its broken red neon sign shining out: PARADISE HOTEL.