Islam had bought him the house in the hot, dry climate that relieved his severe bronchial
condition. He and I talked alone this time. He told me how his organization had come far with
largely uneducated Muslims and that truly giant strides for the black man could be made if his
organization were aided by some of the talents which were available in the black race. He said,
"And one of our worst needs is writers"-but he did not press me to answer. He suddenly began
coughing, and rapidly grew worse and worse until I rose from my seat and went to him, alarmed,
but he waved me away, gasping that he would be all right. Between gasps, he told me he felt that
"Allah approves" the book. He said, "Malcolm is one of my most outstanding ministers." After
arranging for his chauffeur to return me to the Phoenix airport, Mr. Muhammad quickly bade me
good-bye and rushed from the room coughing.
Back East, Malcolm X carefully read and then signed the publication contract, and he withdrew
from his wallet a piece of paper filled with his sprawling longhand. "This is this book's dedication,"
he said. I read: "This book I dedicate to The Honorable Elijah Muhammad, who found me here in
America in the muck and mire of the filthiest civilization and society on this earth, and pulled me
out, cleaned me up, and stood me on my feet, and made me the man that I am today."
The contract provided that all monies accruing to Malcolm X "shall be madepayable by the agent
to 'Muhammad's Mosque No. 2,'" but Malcolm X felt this was insufficient. He dictated to me a
letter to type for his signature, which I did: "Any and all monies representing my contracted share
of the financial returns should be made payable by the literary agent to Muhammad's Mosque No.
- These payments should be mailed to the following address: Mr. Raymond Sharrieff, 4847
Woodlawn Avenue, Chicago 15, Illinois."
Another letter was dictated, this one an agreement between him and me: "Nothing can be in this
book's manuscript that I didn't say, and nothing can be left out that I want in it."
In turn, I asked Malcolm X to sign for me a personal pledge that however busy he was, he would
give me a priority quota of his time for the planned 100,000-word "as told to" book which would
detail his entire life. And months later, in a time of strain between us, I asked for-and he gave-his
permission that at the end of the book I could write comments of my own about him which would
not be subject to his review.
Malcolm X promptly did begin to pay me two-and three-hour visits, parking his blue Oldsmobile
outside the working studio I then had in Greenwich Village. He always arrived around nine or ten
at night carrying his flat tan leather briefcase which along with his scholarly look gave him a
resemblance to a hard-working lawyer. Inevitably, he was tired after his long busy day, and
sometimes he was clearly exhausted.
We got off to a very poor start. To use a word he liked, I think both of us were a bit "spooky."
Sitting right there and staring at me was the fiery Malcolm X who could be as acid toward
Negroes who angered him as he was against whites in general. On television, in press
conferences, and at Muslim rallies, I had heard him bitterly attack other Negro writers as "Uncle
Toms," "yard Negroes," "black men in white clothes." And there I sat staring at him, proposing to
spend a year plumbing his innermost secrets when he had developed a near phobia for secrecy
during his years of crime and his years in the Muslim hierarchy. My twenty years in military
service and my Christian religious persuasion didn't help, either; he often jeered publicly at these
affiliations for Negroes. And although he now would indirectly urge me to write for national
magazines about the Muslims, he had told me several times, in various ways, that "you blacks
with professional abilities of any kind will one of these days wake up and find out that you must
unite under the leadership of The Honorable Elijah Muhammad for your own salvation." Malcolm
X was also convinced that the F.B.I. had "bugged" my studio; he probably suspected that it may
even have been done with my cooperation. For the first several weeks, he never entered the
room where we worked without exclaiming, "Testing, testing-one, two, three... ."
Tense incidents occurred. One night a white friend was in the studio when Malcolm X arrived a
little earlier than anticipated, and they passed each other in the corridor. Malcolm X's manner
during all of that session suggested that his worst doubts had been confirmed. Another time when
Malcolm X sat haranguing me about the glories of the Muslim organization, he was gesturing with
his passport in his hand; he saw that I was trying to read its perforated number and suddenly he