“By you?” Mencken asked.
“Oh no,” Chris said. “He’s already passed what I can teach him. Besides, he doesn’t listen to me.” Chris gave a knowing wink to Jose.
“I’ve got skills,” Jose said with pride.
“I’m teaching him math and English,” Imani said. “Abby is managing his history and social studies curriculum. He’s actually very bright, even if he’s not showing it now,” she said, pushing Jose’s head.
“Abby’s mean,” Jose whispered again with a smile. “Watch out.”
Mencken’s phone began to buzz in his pocket. He took it out and looked at the screen. It was a call he needed to take, or at least call back soon. Looking at Chris, he smiled and said, “So let me get this straight. You’re superheroes who live in the basement of Imani’s restaurant. He’s homeschooled, and you’re a smartass that doesn’t answer direct questions.”
“You’re catching on, Bruce,” Chris said with a smile. Imani laughed.
Jose looked up from his plate and said to Imani, “I like this one. We should keep him.”
Mencken’s phone rang again. He glanced down, it was the same number. He knew he couldn’t miss the opportunity it offered. Standing, he asked, “What did you say your last name was?” he asked Chris.
“I didn’t,” Chris replied, focusing again on his breakfast. “Please pass the salt and pepper,” he said to Jose. The boy obliged.
“Alright then,” Mencken said. “It was fascinating talking to you, Chris with no last name.”
“Same, Bruce Mencken,” Chris said.
“We’ll pick this up later,” Mencken promised as he gathered his things. He thanked Imani for the coffee and walked toward the door. His phone rang again as he stepped onto the sidewalk.
“You’ve got Mencken,” he said into the phone.
“Councilman Black will see you if you can arrive at his office within the next fifteen minutes,” a proper-sounding voice said on the other end.
“Be right there,” Mencken replied.
Chapter 8
“I didn’t rush over here to sit around and wait,” Mencken barked at the small aide who had come to check on him. Mencken had arrived at the historic rowhome on Saint Paul within four minutes, well within the fifteen-minute timeline he’d been given on the phone. Upon arrival, he had been escorted into a small, luxurious living room, and then left to wait for over an hour.
“I assure you, Mr. Cassie, meeting with you is at the top of the Councilman’s priorities, but the demands of his job do not slow because you have arrived.”
It hadn’t taken Mencken long to start hating the aide and his proper ways. The man was at least a foot-and-a-half shorter than Mencken. His white three-piece suit was contrasted by his thick black-rimmed glasses. “I can’t sit here all day,” Mencken said, pacing behind one of the leather couches.
“I haven’t seen you sit yet, Mr. Cassie,” the aide said with a deadpan stare. “Are you sure I can’t get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea? A soda?”
“No. I just want to speak with the councilman. You asked me to come here. And now I’m here. Why did you have me rush over here just to wait in this damn room? I’ve got other appointments I need to keep today with people even more important than Councilman Black.” Of course Mencken was lying. Besides a few leads he intended to chase, his schedule was completely clear.
“I’m sure you have many important meetings, Mr. Cassie. I’m sure you do,” the aide said as he backed out of the room, closing the two heavy, sliding, mahogany doors behind him.
At least they’d put Mencken in a nice room. Mencken had heard stories of people being left on the front porch or in the entryway as they waited to meet with Councilman Black. In the center of the space was a leather couch opposed by two, matching, leather chairs. Between them was a dark coffee table with ornately carved legs. On the wall opposite the door was a large, white marble, fireplace. The mantle was littered with pictures of the councilman with his arm around various celebrities. On either side of the fire place were bookcases full of old volumes of law books.
Councilman Black had ruled the Baltimore city council for almost two decades. He’d been a career politician for over forty years. Publically, his ambition had never spread past the council president seat. Every time a state or national legislative seat came open, his name was tossed around by the media, but Black had never shown the smallest interest.
Mencken was jarred from his thoughts when the large doors moved again. After pushing both doors fully open, the aide stood at attention to the left of the doorway.
Councilman Black strolled through the newly open space. Standing six-foot and weighing in at three-hundred-twenty pounds, Councilman Black was a boulder of a man. As always, he was dressed in a black, three-piece, tailored suit. His vest was gray and white checkered. Although his breathing was heavy, he was surprisingly spry for such a large man.
The councilman’s eyes darted up and down Mencken, sizing him up. Approaching quickly with an outstretched hand, Black said, “Mr. Cassie. Thank you. For coming.” The councilman’s voice was deep and stuffed with cotton. His soft, moisture filled breathing forced him to pause between each word. The deep resonance mixed with his small wheeze made every word sound like a chore. “I appreciate. You coming. To my private office. City Hall is. So busy. No space. To converse.”
“Thank you for seeing me, Councilman,” Mencken said, shaking the large man’s hand.
The councilman strolled over to a small cart next to the fireplace that held glass jars full of various liquors and heavy tumblers. He turned a tumbler over and filled it with thick, amber liquid. “Would you. Like some?” he said holding up the glass. The pauses within his sentence were so large, it was difficult to tell whether he had finished speaking or not.
“No. Thank you,” Mencken replied. “It’s a little early in the morning for me.”
“It’s only early. If you sleep,” the councilman said, with a smile. “Please. Sit,” he said, motioning to the couch.
Mencken took a seat. The councilman sat across from him in one of the straight-back chairs. He withdrew a thick cigar from his coat pocket. The aide rushed over, clipped the end of the stick, and then lit it while the councilman took a drag. The tip glowed red and smoke seeped out from the sides of the councilman’s mouth. Once the cigar was lit, the aide returned to his post.
Holding his smoking cigar in one hand and his whiskey in the other, the councilman said, “Your mother. Attends New Eden Baptist Church.”
“She does,” Mencken replied, his defenses rising at the odd statement. “Is that why you called me here? To talk about my mother’s church?”
“I also attend. New Eden. In fact. I am a deacon.”
“Okay?”
“Maybe she and I. Have run into. Each other.”
Mencken reached into his backpack, which was sitting on the floor next to the couch, and retrieved his notepad. He took the pen from behind his ear and prepared to take notes. “I appreciate you allowing me to interview you, sir. I have several questions about -”
“I’m sorry,” the councilman interrupted. “For the confusion. This is not. An interview. I just. Wanted to get to know you.”
“Oh,” Mencken said, trying to hide his disappointment. He’d had a standing request with the councilman’s office for an interview going on two years. “I’d much rather talk about you, sir. For example, I’d love to talk about some of the projects happening in your district.”
“Lighten up, Mr. Cassie. There’ll be. Plenty of time. For those things. Tell me. About yourself. Graduated from City High School. Yes?”
“That’s right,” Mencken said.
“Then. You went to. UMBC. Where you. Majored in English.”
“It seems you already know everything about me,” Mencken said, leaning back.
“Tell me. Why not. Take a job. At an established paper? I’m sure. At this point. There have been. Offers.”
“I’m not much of a team player,�
� Mencken said with a grin. “You, on the other hand, played football for Maryland? Middle line-backer, right?”
The councilman smiled and took another pull on his cigar. “I would think. An ambitious man. Like yourself. Would leap at the. Prestige of. The Washington Post.”
Mencken smiled.
“I know. They’ve made inquiries.”
“I like it here. This city needs me.”
He took another drag and blew the smoke at the ceiling. “What do you. Hope. Will be. Your legacy?”
“I’d ask the same of you,” Mencken retorted.
“I’m not like you. Mr. Cassie. I’m just. A humble. Civil servant. I’m not. Shooting for the stars.”
“I’m devoting my life to bringing the dark places of Baltimore into the light,” Mencken said with pride. “This city needs a little truth.”
“You are. An interesting man. I’d hoped. We could. Be friends.”
“Now that’s interesting. What, exactly, is the cost of your friendship?”
“Respect. Sir. My friends. Respect. One another.”
“Do you perceive that I don’t respect you?”
“You. Don’t respect. My friends,” the councilman said, smoking his cigar again.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Mencken said with a factious grin.
“Last night. Councilman Davis. That was. Disrespectful.”
“Listen,” Mencken said, growing frustrated.
“And ambushing. Councilwoman. Drake. At a simple rally. Again. That was. Disrespectful.”
“I’m just doing my job, sir.”
“There is. A fine line. Between passionate ambition. And ignorant. Reckless flailing.
Mencken’s blood bubbled with rage. “I’m not interested in being lectured by you. I tell the truth. That’s my job. My job is to tell the people the truth.”
“It used to be. That the press. And City Hall. Respected. One another.”
“I’m no one’s puppet.”
“I don’t disagree. That telling the truth. Is your job. But last night? Or at the rally? That. Was not. About truth. It was. A spectacle. A side show. Last night. Was about you.”
Mencken crossed his arms. “Why don’t we change subjects? Tell me about the city council’s plans for Old Towne Mall. I’ve heard it’s going to be sold next year?”
“Why. Are you. So uncomfortable. Talking. About you? Let’s stay. Focused on. On the. Circus. You seem. To want to. Be the ringmaster of.”
“That’s nonsense. I’m not the one selling out the people of their neighborhood. I’m not the one saying one thing and doing another.”
“Some of my friends. Are at Hopkins. Your mother. She likes her job. As a nurse. Over twenty years. It would be. A shame if.”
“You leave my mom alone,” Mencken growled with rage.
“And you. Spend time. At a bar. The owner is. Imani Douglas. You seem. To be found of her.”
“So you know a few things about me, I won’t-”
“Her liquor license. Is set. To be renewed. It would. Be a shame. If she. Were yo lose. It. After so long in-”
His fist and teeth clenched tight, Mencken struggled to keep control of his anger. He knew this was a game. He knew he needed to remain unmoved, but knowing and doing were two very different things. “I’m not afraid of you,” he sneered. “And I won’t be intimidated. You don’t scare me.”
Black smiled. “Please. We are just. Getting to know. One another. Are you sure. You don’t. Want. A drink?”
“Is there anything of substance you want to discuss? Or am I only here to watch you flex your muscles.”
The councilman took a long drag on his cigar. “I understand. That you are young. And your blood. Runs hot. For glory. And Fame. I’d like to ask. That in the future. When you have a story. You show us. Your elders. The elders of the city. You claim. To love. Some respect. And give us warning. Before you surprise us. At a town hall meeting. Or rally. In our own backyard.”
“Decades of corruption and poor leadership have earned you nothing with me.”
“You. Have a bright. Future. I can help. I’m a good friend.”
“You’ve got me all wrong. I don’t care about fame or glory. All I care about is my city and the truth.”
“Your city?”
“Yeah. My city.”
“I think. You and I. Are not. So different.” Councilman Black took another long drag. The smoke hung in the ceiling of the room like a cloud on a windless day. “But you. See truth. Every time. You look in the mirror. Whereas. I see. Possibility. Let’s talk more. About. Your story.”
Black glanced at the doors and the aide again snapped into action. Stepping into the hallway, he grabbed a manila envelope and rushed it to the Councilman’s side.
The councilman leaned forward and placed his cigar and drink on the coffee table. He then received the envelope and looked inside. “You see. I understand. Your story.” He pulled two photos from the envelope and laid them on the coffee table.
“How did you get those?” Mencken said with shock. The photos were of the walls in his apartment: one of his map and one of his tree of corruption. Mencken felt violated and angry. Looking closely, he could tell they were recent because his notes from last night were on the wall. “This is completely against the law. You broke into my house. Is that why you had me wait so long? So one of your thugs could go rummage through my apartment? This is kindergarten crap. I expected more from you.”
“No. No. You are. Confused,” the councilman said with a smile. “No one. Broke in. This morning. You see. You were there.” The councilman dropped a third photo on the table. It was of Mencken, curled up, in his bed, fast asleep.
Mencken swallowed, taking in the implications of the final photo.
“Now. Mr. Cassie. I know. You believe. You’ve uncovered. Something. With this. Cabal fantasy. And. Good for you. I wish you. The best. With all that. It will make. An interesting story. All I ask. Is that you. Show my colleagues. And I. Some respect. And we. Will do likewise.”
A fire burned in Mencken’s stomach, rage mixed with fear and confusion. The emotions made him dizzy. He couldn’t pull his eyes from the photo. The photographer couldn’t have been less than three feet away from him. “I don’t respond well to threats,” he said, softly.
When the councilman laughed, his entire body jiggled. “No one. Is threatening. Anyone. Mr. Cassie. We are just. Sharks. Circling one another. In the same bowl.”
The councilman withdrew a fourth picture from his envelope and passed it to Mencken. It was a professional, head shot of the councilman. Mencken looked up with confusion.
“For the, um. Art project. On your wall. The other picture of me. Isn’t flattering.” The councilman reached forward, took up his cigar, stood, and began to leave the room. “Thank you, again. Mr. Cassie,” he called without looking back. “It was good. To meet you. In person.”
Chapter 9
Menken was sure he was right. He’d studied his wall for hours last night, trying to predict the next move. All signs pointed here. “Well, not here, exactly,” he explained. “But definitely to her.”
Rosie sighed, pulled her hair back into a ponytail and secured it with a hair band. “I thought you were being ironic when you said you wanted me to join you on a stakeout. I thought we might get dinner or something. Maybe catch a movie. I should have known better.”
They sat in Rosie’s unmarked car and watched the front door of a warehouse from across the street. They didn’t look at each other, rather they watched intently, waiting for signs of Mencken’s prediction to come true.
“I mean, she’s the key to the neighborhood’s redevelopment,” Mencken continued. “If you get rid of her, the school closes. And if you close the school, the last hope in the neighborhood is dead. And if the last hope is dead, the door is open for a savior. It all makes sense. It has to be her.”
“And there’s a new episode of the Walking Dead on tonight. You’re making me miss the Walking Dead. Tomorrow
everyone’s going to tell me who died. It’s not even worth watching the episode once you know who died.”
“And it’s got to be today. Today or tomorrow. In two days there’s a film crew coming down from Boston to interview her for a documentary about fighting urban blight. And you know, if I could find out about the documentary, then they found out about it. They absolutely know about it. So, if they don’t get her today or tomorrow, then, well, then it’s too late. Then she’s a martyr because her story is out there in posterity. Right now, she’ll just be a do-gooder swallowed by the city.”
“And you didn’t even bring coffee. Don’t you know that on a stakeout, especially at night, you always bring coffee? Always. Who sits in a car on a stakeout without coffee? Or snacks. You brought no snacks. You’re making me sit in this car with no coffee and no snacks.”
“I was going through her daily routine. This is the only time she is out of her own neighborhood. Every night she comes here for an hour. If it were me, this is where I’d do it. This has to be the spot.”
“Do you know how much time I spend in this car? I’m in this car most of the damn day. I don’t want to be in this car while I’m off duty. Damn it. I hate this damn car.”
“They can’t get her in her own neighborhood. The block wouldn’t stand for it. She means too much. It has to be here. This is the spot.”
“What’cha doing Rosie?” Rosie said, mocking Mencken’s deep voice. “I’m going to sit in a car for hours and stare at a building. Want to come?” She pretended to giggle and then said in her most girly voice, “Oh sure, Mencken. I’d love to. That sounds amazing. Oh, what? You don’t have a car? Sure. We can take mine.”
“It’ll be a mugging. At first, I thought maybe a drive-by. But this guy is all about the craft. He won’t stoop to a drive-by. He’ll use a knife. Or his hands. It’s becoming his signature. You know, the street gangs have started calling him ‘The Reaper.’ Like he’s some comic book character. ‘The Reaper.’ So stupid. He’s just a killer. And they said he’s recruiting a gang of kids. So far, I’ve only heard stories of one kid with him. But maybe’s there’s more? Maybe he brings different kids on different jobs. It feels like a whole, disgusting, child soldier thing, but I don’t think they’re drugged. I think it’s more like a gathering of outcasts, like in Oliver Twist, but instead of stealing they’re –”
Becoming Legend Page 6
