He checked the text again. It had been sent by @Friend76201. Not promising. He checked the profile. This was the only tweet the account had sent. He thought about replying. Would a sharp retort only invite more of this nonsense?
He looked around again. There was no one on the street. No cars passing by. At each point of the intersection there were small businesses: two bars, a barbershop, and a print shop. All four had hand-painted signs over their doors. It was classic old Baltimore. No bright lights. No neon. Just withering wooden signs. Mencken checked the time on his phone. He decided to give it another few minutes.
He took out his phone and tweeted back. @Friend76201 I’m here. Nothing happening.
An immediate reply came through. @BmoreVoice Wait for it.
“Sounds ominous,” Mencken said to himself.
Mencken sat on his bike. He flipped his backpack around, unzipped the top, and took out the ham sandwich he’d made that morning. After meeting with Rosie’s captain yesterday, he’d finally found time to go to the grocery store. He withdrew the sandwich from the bag, looked around again, and took a bite.
Later, Mencken would struggle to remember what came first: the rush of wind, the loud boom, or the heat of the flames. They all seemed to happen at once as the bars on opposing corners erupted like volcanos. The force threw Mencken and his bike to the ground. Car windshields shattered. Alarms sounded. The orange, yellow, and blue flames engulfed the corner rowhomes in waves, consuming the buildings and spreading to their next-door neighbors.
Mencken sat up and tried to get his bearings. His ears rang and his head pounded. The heat of the flames scorched his skin and burned his eyes, forcing them closed. He found his phone in his pocket. Coughing, he squinted and dialed 9-1-1.
“9-1-1 operator, how can I help you?”
Mencken forced his voice into a controllable tone. “There’s a,” his voice was caught by the heat of the flames. “There’s a giant fire,” he forced. “At Exeter and Fawn. Send lots of trucks. You’ll need them all.” Then he hung up.
He knew he needed to move. He couldn’t stay between the two fires. He grabbed his bike by the handlebars and struggled to stand it up. Looking left and right, he tried to figure out his next move.
A car was approaching. It flew toward Mencken at an alarming pace. Mencken wondered if it were some kind of first responder, but then realizing it was just an old clunker, he popped the kickstand on his bike and waved his hands, hoping to warn the car off.
It continued toward him, not slowing. Mencken waved again, but the car persisted. Afraid he was going to be run over, Mencken grabbed his bike and pushed it toward the curb that wasn’t on fire.
The car flew through the intersection and made a hard right turn. The tires screeched. Rubber skidded across asphalt leaving long black lines on the fading pavement. Had he not been surrounded by an inferno, Mencken would have found the driver’s skill impressive.
As the car’s back wheels fishtailed passed him, the rear driver’s side door came open and something flew from the car. It was big and brown. It rolled a few times and then came to stop. Mencken ran to where it had landed. It was large and soft, wrapped in a brown, cloth shell. Fighting his inner urge to flee the heat, he grabbed the cloth and pulled it back, revealing its contents.
The sight of what was wrapped in the brown sheet sent Mencken into shock. He scrambled backward with his hands and feet, desperate to escape it. At the same time, transfixed by the horror of it, Mencken couldn’t take his eyes off the cloth’s contents. In the sheet was the beaten body of Anita Dickson. Her nose had been smashed. Where her eyes should have been there were hollow sockets, but despite the disfigurement, Mencken knew it was her.
He felt tears in his eyes. He turned, and vomited to the left. Bits of ham sandwich and yellow stomach acid lingered in his mouth. Staggering to his feet, he stumbled to his bike. He could hear the sirens coming in the distance. He kicked down on the ignition and his bike roared to life. Willing himself under control, he sped away.
Although Mencken wouldn’t read it until later, as he sped off his phone buzzed again. @Bmorevoice Do you enjoy having my attention? More to come.
Chapter 12
“You ready?” Mencken asked Tay.
Tay held a large, cordless, video camera on his shoulder. His baseball cap was turned backward. Over his left shoulder was a bag holding the audio equipment for Mencken’s wireless microphone. “We could just do this with a cellphone camera. You know that right?” said Tay, frustrated by the weight of the equipment. “You didn’t have to make me haul all this shit out here.”
“The gear is intimidating,” Mencken replied, looking at the house across the street. “It lends authenticity, and it’ll distract him.”
“Oh, you mean because in real life I’m currently out-of-work cameraman hoping to pick up the next movie that rolls into town, and you’re a blogger. Is that what you mean? Distract him from the fact that we have no business being here or doing this? Why didn’t you just call some real reporters?”
“Two things,” Mencken replied. He rolled the wireless microphone between his hands. “First, I’m a journalist, a real journalist. Not a blogger. Second, I don’t care who he thinks we are. I need him distracted from his urge to shoot us both in the face.”
“I love hanging out with you,” Tay said flatly. “It’s the best.”
Mencken studied the house across the street. It had two stories, with a wrap-around front porch. The white siding and blue shutters made it look peaceful, like a place you’d like to spend a weekend relaxing. There was even a hammock hanging between the two large oaks that shaded most of the front lawn.
“You ready?” Mencken asked.
“I didn’t drive out to the ‘burbs for fun,” Tay replied. “I’ll start taping when we cross the street. We can edit out everything you don’t want later. Just put the microphone in his face. It’s all he’ll see.”
“Let’s do this,” Mencken said.
The two comrades-in-arms crossed the street. The house was surrounded by a waste-high white picket fence. Mencken reached over and undid the latch of the gate. He took the lead up the cobblestone path to the front door. He paused before knocking, asking himself if this was something he really wanted to do. Then he remembered the heat of the fire. He remembered how it had licked his skin. He remembered Anita Dickson’s missing eyes. He remembered the note in his apartment, and the pictures of him sleeping. This was war. It was already too late to turn back. Shots had been fired. Hesitation would lead to death.
Mencken grabbed the brass door knocker and hammered on the door. “Get ready,” he told Tay.
“Ready to run,” Tay replied under his breath.
Mencken wasn’t prepared for who opened the door. A little girl in pink footy pajamas stood before them. She welcomed Mencken with an unimpressed scowl. Two braids sprouted from the sides of her hair. “Hello,” she said.
Mencken bent down to her level. “What’s your name?” he said.
“Antonia Electra Robertson,” the little girl said with a smile.
Mencken appreciated the intentional Greek reference in the girl’s middle name. In the Greek legend, Agamemnon had six kids, one of whom was a daughter named Electra. “Is your daddy here?” Mencken asked.
The little girl said sweetly, “One minute please.” Then she turned and screamed with all her might, “Daaad!” She turned back to Mencken and said, “He’ll be right here.” Then she skipped away, disappearing into the house.
The man who came down the stairs was frighteningly fit. His pectorals and biceps were clearly defined beneath the blue Under Armour top he wore. It was contrasted by flowing, blue sweatpants, and black leather house shoes. His hair was graying, and he wore black-rimmed eyeglasses. He looked as though he had been in the middle of curling up with a great novel.
Confusion rose on the man’s face when he saw the camera. “Can I help you?” he asked hesitantly.
“Yes, sir,” Mencken said, speaking in
to the microphone. “My name is Mencken Cassie.” Mencken made note that there was no recognition on the man’s face when he heard Mencken’s name. This could mean the man had never heard of him, or it could mean that he was gifted at keeping his cards close to his chest. “I’m a reporter,” Mencken finished.
“I think you have the wrong house,” the man said, starting to close the door.
Mencken jammed his foot in the way, forcing the door open. “Are you Anthony Robertson, sir?” he said, holding out the microphone.
The man was not mesmerized by the microphone as Tay had predicted. Rather, he locked eyes with Mencken. His glare was powerful made Mencken want to step back. The man said again, “Listen, you’ve got the wrong-”
Mencken interrupted, “Are you the Anthony Robertson who goes by the alias Agamemnon?”
The man laughed and gave a warm smile to the camera. “I have no idea what you are talking about. I’m sorry. Like I said, you have the wrong house.”
He pushed the door again, but Mencken held firm. Although Mencken couldn’t match Agamemnon in fitness, he had six inches on him, and therefore would be difficult to move without more excessive force.
Tay moved to the right, ensuring he could see around Mencken with the camera.
“Mr. Robertson, are you the owner of 2424 Pinewood Ave, 2555 Garrison Boulevard, 1850 North Ave, and 792 Bridgewater Road?”
“Alright,” the man said with intensifying force. Rage flashed behind his eyes. “That’ enough. We’re done. You should go.”
“Were you aware, sir, that all of those homes are being used to facilitate sex-trafficking?”
“I said that’s enough,” the man growled, pushing the microphone away.
“Are you also aware, that-” Mencken paused, listening to a cell phone ringing somewhere in the house. He smiled. Agamemnon looked back toward it, his concentration briefly interrupted. Mencken continued, “Are you also aware, sir, that a Baltimore City Police division is simultaneously raiding all four of those properties as we speak? In fact,” Mencken added with glee. “I bet that phone call is from one of your crew.”
With one swift move, placing both his hands on Mencken’s chest, Agamemnon threw Mencken to the floor. Then, with the speed of a viper, he leapt forward and snatched the camera from Tay. In fear, Tay backed away, almost falling down the porch steps.
Agamemnon threw the camera inside his house. It shattered to pieces as it hit the marble tile of the entryway. He then moved back to the front door and kicked Mencken in the jaw, sending the taller man back onto the floor of the porch. Before Mencken could resist, Agamemnon was sitting on his chest, with his hands around Mencken’s throat.
“You must be some special kind of stupid,” Agamemnon said softly, “to come to my house with this shit.”
Mencken tried to speak, but he couldn’t get enough air to form words. His mind began to race. Reflexively, he grabbed Agamemnon’s hands, but they didn’t budge. Panic rose in Mencken’s heart. His eyes darted left and right, desperate for help.
“To my home,” Agamemnon said again. “To my fucking home.” With a sharp jolt, he lifted Mencken’s head and slammed it into the porch. Mencken could feel his brain rattling in his skull.
Agamemnon released his grip from Mencken’s throat. Mencken gasped for air. Agamemnon stood, and looked around. A neighbor two doors down, an elderly man in a t-shirt, came out of his garage with a lawn mower. Agamemnon waved. “Hey Charlie,” he called. “If you hold up, I’ll help you with that.”
Mencken rose to one knee. He rubbed his aching neck. The world was still spinning around him. Slowly, he stood. Trying to control his pace, he calmly left the front porch. Agamemnon snickered, watching Mencken go. “Don’t come back, you little shit,” Agamemnon said.
Once out of arms reach, Mencken turned and replied, “We’ll send you a bill for the camera. And tell your friends, I’m coming for all of you. I’m going to burn your little party to the ground.”
Agamemnon laughed a belly laugh as if he’d been told the greatest joke in history. He leaned against his doorframe. “That’s fantastic. The little no-name shit is threatening me. You’re fucking hysterical.”
“And tell your little hitman friend,” Mencken added. “That he’s at the top of my list. His days of freedom are numbered.”
Agamemnon stopped laughing and looked at Mencken with earnest confusion. “You really have no idea who you’re fucking with, do you?” Mencken saw fear behind his eyes, real fear.
“And tell him to stay the fuck out of my apartment,” Mencken added as he walked away.
“Dead man walking,” Agamemnon yelled to the neighborhood as Mencken left. “Hey little shit,” he called as Mencken got in Tay’s car. “Don’t you fucking ever come to my house again.”
Chapter 13
Mencken was an unstoppable force. The words flowed through his hands. The dinner rush had come and gone. The evening drinkers had finished their cocktails. The night-cappers had called it and headed home. But he was a rock, unceasingly writing, despite the river of people flowing around him. He described in detail the raids on each brothel. He drew the connections to the original gangster, tracing the path of money back to Anthony Robertson. Mencken was going to reveal to the world the real face of the suburban dad. Embarrassing politicians was one thing, but like flowers that die at the end of a season, they were replaceable. For the first time, Mencken felt he was striking a lasting blow against the Cabal. He was taking down one of the inner circle, and it felt great.
“You need to pack it up,” Imani said, knocking on the table with her fist.
Mencken didn’t look up from his laptop. “I just need like, another hour,” he said. “I’m starting the most important part.”
“No,” Imani said. “Now. You need to go now.”
Mencken didn’t stop typing. “Come on. You’ve never kicked me out before. What’s the big deal?”
Imani marched to the wall behind him. “Leave, Mencken,” said demanded as she yanked his laptop’s power cord out of the wall socket.
Nothing happened. “Battery’s charged,” he said. “Thanks.”
Imani slammed both her hands on his table. Mencken looked up for the first time. Her brow was furloughed with stress lines. “You need to go,” she commanded.
“Is everything okay?” he asked, not remembering a time she had ever been this agitated.
She threw her hands in the air with exasperation. “Jesus, Mencken. It’s one o’clock in the morning. I closed an hour ago.”
“Wow,” he said. He smiled proudly. “One? Really?” He started scanning his papers, checking his word count.
“I’m being serious,” she pleaded. “You’ve got to go. They’re coming back. You can’t be here. I should have kicked you out an hour ago.”
He looked up, his eyes glowing like a kid who’d just learned he was going to the circus. “I’ve cranked out over twelve thousand words today. Isn’t that crazy? That’s the start to a book.”
Imani sat down across from him and looked him in the eyes. “Please. You have to leave.”
Mencken leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “Who’s coming back?” he said.
“What?” Imani said, shaking her head.
“You said they are coming back. Who? Who’s coming back? And why can’t I be here.”
“You just can’t,” she said, her head hung low. “Please leave.”
Mencken and Imani were jerked from their conversation by a commotion at the front door. Jose flung the glass doors open. His white shirt was covered in red and black splotches. He was sweaty and pale like he’d run a marathon with no water. His eyes were red and bloodshot, and he was crying. “Imani,” the young boy said softly through tears. “We need bandages.”
Imani leapt to her feet, knocking her chair over behind her. “What happened?” There was fear in her voice. Mencken had never heard fear in Imani’s voice.
Jose held the door open. Chris and Agnew entered next. Imani mumbled, �
��Oh thank Jesus,” as Chris walked through the door.
Chris’ mouth was a thin line. His eyes radiated fury. His yellow polo was as stained as Jose’s. His right pants leg was torn at his calf.
Agnew had her left arm around Chris’ shoulders. She was soaked in blood. The thick, red liquid oozed from a rip in the thigh of her blue sweatpants. Her face was streaked with it. It was matted in her hair. Like Jose, her eyes were bloodshot and she was crying.
“Agnew needs first aid,” Chris said to Imani.
Imani shot up the stairs.
Chris sat Agnew in a chair in the middle of the room. He took two steps back and began to pace back and forth, muttering to himself.
Jose put his back against the wall and sank to the floor. Burying his head in his knees, he began to sob softly to himself.
The door pushed open again, and the giant Rothman ducked under the door frame. His face was a mix of rage and pain. There was a bloody scratch on his right shoulder. He went to one knee by Agnew’s side and applied pressure to her wound with his hands. Agnew shrieked in pain.
“She fought bravely,” Rothman said. The low rumble of his deep voice filled the room. Agnew wailed in response.
Imani appeared with what looked like a fishing tackle box. She ran to Rothman’s side.
“I need something to clean the wound, a needle, and thread,” he said. He took his blood-soaked hands off Agnew’s leg and the blood began to ooze again. “It’s just a minor wound,” he explained to no one in particular. “You’re going to be fine. The Rothman has repaired much worse.” He ripped her pants with his bare hands, exposing the wound. Imani opened the box, digging in the bottom, she retrieved the supplies and passed Rothman heavy gauze pads and a bottle of alcohol wash.
“I need a drink,” Agnew said through tears.
The Defense of Reality Page 8
