by Jeff Elkins
The restaurant’s interior was simple. The walls were dark wood paneling on the bottom half and scarred drywall on top. The floors were unpolished hardwood. To Mencken’s left was a long bar that ended in a cash register. Behind the bar was a large assortment of drinks and a big, black griddle. Imani’s cuisine wasn’t fancy. If it couldn’t be made on the griddle or in the deep fryer, then she didn’t serve it. The only strange addition was the large, wooden circle that hung above the bar. Measuring four feet in diameter, it was cracked and old. Carved into the middle was a large lower case “g” with the word “home” underneath. When asked, Imani would simply explain that it was a family heirloom.
Mencken opened his browser, logged into his blog, and looked at his stats. His afternoon post, “Popeye, Sexy Toni, and the Lizard Man” received 135,000 hits. He tried to calculate in his head how many advertising dollars that would pull from the ads that ran next to the story, but math had never been his thing.
“Always with your face in the computer,” Imani said, placing a heavy, glass beer mug in front of Mencken. She took the seat across from him, leaned back in her chair, and stretched her arms out across two chairs from the empty table behind her. Her biceps were lean and defined. She wore a black tank top over a gray tank top and camouflaged cargo pants. The outfit in combination with her super-cropped afro and captivating brown eyes gave her the look of a warrior princess.
“You look ready for battle,” Mencken said, peaking up from his laptop.
She laughed and teased, “Every day’s a struggle, until you come in the room.”
Mencken took a sip of the beer. It was light, but had bite. “I’ll be able to pay you in about an hour,” he said, putting the mug back down.
“You know family eats free,” she said.
Mencken snorted at the word “family.” She knew barely anything about him. Sure, he used this back table as his office every night, and yes, he’d been doing so for at least two years, but what did she know about him? If the shoes were switched, he wouldn’t be handing her free beers.
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “You catch any big stories today?” she asked.
“Not really,” he replied as he wrote a reply to an email.
“Come on,” she said, pushing his knee. “I’m trapped in this place all day. I don’t get to see anything fun. Spill.” Mencken knew Imani wasn’t exaggerating. She lived in the third-floor apartment above the restaurant. She usually worked both breakfast and dinner. He suspected the only time she left the place was to go shopping during the lunch break.
Mencken sighed and looked up from the screen. “There was a robbery over in Sandtown today.”
“Boring,” she said. “When is there not a robbery in Sandtown?”
Mencken grimaced. It was okay if he called his stories mundane, but not if someone else did. He looked back at his laptop, opening the articles he’d written recently. “Oh, here’s one you’ll like,” he said, stumbling on a quirky story he’d written last night.
Imani cocked her head and smile with anticipation.
“The city fined a man in Belair Edison for keeping an illegal number of cats in his house. Something about that many cats being a health hazard.”
“How many cats does it take to rack up a felony?” she asked, intrigued.
“Not sure. But he had over four hundred living with him in his two story home.”
“Oh shit,” Imani exclaimed.
“You better believe it. Everywhere,” Mencken teased.
“You dig anymore into your Cabal theory?” she asked with genuine interest.
Mencken was put off by the word “theory.” It wasn’t a theory. It was real, and he was going to prove it. Whenever she asked, he regretted letting her in on his secret. He’d had too many free beers and had become too loose-lipped. He wished she’d forget he’d ever said anything. “Nothing I’m willing to share,” he said, going back to his email.
“Alright,” she laughed, standing. “I get it. I get it. You need to keep your cards close to your vest.” Before returning to the bar she added, “If you want any food, just wave. We’ll hook you up.”
“Thanks,” Mencken replied, but he didn’t plan to stay long enough to eat.
As Imani walked away, the front door swung open. In walked Richard Winchell, a short, round man in his early sixties. He wore a rumpled, brown suit, with an unmemorable tie, and horn-rimmed glasses that looked like they’d been teleported onto his face from the 1950s. Winchell wanted nothing more in life than to retire, but his divorce left him financially strapped. He often joked that he would drop dead at the paper. He was the senior editor of the Baltimore Star. Once upon a time, the title carried weight and glamour. Now it was little more than a reminder of what the industry use to be.
The Star had been racked by waves of layoffs as subscriptions continually decreased. Winchell hated turning to freelancers like Mencken. He longed for the old days when the news room was full of Menckens, all chasing the next story, all competing for the front page byline. Now the crime desk consisted of two reporters.
Winchell made his way across the room to Mencken’s usual spot. He took his coat off and sat down across from Mencken. “Alright kid,” Winchell said in his grumbling, don’t-waste-my-time voice. “What do you have for me?”
Mencken closed his laptop. “I got a seven-hundred word interview with the shop owner who was robbed at gun point in Sandtown this morning. I’ve got a fifteen-hundred word write up of the shooting last night outside the Hopkins Homewood campus, including quotes about ‘safety’ from bystanders. And I’ve got a three thousand word piece on the skyrocketing murder rate, correlating the rise in violent crime with the decreased police presence in impoverished neighborhoods.” Mencken leaned back and interlocked his fingers behind his head.
“You got a City Hall source on the correlation?”
“Not a source, per se,” Mencken said.
“You at least got a quote? Don’t tell me you’re just making crap up now.” Winchell looked at his wristwatch and yawned.
“I’ve got a cop confirming they’ve decreased their presence in rougher neighborhoods since the riots.” It had been a difficult six months for Baltimore. The mayor claimed the riots would relieve tension and that the city would go back to normal. It hadn’t. As the police had grown gun-shy, gangs had started to vie for power in the streets, causing the number of violent crimes and the murder rate to skyrocket.
Winchell crossed his arms with suspicion. “Cop let you use his name?”
“No,” Mencken said, with frustration. “But the quote’s real.”
“Fine. Email me two and three. I’ll run them tomorrow.”
“What about the robbery?”
“Listen kid, no one cares about a liquor store in a horrible neighborhood being robbed. It’s like saying, ‘Teenage girl has bad attitude.’ Or ‘Stupid cat videos go viral on the internet.’ Or, ‘In face of crisis, City Council doesn’t do shit.’ It’s not news, kid.”
Mencken looked down at his lap. He wouldn’t admit it, but he longed for Winchell’s approval. In his day, Winchell had been a force to be reckoned with. His investigative work had brought down city council members. He’d exposed the misuse of campaign funds by a mayoral candidate. He’d uncovered a conspiracy in the 80s to keep African Americans from buying houses in an affluent neighborhood. A series he’d written on immigrants in Baltimore had even been nominated for a Pulitzer.
Winchell slid two envelopes across the table. “Normal rate?” he said.
Mencken took the envelopes and thumbed through the cash. It wasn’t much, but it was something. “Looks good,” he said.
“Alright,” Winchell said standing. “Email me tomorrow by six if you’ve got anything else worth reading.”
“Will do,” Mencken said.
Winchell stood to leave. “Keep at it, kid,” he said. “You’ll break something big eventually. It’s just about time and patience.”
Mencken watc
hed him leave with admiration. Although he’d never admit it out loud, Winchell was the type of old-world journalist Mencken hoped to become.
Mencken waved to Imani. Seconds later a plate of fries was delivered by a short, thin twenty-something in a Pacman t-shirt. Mencken took a bite. They were crisp and seasoned with Old Bay and vinegar, just like he liked them.
The door opened again. Mencken’s second appointment had arrived. More professional looking than Winchell, Sam Dandrip was a radio show host, podcaster, columnist for the Star, and figurehead of the Baltimore Magazine – a monthly publication that confused Mencken. Copies of it were everywhere, but he’d never actually seen anyone reading it. He wasn’t sure how the journal kept going, much less how they paid writers like Sam.
“Damn it. Not elbow patches,” Mencken mumbled under his breath as Sam approached. Tonight Sam was dressed in pressed blue jeans, gleaming-white tennis shoes, a blue button down, and a brown sport coat with patches on the elbows. The pretension of the patches made Mencken’s head pound.
Unlike Winchell, Mencken had little respect for Sam. The man was a decent enough writer, and he worked hard – hard enough, anyway. But Mencken didn’t see anything extraordinary. Rather, Mencken believed Sam had simply been in the right place at the right time. Sam had come along at the climax of the newspaper age. He’d gotten a job as a columnist at a time when they were handing those positions to whomever wanted one. He’d started a radio show after others had paved the way, and now that podcasting was booming, he was jumping onboard. Sam was the opposite of an early adopter. He consistently rode the final wave, coasting through right before the door of opportunity was slammed shut.
“Mr. Cassie,” Sam said, taking the seat across from Mencken and extending his hand.
“Mr. Dandrip,” Mencken said, returning the gesture. The two men shook.
Sam motioned at the bar for a waitress. “What do you have for me this week?” he said with a smile.
Imani arrived at the table with a light colored local beer in a frosty mug and a plate of cheese fries. “How are you tonight, Sam?” she said, placing the food in front of him.
“You are God’s gift,” he said to her with a smile. “I mean it. You are the absolute best. All the people coming in and out of here, and you remember my order. Thank you.”
Mencken snorted at Sam’s overly genuine tone.
“Thank you, Sam,” Imani replied, shooting a glare at Mencken. “It’s nice to be appreciated.”
The only son of a surgeon and a news anchor, Sam had gone to the best high schools, which in turn had propelled him to an Ivy League university. He had started at the news desk at the Star because a university professor who enjoyed Sam’s humor in class had friends at the paper. After a few years, Sam had been given his own column because he was safe. He never took risks. He never offended. He never stood out. He kept it all vanilla, and in a world of chaos, vanilla is comforting. In the wake of Rush Limbaugh’s rise to glory, Sam had been offered a day time talk show on the local NPR station, to bring moderate balance to the conservative hurricane.
Mencken could not be more different. The third son of divorced parents, raised by a single mom who worked late shifts as a nurse, Mencken had fought and scrapped for every inch of success. It had taken him six years to graduate from the University of Maryland, Baltimore County, because working full time had kept him from taking full class loads. When he had finally received an English degree, he’d spent a month looking for a newspaper job, but there were none to be had. They were already filled by the Sams of the world.
Mencken had saved money living in his mother’s basement. By day, he had worked minimum wage jobs. At night, he had built a following of devoted Baltimore readers, giving them insights and stories the established papers deemed too risky to print. When he could, he’d sell a piece of writing here or there. At first, seeing his name in print had been a thrill, but soon he’d grown to realize that what the local news organizations were really buying was his reputation. His readers were more loyal than theirs. When they ran his stuff, his readers showed up. Mencken didn’t resent this; rather, he saw it as a strategic solution.
“Let’s get this done,” Mencken said as Imani left. “I’ve got five for you this week.”
Sam pulled a gooey fry from the mound, stretching out the cheese until it broke. He held it high above his head, letting the long string of cheese enter his mouth first, then consuming the fry. “Have you had these? You really need to try them,” Sam said as he chewed. “Seriously, I’m not going to eat them all.”
Sam made this same offer every week. Each time he made it, it was as if he were making it for the first time. It was another thing about meeting with Sam that drove Mencken insane with frustration. “No. Thank you. I’m fine,” Mencken said. “So, five stories for you this week.”
Sam repeated the action with another fry and then took a long swig of the beer. “Okay,” he said. “I’m ready. Hit me with them.”
Putting respect to the side, Mencken’s relationship with Sam was different than his relationship with Winchell. Sam never put Mencken’s name on anything. Mencken was Tabasco. If applied directly to Sam’s empire, Sam’s vanilla-loving followers would fall away.
Rather, Sam paid for Mencken’s eyes and ears on the street. Sam was thought to be “a man of the city,” that’s what his marketing campaigns said anyway. Unfortunately for his publicist, Sam hadn’t lived in the city for nearly two decades. He owned a small farm forty minutes north of the beltway on the Mason-Dixon Line. The rustic homestead was complete with a large garden, horses, and chickens. To maintain his authentic connection to the city, Sam paid Mencken. Mencken gave Sam stories. Sam rewrote them in his own voice or shared them on his podcast.
Mencken began running through the stories he’d prepared. “Over in Locust Point, a one-hundred-and-two-year-old woman has a birthday next week. I’ve got a four thousand word interview with her. And yes, she said she’d be open to come on the radio show if you want her. She’s a big fan.”
Sam smacked the table with excitement. “Wow, a hundred-and-two? What is that? Nineteen? Um. Nineteen-ten? Nineteen-twelve?”
“She was born November second, nineteen-thirteen,” Mencken corrected.
Sam ate another fry. “Both World Wars. The Depression. McCarthy. Kennedy. I bet she can talk about all of it. How sharp is she?”
“She’s pretty sharp,” Mencken said, checking the time on his cell phone. He didn’t have anywhere to be; he was just curious at how much time had passed. “She’s more interested in talking about how Locust Point used to be all white.”
Sam laughed, took another drink, and stuffed a mound of fries in his mouth. “Old people, right?” he said with a full mouth. “That sounds amazing. Good work.”
To his credit, for the two years they’d been doing this dance, Sam had never plagiarized Mencken. He always rewrote Mencken’s work in his own voice, adding his own moderate political thoughts when he could. If he told a story on the radio, he would quote an “unnamed source.” Occasionally, he’d even refer to Mencken as “a member of my team.” Mencken knew Sam didn’t have to do that. He’d paid for the stories. Mencken had signed a non-disclosure agreement. Sam could take the stories and pretend Mencken never existed, if Sam wanted. Mencken appreciated the man’s integrity. Sam wasn’t going to take credit for something that wasn’t at least partially his.
“Second story,” Mencken said, moving on, “is a pair of twins in Towson. They both play tennis – doubles. They’ve received scholarships to the University of Maryland. I wrote it up in fifteen-hundred words.”
“Awesome,” Sam said. “Perfect for the show. Great stuff.”
“Next,” Mencken said, looking at his laptop for a refresher, “I’ve got an interview with a couple that just opened an organic market in Hampden. They only sell locally sourced produce.”
“Ooo,” Sam cooed, eating more fries. “That sounds great. How long?”
“About three thousand words.�
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“That’s perfect. I’ll use it as the basis for the column next week. People are really hungry for stories like that.” Sam smiled and nodded, waiting for Mencken to acknowledge the pun.
Mencken didn’t respond.
“Come on,” Sam pleaded. “Hungry? They’re hungry for the organic food. Huh? Huh? It’s funny.” Sam took another drink. “You play it cool, but I know you’re laughing on the inside.”
“I’ve got a story on the sixth graders from City Neighbors Charter School. They did a reenactment of a sit-in at a pharmacy on Lexington Street.”
“Read’s Drug Store?” Sam replied, seriously. “Nineteen-fifty-five. That maybe the column. That’s important history. Great work snagging that story. I don’t know how you find all of these. What do you think? Is this a radio piece or a column?”
“The teacher said he’d bring some of the kids on your show to talk about the experience, so I’d go with radio. Here’s his number.” Mencken pulled a business card from his backpack and passed it across the table.
“Excellent,” Sam said, putting the card in his wallet.
“The last one is a three thousand word piece on the arrival of tiramisu in the States. First place to serve it in the US was a small restaurant in Little Italy in the sixties,” Mencken continued.
“Is that true?” Sam said. He swirled a fry in the grease pooling on the plate and then popped the fry in his mouth.
“Seems to be,” Mencken said. “One of the pastry chefs over a Vaccaro’s makes a strong case for it.”
Sam finished his beer in a final swig. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve and then smacking his knees with both hands, he said, “You know, I only really need four, but all five of these sound amazing. And I know your background work is impeccable. I’ll take all five. We’ll use all of them somewhere. Thank you so much. You do such great work. I’m amazed. Truly. Amazed.”
