Contents
Title Page MaTM
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
56,200 words.
The Defense of Reality
Mencken and the Monsters
by Jeff Elkins
Chapter 1
“You’re wasting your time. This story isn’t going to save the city.”
The smooth female voice tickled Mencken’s ear, urging him to gaze on its beautiful source, but Mencken resisted the temptation to look up from his crouch. “What’re you getting at?” he said, staring down at the black puddle of thick oil on the sidewalk in front of him.
“All I’m saying is that this is a waste of your time. There’s nothing here. No story.” The enchanting voice belonged to Detective Rosario Jimenez. Mencken knew that if he were to allow himself to look up, he would be trapped, able to do nothing but stare into her deep green eyes. He figured her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, leaving her perfect neck exposed. She was probably wearing those flawlessly fitting slacks and that blouse that always commanded his full attention.
He risked glancing at her shoes. They were white running shoes with pink laces. Just like her, strong and feminine, disarmingly beautiful, but able to run you down and kick your ass if you tried to bolt. This was why, Mencken knew, he could not look up. He could not break his focus, for if he gave Detective Jimenez the smallest amount of attention, she would bewitch him, and his day would be forsaken to dreams about her.
“Where you see nothing, I find truth,” he said, working the oil-like substance between his fingers.
“You’re so full of shit,” she laughed.
Continuing to battle against her charms, he listened to her walk away. Mencken brought his fingers close to his face for a better look. The substance was sticky, but odorless. Mencken knew it was left over from the fight, but it didn’t look like blood. He considered tasting it, but then stopped. Tasting strange substances found on the sidewalks of Baltimore was always a bad idea.
Mencken stood and looked down the street. The beat cops were wrapping up with the two witnesses. He moseyed in their direction, hoping the police would leave soon. He paused after ten yards and glanced back at the puddle. It sure looked like a pool of blood from afar. Sliding his arms out of the straps, Mencken shifted his backpack to his front. He unzipped the top and pulled the small notebook from inside. The notebook’s black leather cover was worn and wrinkled. He removed the sharpened pencil from behind his ear and made a note about the location of the alleged crime.
Mencken watched as the boys-in-blue got in their cars and pulled away. The witnesses turned to leave. “Hey,” Mencken shouted across the street. “Hey, hold up.”
The two witnesses stopped and looked at him. The first was as fat as he was tall. He wore a loose-fitting white t-shirt and baggy jeans. A large, orange hair pick protruded from his perfectly rounded afro.
The second was a short, hard-looking, elderly man with a bald head, powerful forearms, squinty eyes, and slight under-bite. He had the smashed face of a boxer who’d never learned to duck. He wore gray sweats and a blue t-shirt with the Greek letters delta, sigma, and theta across the middle. Mencken doubted the old man had ever been to college. More likely, he’d picked the shirt up at the local Goodwill.
“You guys got a second for the press,” Mencken called as he drew closer.
The old man took a pack of cigarettes from the front pocket of his pants. He pulled a stick for himself with his teeth and then held the pack out for the fat man who accepted the cigarette, while producing a lighter from his pocket. Mencken smiled at the coordination. He respected strategic systems when he saw them. It was clear these unlikely partners were united for their mutual survival. The fat man flicked his lighter once with his thumb, then a second time, then rapidly over and over, but there was no spark.
Mencken reached into his pocket and retrieved a silver flip lighter. He didn’t smoke. He carried it because lighting cigarettes for people tended to open them up.
“You don’t look like press,” the old man said, using Mencken’s lighter to start his cigarette.
“Yeah,” the fat man said, taking his turn with the lighter. “Yeah, you got a badge or something? Let us see your badge.”
Mencken sighed. “Journalists don’t have badges.”
“Well,” the fat man said, crossing his arms and tossing Mencken a suspicious look. “You got like a press pass, or credentials, or something?”
“What about a business card?” the old man said.
“Yeah. Yeah. We ain’t saying nothing until you give us a business card,” the fat man agreed.
Mencken reached into his right back pocket and removed his wallet. Digging through it he asked, “Why do you care? I just want to ask you what you saw.” He passed the men two white cards. On each card there were only two words: Mencken Cassie. The men accepted the cards and examined them.
“Looks legit,” the old man said.
“Alright,” the fat man said, putting the card in his pocket. “Let’s talk finder’s fee.”
Mencken sighed and looked into the sky. “You didn’t find anything,” he said.
“Listen up mother-fucker,” the fat man said, pointing his finger in Mencken’s face. “You’ve got to pay for my life story, because it’s a fucking epic of giant proportions. This is Game of Thrones shit here. You got that. Sex. Drugs. Violence. Jail. Drugs. Lesbians. This story is huge, and if you’re going to get famous off my shit, you’ve got to pay.”
“Shut the fuck up,” the old man said.
“What,” the fat man replied, wounded. “I’m just trying to get us paid.”
“I’m not paying you for anything,” Mencken said.
“Come on, man,” the fat man said. “Us brothers got to help each other out. Twenty bucks. Twenty bucks, and I’ll tell you everything. Even the lesbian parts.”
“Gentlemen, I don’t have time for this,” Mencken said, pulling his cell phone from his pocket to check the time. “Do you want to see your name in print or not?”
The two men looked at each other, confirmed, and then looked back at Mencken. “What do you want to know?” the old man said.
“Tell me what happened,” Mencken replied.
“So here’s how it went down,” the fat man began, uncrossing his arms and waving them wildly. “Do you have like, a camera or something? Because you’re going to want to tape this shit here.”
“No. I don’t have a camera. I’m a writer.”
“Ooooh, big, tall, fancy man is a writer,” the fat one mocked.
“Just get on with it,” the older one said.
“Alright. Alright,” the fat man said. “So we’re coming out of a meeting.”
“Are you a part of the Mission?” Mencken asked, nodding toward the old fire house behind them. The building served as a recovery center for homeless male addicts.
“Yeah, yeah. Afternoon meeting. It’s the open one. Anyone can come in for lunch as long as they stay for the meeting. All kinds of weirdos come in off the street,” the fat man explained. “So we was comin
g out of the meeting for a smoke, and there was this fish with us.”
“Fish?” Mencken asked.
“Yeah, yeah. Fish. Like fresh fish. Like a new guy.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“So the fish was all asking us for a smoke, because we all need a little pick-me-up after Kevin shares. He talks about the most boring shit. Going on and on about how his grandmother died when he was just a kid. Oh it’s so sad. My poor Mammy.”
“Stick to the story,” the old man grunted.
“Alright. Alright,” the fat man said, frustrated at being reigned in. “So the fish was here and then the other two fish came up on us.”
“Other two?” Mencken interrupted again.
“A man and a boy,” the old man said.
“He wasn’t a boy,” the fat one said. “He was a like a teenager.”
The old man snorted with indifference.
“So they came up on us,” the fat man continued.
“Wait, wait,” Mencken said. “Were they in the meeting?”
The two men looked at each other. “Why not?” the fat one said. “Sure. Yeah. They were in the meeting.”
Mencken shook his head and looked at the sky again. It was getting dark.
“You want this story or not, cuz I can call other papers, you know. People going to compete for this,” said the fat man, moving his hands down his body as if that was what was being sold.
“I’m sorry,” Mencken said. “Continue.”
“So they came up on us. And the fish was like, ‘Just leave me be. I ain’t done nothing.’ And the other fish was like, ‘You’re here. That’s enough.’ And the first was all, ‘Why you got to be like that? You don’t have to do this. I’m not hurting anyone.’ And then the teen was all, ‘You ain’t supposed to be on this side.’”
“This side?” Mencken asked.
“That’s what he said,” the old timer replied.
“And then the first fish was like, ‘I’ll leave. I’ll get a coin and leave.’”
“Coin?”
“I don’t know,” the fat man said, angry at being interrupted again. “Maybe it was for the fucking bus. Do I look like a street interpreter or something? Zing-a-zang-a Whack-a Whack-a. That means ‘let me finish my fucking story’ in Street.”
“Please, go on,” Mencken said.
“So then the kid,” the fat man said.
“You mean teen,” the old man said with a grin.
“You mother-fucker,” the fat man yelled. “Interrupt me again and see what happens. Just watch. I’ll pound your old stupid ass.”
The old man laughed.
“So the teen says, ‘You don’t have one. Even if you did, we couldn’t let you use it.’ Then the scary fish says, ‘Enough talk. Finish it. But watch out for the tail.’ Then the teen was like,”
“Watch the tail?” Mencken asked.
“Yeah,” the fat man said. “That’s what he said. ‘Watch the tail.’ You’d understand if you let me finish. Shit.”
“I’m sorry,” Mencken said again. “Go ahead.”
“So he’s all, ‘Watch the tail.’ And the kid does this roundhouse kick. Wham!” The fat man swung his foot in the air to demonstrate. “Then he punched the fish in the face. Za-cow!” The fat man swung wildly in the air with his right fist. “Then we was all like, ka-pow! And boom-boom!” the fat man exclaimed, kicking the air again with one foot and then the other. “And the fish was bleeding this black stuff all over the place. But then the fish, like, spun and lashed out with his tail.” The fat man demonstrated, spinning in circles. “But the kid like, ran up his tail, using it like a step, and then he grabbed his chin, and snapped his neck. Wha-pow!” The fat man pantomimed snapping a man’s neck with both hands. “And the fish went down. And all this black blood came out his mouth. But then the two fish grabbed the first fish’s body, threw him in the trunk of the car, and drove off.”
The fat man put his hands on his knees and sucked air in and out with desperation. “Phew,” he said between breaths. “That’s, um. That’s how it happened.”
“A tail?” Mencken replied.
“The cops didn’t believe us either,” the old man said.
Mencken looked over what he’d just jotted down in his notebook. “I don’t know. A tail? You sure it wasn’t, like, a crowbar or something? Maybe it just looked like a tail?”
“It was a mother-fucking, giant-ass, rat-looking tail, damn it. I said ‘tail’ and I meant a mother-fucking tail. So when you going to put us in the paper?” the fat man demanded.
“I don’t think this one’s going to make it to print,” Mencken said, rubbing his shaved head with his right hand. “I don’t think anyone is going to buy this karate-kid-versus-the-rat-man thing. But, I tell you what. I’ll type it up and put it online.”
“Teen,” the old man said again, with a laugh.
“Fine, karate-teen-versus-the-rat-man,” Mencken replied. “Like I said, no one’s going to print it, but it should get some hits online. Can I use your names?”
“Sure,” the old man said. “They call me Popeye.”
“Of course they do,” Mencken said, making a note in his book.
“And I’m Sexy Toni,” the fat man said. “That’s Sexy Toni with an ‘i’.”
“Where does the ‘i’ go?” Mencken asked.
“Where ever you want to stick it, baby,” Toni said, with a seductive smile.
After thanking the two men, Mencken returned to his bike. He took the black helmet off the back, strapped it on, and swung his foot over the beast. He’d found the wrecked 2003 Dyna Super-Glide in the back of a used car lot ten years ago. It had taken him most of his junior year of high school to restore it. It was perfect for getting through the crowded streets of Baltimore. He revved the engine, soaking in the powerful growl of the monster.
Before pulling off, he glanced at his phone, thumbing through his Twitter feed.
@BmoreVoice, shots fired at harlem deli, monroe and harlem. no cops yet
That sounded promising, so Mencken returned the phone to his pocket and pulled onto the street in search of a real story.
Chapter 2
Mencken pulled the heavy doors open with both hands. The glass of the doors and the four adjacent seven-foot windows was thick and textured, allowing pedestrians to see the presence of patrons without recognizing individuals. It was a perfect entrance to the double wide, three story rowhome that was Imani’s Place.
Ignoring the “Please wait to be seated” sign, Mencken marched across the room and took up his normal table in the back, directly across from the doors. Five twenty-somethings lingered at the bar, laughing together. Of the twenty tables, only three were filled, each by a couple, eating and talking together. As always, Mencken took up residence in the chair with its back to the wall, giving him a full view of the space.
The restaurant sat in the midst of a residential block on the east side of the city. A hundred years ago, the place had been a famous haberdashery. For the past fifteen years, it had been owned and operated by the strong and beautiful Imani Douglas. That’s how Mencken had described her in a review he once wrote for the City Paper, “strong and beautiful.” Although she was only in her early thirties, Imani served as the unofficial matriarch of the community. It was not unusual to see her counseling couples, giving career advice, or serving as a mediator in civic feuds.
In the morning, Imani ran her establishment as a coffee shop that served hot breakfast. The spot closed at eleven, and then reopened at three as a bar and grill. What made the restaurant especially unique was Imani’s policy to never refuse anyone breakfast. Imani didn’t care if her patron was homeless, or an addict who used all his last dollar on his last fix, or simply a freelance reporter scraping by with nothing; it didn’t matter. Imani would give them a mug of coffee and something to eat. She simply ask that they pay when they were able. Socially conscious millennials loved the policy; often, they would pay for their meal twice so they could make a difference with thei
r pancakes.
Mencken pulled his laptop from his backpack and opened the machine on the table. He glanced at the time in the bottom right corner. It read 7:20 pm. His first appointment would be there in ten minutes. He had two meetings lined up tonight. He thought of Imani’s as his office. It was relatively quiet, close to his apartment, and well-known, even to those who didn’t live on the east side. It helped that Imani didn’t seem to care.
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.
The Defense of Reality Page 1