by Jeff Elkins
“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 –”
“Who did you say this woman is again?” Rosie’s voice had gone cold. There was an icy focus on her face.
“Anita? Anita Dickson. She runs a charter school near the Perkins projects on the east side.”
“I know where Perkins is. Why do you think she’s in trouble?”
“Her school is just south of Old Town Mall. There’s a member of the Cabal making a move on Old Town Mall for redevelopment, but I think he’s going to try and wrap the surrounding area into it. He needs to get rid of more residents first through before he can buy up all the blocks he’ll need. Her school is the only thing keeping people there. It’s a neighborhood-based elementary school, focused on kids from a limited geographic area.” Mencken paused, realizing the atmosphere in the car had changed. “Wait. Why are you suddenly interested?”
“Because that car,” Rosie said, pointing at a beat up El Camino parked a block away, “has circled the block four times, and now they’ve parked. There’re two people in it. Just sitting there with their lights off.”
“Oh shit,” Mencken said with excitement. “I was right. I can’t believe I was right.”
“Calm down,” Rosie said as she leaned over Mencken and opened the glove box. She took a small lockbox from the inside. Quickly, she turned the dials. “We don’t know anything.”
“I mean, I was just putting puzzle pieces together. You know? I can’t believe I nailed it.”
“Breathe, Slugger. Nothing’s happened yet.” Rosie got the box open and withdrew a SIG Sauer P398. She checked the ammo.
“Oh shit,” Mencken exclaimed as she withdrew the weapon. “Is that a gun?”
“You know I’m a cop, right?” Rosie said, jamming the gun into the back of her jeans. “What’s this place again?”
“It’s a P90X workout center. Really, it’s just a big warehouse. They just opened it, like, three months ago. They don’t even have a sign yet.”
A small door leading into the side of the warehouse opened. Out stepped two women, both in workout gear with towels around their necks. They were laughing.
“That’s her,” Mencken said, pointing. “That’s Anita. She’s the one on the left.”
“Great,” Rosie said, but her attention was focused on the car up the street. She tensed when the passenger side door swung open. Out stepped a small man, or maybe it was a child? He wore all black, including black gloves and a black ski mask.
“It’s going down now,” Rosie said. There was a new tone of command in her voice. She opened her car door and stepped into the street. Crouching down to the level of the car window, but not taking her eyes off the road, she said, “Stay in the car.”
Mencken watched the boy in the ski mask as he moved, slowly toward the two women. The women sat and chatted by the door, clueless to the doom on their heels.
Rosie stood, motionless, in front of the car, waiting until the small figure in black was directly in front of her. Mencken saw the assailant pull a knife from his pants. It glimmered in the streetlight. Rosie must have seen it too because she held her out with both hands. “Police!” she yelled. “Stay where you are!”
The would-be mugger froze, staring at her. The women screamed at the sight of the assailant in black and the woman with the raised gun. Rosie yelled again, “Put the knife on the down! Lay down on the ground!”
Shots rang out. Three in succession. The pops filled the street. Mencken couldn’t tell who they were coming from or directed at. He leapt from the car, searching for Rosie. Had she fired? Had she been fired at? He wasn’t sure. Then he saw her, running toward the two women at the gym door. Fear mixed with relief in his gut. He looked to his right as saw the boy running back to the car. A man also dressed in black stood at the driver’s side door. He appeared to be disassembling some sort of rifle. When the boy arrived at the car, the man tossed the pieces of the rifle down a gutter grate next to the car. Both assailants got back in the car.
Mencken ran across the street to Rosie. All three women were on the ground. Anita was lying down. Rosie and the other woman knelt beside her. The kneeling woman was crying. Rosie’s hands were interlocked, pressing hard into Anita’s shoulder. Blood seeped between her fingers.
“You alright?” Mencken said to Rosie.
“I’m fine,” she barked. “Call 9-1-1.”
Mencken stood and reached for his phone. As he did, the old car passed them slowly. The assailant in the ski mask looked out at the scene. With a finger, he made a gun and pretended to shoot Mencken. Mencken snapped a picture of the car’s licenses plate number before dialing.
Hours later, they climbed the steps of their apartment building. After waiting for the ambulance to leave, and then answering questions about what they’d seen, Rosie and Mencken were finally home.
Mencken paused at her door to tell Rosie goodnight, but Rosie kept walking. “Oh no,” she said. “You owe me coffee. Take me on a stake out with no coffee or snacks. I was shot at. I at least get coffee.”
When they arrived at Mencken’s door, he reached for his keys, but before he could retrieve them, Rosie pulled a small lock pick kit from her pocket and went to work. She had the door open in seconds. Stepping aside, she motioned with her arm for him to step through.
“Well, thank you, ma’am,” Mencken said with false formality.
Rosie laughed. “You need to replace these shitty locks,” she said. “I keep waiting for you to take the hint.”
Mencken walked over to his sink, opened the cabinet to the right and removed two glasses.
“I’ll just have mine black,” Rosie called, sitting on his bed, admiring the map on the wall.
Mencken brought over the glasses and a bottle of whiskey. “After tonight, you get the good stuff.”
; Rosie laughed. “We need to change your interpretation of ‘good stuff’,” she said as she took the drink. “Hey,” she said with surprise. “What’s that?”
Mencken turned to look at the tree of Cabal hierarchy painted on the wall behind him. On top of the question mark, over the word “hitman”, was a white, lined, piece of paper. It was held to the wall by a small knife jammed into the drywall. Mencken reached up and pulled the knife out. It was heavy. Its grip was warm. From the tip, he withdrew the note.
“Don’t touch it, dumbass,” Rosie snapped, leaping to her feet. “You’re contaminating evidence.”
Mencken opened the note and read it aloud. “Congratulations. You have our full attention.”
Rosie held out a plastic bag she obtained from the kitchen. “Drop it in here,” she said. “No sleep tonight. I’ve got prints and a license plate to run.”
CHAPTER TEN
Mencken’s alarm failed to wake him. It was after ten before he rolled out of bed, which was fine since there was nothing on the calendar for the day. He looked in the fridge, but it was barren. He tried to remember the last time he’d been shopping. Throwing on an old t-shirt and jeans, he headed toward Imani’s.
It had been a late night for Mencken. After finding the knife and the note, Rosie had run off in search of clues. He’d then stayed up writing until close to two in the morning. Fueled by the evening’s events and the threatening note, Mencken had become a fire hydrant, articles and blog posts rushed from his fingers. He finished a piece on Anita Dickson called “The Savior of Perkins in Critical Care.” He cranked out two more for his blog. The first called, “The Night We Stopped the Knife,” and the second “Baltimore’s Very Own Organized Crime.” And there was a fourth, “Rosario Jiminez: The Bravest Woman I Know.” That one he held in his documents folder, unpublished. It was too personal, too revealing to share with the world. Before falling asleep, he’d called Rosie and ran his new plan by her.
The normal brunch crew was in the bar. Spencer sat to the left of the door, sipping coffee and pointing to everyone who looked at him. At the table next to him were two other homeless men Mencken had seen panhandling around the neighborhood. A twenty-something pastor with a thick red beard had taken up residence in the front by one of the windows. His laptop was open and he was hammering through email. Mencken nodded. He smiled and waved back. Abby was behind the counter looking as stunning as ever in a green apron. On anyone else, it would have looked dirty and worn. You might have offered to buy a new one for someone wearing it, but Abby made it look like it belonged in the newest Victoria Secret catalog. Imani, today in a black tank top and silver-gray camouflage pants, was cooking a massive amount of pancakes. Mencken took in the room, enjoying the predictability of it all.
Not everyone was a regular, though. There were four people who stood out. The first was a young African-American man talking to Abby. He was dressed to kill: gray slacks, a crisp button-down with the sleeves rolled up, and a black suit vest. Every item seemed to be tailored specifically for the young man. Mencken was most impressed by his shoes. They were black and shiny, without a scuff in sight.
The strangers were sitting at Mencken’s table in the back of the room. The odd looking trio comprised of a giant weightlifter dressed in black, and two petite college-aged girls dressed in white t-shirts and blue sweat pants.
Mencken’s curiosity demanded that he speak to all of them. Looking at the group and the young man, he decided to tackle Abby’s friend first because the suit seemed a more promising conversational partner than the weightlifter.
“Hey Abby,” Mencken said. She and the new guy were leaning into each other, like two school girls sharing secrets.
She straightened up, “Good morning. What can I get you?”
Mencken extended his hand to the man in the suit. “Mencken Cassie,” Mencken said.
The man swiveled on his stool to face Mencken. His eyes were a beautiful hazel that, in contrast to his dark skin, seemed to shine. “Hunter Stockton,” he said, shaking Mencken’s hand.
“I need breakfast, Abby,” Mencken said. “Tell Imani to surprise me.”
“Another order of pancakes,” Abby yelled over her shoulder.
“Got it,” Imani called.
“Anything else?” Abby asked.
“Coffee?” Mencken said. Abby turned to fill a mug for him. “So,” Mencken said to the suit. “How do you two know each other?”
Abby returned with the full mug. “Hunter works for my dad,” she said.
“For almost a full year now,” he said, grinning at her.
“What do you do for him?” Mencken said.
“I’m kind of like his personal assistant. I do whatever needs to be done.”
Mencken didn’t know what kind of business Abby’s father was in, but whatever it was, it must pay well. “What’d you do before you came to work for Abby’s dad?”
“About four years ago,” Abby answered. “Daddy met Hunter, saw potential in him, and sent him to school in Europe.”
“Wow,” Mencken said. “Tell me about that.”
“Not much to tell,” Hunter said. “She makes it sound more exciting than it is. I was a poor kid living on the West Side. Our paths crossed, and Mr. Deces took a chance on me.”
Mencken sipped his coffee, intrigued by the story. “What did you study overseas?”
“A little bit of everything,” Hunter said. “It was more like an apprenticeship than a traditional school. I went to live with a man Mr. Deces respected and wanted me to model. I patterned myself after him.”
“That’s very,” Mencken struggled to find an example, “ancient Greek? Like students and the feet of Plato?”
“Yeah,” Hunter laughed. “If Plato was an angry Frenchman, then sure.”
“So,” Mencken said, sipping his coffee again, “does her father know you’re dating?”
“That’s none of your business,” Abby said, angrily.
“Very perceptive,” Hunter replied. “We haven’t told him, but I’m sure he knows. He knows everything.”
Abby shrugged. “No use fighting it. Nothing hides from Daddy’s eyes.” It sounded to Mencken as if she were quoting something, but he didn’t know what, probably a family saying of some sort.
“Speaking of,” Hunter said, standing. “I should go.” Extending his hand to Mencken he said, “Mr. Cassie, it’s nice to meet the man behind the newspaper articles.”
Mencken’s chest swelled with pride. It’s the first time someone he didn’t know recognized his name. “Pleasure to meet you too, Mr. Stockton,” Mencken said, shaking Hunter’s hand with excitement. Wanting to give the couple a private goodbye, he grabbed his coffee and headed to the table in the back.
The odd trio was sitting in silence. The giant bodybuilder sat with this arms crossed and his eyes closed. The two women sat across from each other. They were playing cards, some sort dueling solitaire. Mencken pulled out the chair across from the giant and sat down. “Mencken Cassie,” he said. “Do you mind if I join you?”
“Yes,” the giant said. His voice was deep and rough as if a bulldog was growling somewhere deep in his throat. Mencken couldn’t place his accent or the letters tattooed on his forearms. Whatever language it was, the thick, swirling script looked beautiful. He wore a thick, long curly, black beard that matched his tight fitting black t-shirt. In stark contrast, his head was shaved and tan. In total, the man was quite a spectacle
The woman to Mencken’s right put down her cards and looked up at Mencken. Her blonde hair was cut in a wavy bob. She had bright blue eyes that were a perfect match for her pale complexion. “I’m Melody,” she said. “This is my partner, Agnew.”
The second woman, an olive-skinned lady whose brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail, held out her hand to Mencken, “My first name is Rachel, but everyone calls me Agnew.”
Mencken shook her hand and then looked at the bodybuilder. “And you are?”
The man’s eyes opened like ancient doors in
need of oiling. The deep brown pools took Mencken in, and then closed again. The weightlifter’s arms looked as if they were filled with rocks. Each muscle was defined and well used. The shirt he wore stretched tight around his pectoral muscles, revealing their impressive definition.
“That’s Rothman,” Melody said.
“What brings you all to Imani’s?” Mencken asked leaning back in his chair.
With his arms still crossed and eyes still closed, Rothman grunted.
“We’re friends of Chris and Jose,” Agnew interpreted. “Do you know them?”
“Imani introduced us a few days ago,” Mencken said. “How do you know them?”
“We share common interests,” Rothman grumbled.
“We’re kind of related,” Melody said. “How do you know Imani?”
“I’m a regular. This is my office,” Mencken replied with pride.
The giant mumbled something under his breath Mencken couldn’t make out.
“Alright everyone,” Imani said, arriving with a tray of plates and mugs. “Breakfast is here.” She set the tray on the table next to her, passed plates with three pancakes and normal sized mugs of coffee to Mencken, Melody, and Agnew. Then, in front of Rothman, she placed a larger plate with ten pancakes and a beer mug filled to the brim with coffee.
Rothman opened his eyes and uncrossed his arms. He took Imani’s hands in his own. They swallowed her hands completely. “Thank you, Ms. Imani. You are very kind.” Then he released her and cut into all ten pancakes with his knife.
“No problem,” Imani said. “I’m just glad you made the trip.”
“Where’d you come from?” Mencken asked.
“We’re from Philly,” Melody said. “We got a call from Chris this morning, so we came down.”
“Is everything alright?” Mencken asked, feigning concern.
“It’s just a family thing,” Agnew said, her mouth stuffed with pancakes. “These are great by the way,” she told Imani.
“Thanks, sweetie,” Imani replied.