LaToya: Episode III - Club, Clues, and Cleavage

There was quite a crowd moving through the brightly lit lobby of the Zodiac nightclub. The hat check lady who took our hats was wearing a black mini-skirt and a tight shirt that showed all her cleavages.

Medgar gazed at her.

“Hi sweetie,” he said to her. ‘What’s the food like in this club? Come to that, I won’t mind having a slice of you. You look ravishing.”

The girl giggled.

“Thanks a lot, sir,” she replied. “Our food’s fine. Try their homestyle chicken bowl. It’s the best in Baltimore.”

“Come on, Medgar,” I said, dragging him away. “Lay off. We have work to do.”

“We are always working,” he said bitterly. “I blame myself for getting mixed in this racket.”

The club’s chief of the waiters led us to a corner table in the club’s restaurant. It was fairly large with a five piece band, a large dance floor, and green and yellow diffused lights.

After we had ordered, Medgar said, “What’s our next move?”

“I want to talk to the club’s manager,” I replied. “You never know: he might have something that would be useful for us. Then there’s David, the call-boy. He might know more than he told the Baltimore City police.”

“Those beauties huddled in the corner over there look bored,” Medgar said. “Do you mind if I keep them company while you talk to the club manager? No need for both of us to talk to him. Maybe I might  find something too. What do you say?”

“Go ahead,” I said. “But make sure you find something that would be useful for this case.”

“You are something, Emeka,” Medgar said. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Whatever,” I replied.

A half an hour later, I paid for our meals and drinks and got to my feet.

“Stay away from trouble, you hear?” I said to Medgar.

“She’s the one who will be in trouble by the time I’m done with her,” Medgar said, staring fixedly at a voluptuous black girl whose pretty painted face was stiff with boredom. “I am very good at making them want me more.”

I left him and searched for the club manager’s office.

He turned out to be a short black man whose name was Jonah Duncan. When I told him I was from Baltimore Star, he seemed pleased to see me.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Emeka?” he asked, waving me to a chair.

“I’m trying to dig up some new facts about LaToya Young,” I said. “My colleague and I are convinced that if we can find out new angles, we can write up the case.”

“That would be a very tough job,” he said. “LaToya Young disappeared fourteen months ago.”

“We are aware of the dangers that our investigations might stir up,” I said, accepting the Marlborough cigarette he offered me. After lighting the cigarette, I said, “But sometimes when one starts digging into an old case, you will be surprised about what might be revealed. Just for the sake of argument, if LaToya met with foul play, the guy who did it is sitting pretty. Let’s assume his name is Mr. X. So, Mr. X suddenly discovers, just when he is certain he is safe, that a new investigation has started up. The chances are that Mr. X will get rattled. Not only that, he might even make a mistake and give himself away. This type of thing have happened before, and I’m very sure you knew that already.”

“Yes, I can see your point,” he said. “So, how may I help?”

“Have you any idea how LaToya, dressed as she was, could have left here without being seen?”

Duncan shook his head.

“Believe me, I’ve often thought about it,” he said. “And it baffles me. Both the back exits were guarded. Yet she disappeared. Also, there’s no way she could have gone through the restaurant without being seen.”

“Who were the men guarding the back exits?” I asked.

“Lamar Hooke was on the stage door exit and Dan Elber was on the basement exit.”

“Perhaps one of them might have been lying?” I asked.  “What do you think? I mean, if one of them lied, then LaToya’s disappearance will no longer be a mystery. Didn’t the police think of that?”

“Sure, they did,” he said. “The police interrogated both of them but they didn’t get any useful information from them. Both guards swore they didn’t leave their posts nor did they see LaToya.”

“Do you trust them, I mean Lamar Hooke and Dan Elber?”

“Well,” he said. “Let me say this: Elber was alright. At the time of this sad event, he was taking a delivery beer and the police checked with the driver of the beer truck, one Mr.Hahn. He said Elber was on the door at the time LaToya disappeared.”

“So that leaves Hooke. Did you had anyone to support his story?”

“Not really,” he said. “I’ve often worried about  Hooke. He is addicted to beer. Before this happened, he used to slip across the road to Henry’s bar, and I caught him at it. I warned him that if he did it again, I will fire him.”

“You didn’t write that in your statement,” I said.

“I know it,” Duncan smiled. “I was trying to protect the guy. I talked to him before I called the cops. The truth is he was able to convince me that he hadn’t been across the road at the time.”

“And, you believed him?” I asked.

“Sure, I did,” he replied.

“Come on, Mr. Duncan,” I said. “You are smarter than that. You caught him once. He knew that if you caught him again he will lose his job. I’m sure he wouldn’t want to lose his job. So naturally, he would be pretty convincing, wouldn’t he?”

“Well,” he said. “Before I questioned him, I went over to Henry’s bar. The barman there – his name’s Phillip – said he hadn’t seen him. So I know Lamar was telling the truth.”

“If he wasn’t, it won’t make any difference anyway. LaToya could have gone that way.”

“But she couldn’t have disappeared to the thin air like that,” he said. “I mean, she couldn’t have gone far without being seen.”

“Why not?,” I said. “She wouldn’t have had any trouble in getting away if a car was waiting for her. See what I mean? In any case, I will like to talk to Hooke.”

“Mr. Hooke’s dead.,” he said.

 I stared at Duncan.

“Dead?,” I said. “This is serious. When did he die?” I asked.

“Two days after LaToya disappeared,” he said. “He was killed by a hit and run driver. The cops never find who the driver was.”

“Oh my God!” I said, disappointed. “I thought I was making progress. Does the call-boy still work here?”

“David? Yes, he’s with us. Want to interview him too?”

“He was the last one to see LaToya, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, he was,” he said. “You stick here, Mr. Emeka. Let me take care of some business and I will send him to you.”

“What do you think of Ms. LaToya?” I asked as he got up. “Was she a trouble-maker? You know what I mean.”

He shook his head.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “I know she was a stripper and all that, but she was a good kid. In fact, she was doing well with the stripping job before she suddenly disappeared. She wasn’t like the other strippers we get here. She kept to herself, but she was also very friendly. No, she wasn’t a trouble-maker.”

“Do you know if she had any living relative?” I asked.

“Not really,” he replied.

“She never said anything about where she came from?”

“She didn’t talk about herself,” he said. “That never bothered me though because I liked her act. She obviously had plenty of experience with this stripping business. She knows all the angles when it comes to making customers happy. The club was making a lot of money every weekend because of her. She must have been in this stripping business for some years. You can always tell if a girl had plenty experience in this business, and LaToya got it.”

“From what I have learned so far, it looks as if she was hiding from someone,” I said. “I mean, what else could one say about a girl who had no friends, no mail, and who kept to herself and lied about her background? It points to it. Anyway, I must not keep you here. I’ll talk to David.”

When David came into the office, I waved him to a chair. He was a tall and lanky African American and he seems to be in his early twenties. When he looked at me and I could see a mixture of nervousness and admiration in his face.

“May I ask you a personal question?” he said.

“Sure, go ahead,” I replied.

“Are you the Emeka Okeke who writes for Baltimore Star?”

“That’s right,” I said. “You’ve read my articles?”

“Are you kidding?” he replied. “I’ve read them all! Your stuff are terrific!”

“I have been reading them too myself,” I said grinning. “So that makes two of us. Listen, I am working on  the LaToya Young case, and I’m hoping you can help me. You and her get along well, correct?”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “LaToya was a sweet kid, Mr. Emeka. I never had any problem with her.”

“When you went to her room to call her the second time, did you notice anything? For instance, was her room alright – no sign of trouble?”

“Sure,” he said. “It was just the way I had seen it when I gave her her first call. But this time she was not there.”

“You are sure she was there when you called her the first time?”

“Of course,” he replied. “After  I knocked and she had called out, I opened the door and looked in. You can’t blame me for that, I guess. LaToya was very beautiful so I couldn’t resist to take a look at her. Anyway, she was standing by the mirror. She had on her stage get-up and she told me she would be coming out soon. She then proceeded to ask me about a telephone call she was expecting and I explained to her that she will have to take it when it came through in Lamar’s office.” 

“She was expecting a call?” I asked.

“Yes, she was,” he said. “And, she seemed anxious about it.”

“Did the call ever come through, do you know?”

“I doubt if it did,” he said.

“Do you mind if I take a look at her dressing room?”

“You can see the outside, Mr.Emeka,” he said. “There’s a girl using it right now.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “The outside is good enough.”

He took me along a passage down some stairs and to the back of the building – a place they call NE backdoor for some reason. He opened the door of the NE backdoor and I found myself in a lobby that contained wooden crates, old spotlight, and musical instrument cases, among other things.

I didn’t get much information from the dressing room door. It was only fifteen yards from the stage door exit.  The stage door office was just around the bend in the passage out of sight of the dressing room door.

“Are you sure LaToya didn’t have any other clothes in her room?” I asked him. “Perhaps she changed out of her stage get-up? What do you think?”

“I’m sure she didn’t have any other clothes on her, Mr. Emeka,” he said. “One of my jobs is to clean out dressing rooms. From my experience doing this part of my job, I can guarantee you that the cupboard was always empty. There was nowhere for LaToya to keep anything except in the cupboard.”

“Her disappearance is a mystery, isn’t it?”

“It certainly is, Mr. Emeka.”

“Well, thanks for your help,” I said. “If I remember anything later on, I’ll hop in and see you again. Where’s Henry’s bar?”

“Come with me, please,” he said.

We went past the stage door office and he opened the stage door and pointed across the alley.

“That’s Henry’s bar.”

“Thanks a lot,” I said, then I crossed the alley and pushed open the bar door.

There were three black men sitting at a table drinking Bud Light, a popular beer in Baltimore City in those days. Another man, a white guy, lolled up against the bar, a vodka in front of him.

The barman, a beefy looking black man, was fiddling a television. I entered and went to the far end of the bar away from the four men. I then sat down and waited for the bar man to come to me.

“I will have Seven and Seven,” I said. “And please have one yourself, on me of course.”

He grinned.

“Glad to, home boy, and thanks,” he said.

When he came back with the drinks, I said, “I haven’t been in West Baltimore for over a year. I used to know Lamar Hooke. I hear he’s dead.”

The barman nodded.

“That’s right,” he said. “Lamar got killed by a hit and run punk. The driver was never found and the almighty Baltimore City police couldn’t find their own names in a telephone book.”

“You knew Lamar, didn’t you?”

“Not really,” he said. “I’m new here. But I heard that he died a couple of days before I came here.”

“What happened to the barman who used to serve Lamar?” I asked, suddenly interested.

“Devon Weaver? He left – he got himself a better job.”

“Know where?”

“Some hotel, I guess,” he said. “I can’t remember the name.”

An idea flashed through my mind.

“Was it the Empire Hotel in Baltimore Street?”

The barman nodded.

“That’s right. The Empire Hotel.”

I finished my drink and said to him , “I’ll have another Seven and Seven.”

I knew now I was making progress in this LaToya’s case.

 

 

END OF EPISODE 3

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 4, which  will be published here next Sunday.

 

LaToya: Episode II - Dark Streets, Darker Secrets

 

 

“So, did he had to throw the green-card thing on your face like that,” Medgar said as soon as we left Mr. Sessoms’ office.

“I don’t really mind,” I replied. “I’m actually excited that I have finally found a way to prove myself worthy of something.”

Medgar laughed.

“I guess we have to start on the case right away like you suggested,” he said.

“Sounds like a plan,” I agreed. “If you don’t mind, I need to call Tosha before we head off.”

“No worries,”  Medgar said.

Tosha and I have been in a relationship for more than two years now. An African-American, Tosha had a killer body – the type of body that can make a monk to misbehave. She is also a very nice and loyal friend – the kind of girl you can take home for your mother to see. The problem with Tosha is that she want us to get married and settle down immediately but I am not ready for that yet. When I called her on a payphone and told her about the green card offer Mr. Sessoms’ made to me, she wasn’t excited at all.

“You don’t need no damn Mr. Sessoms to get your green card,” she said angrily. “I can give you the green card if we get married.”

“Why are like this?” I replied, surprised. “I thought you would be happy for me.”

“Of course I am happy for you,” she snarled. “I just don’t like the green card part. I also don’t understand why we can’t  get married. For the past two years you’ve been singing on my ears how you love me so much. But yet you don’t want to prove it. I’m even embarrassed that it’s me that is always bringing the subject up. If you…”

“Don’t start, Tosha,” I cut her off.  “We have been here before.”

“Okay, let me ask you a question,” she said. “Do you truly love me like you claimed?”

“Of course I do, and you know that,” I replied.

“Can I trust you to be honest with me?” she asked.

“You got it, hon,” I replied.

“Then, explain to me why we shouldn’t be married and settle down.”

I couldn’t believe we were having this conversation on the phone.

“Listen, Tosha,” I began. “You are a good and beautiful girl. And I love you. If I marry you and you help me to get my green card, you will be feeling that I used you to get the green card. I will be feeling that way myself, and it won’t be a good feeling. But if I get the green card through my personal effort and if we get married after that, you will know that my love for you is a true love – that I did not love you because of the green card. I don’t want you to feel used and …”

“I will never feel that way,” she said. “Why would I do that?”

“Can we talk about it another time, Tosha?” I asked. “Now is really not a good time.”

She was silent for a while, and then said: “When will that be?”

“When I got back,” I replied.

“You mean I won’t see you tonight?” she said.

“Unfortunately no,” I said. “But I will make it up for you, sweetheart.”

“I am missing you already,” she lamented.

“Baby, do you know I am missing you too?” I said.

“No you don’t” she said.

“I mean it, sweetheart,” I said. “Now, who’s the guy that took you to shopping at Tiffany’s last Christmas?”

“It was you,” she said.

“Who bought you that Gucci necklace, bag and cologne last week?” I asked.

“You did,” she said, and I noticed that her voice have softened.

“There you go,” I said. “Didn’t that tell you something? Didn’t that tell you that I love you deeply?”

“It does,” she said softly. “It’s just that I feel lonely without you.”

“Can you feel my eyes on you, baby?” I said. “I mean right now – this very moment? Can you feel me look into your heart? Can you feel me in the pit of your stomach? I mean right now?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“Can you feel me in you, hon?” I said. “In your heart, can you feel me?”

“I love you, Emeka,” she said.

“But sweetheart, do you know that I love you more?” I asked.

“I know, Emeka,” she replied.

“Are you sure, hon?”

“Yes, I do,” she replied.

“Then, work with me on this,” I said. “Let me get this green card by working for it. We can get married after that and it would be  prove that my love for you is real, and that I’m not interested in using you to get the green card. Deal, or no deal?”

She remained silent.

“Answer me, hon,” I replied. “Don’t play with me.”

“It’s a deal, baby,” she said.

“I’ll let you go now, baby,” I said. “Dream of me tonight, you hear?”

She started to laugh.

“You really make me feel good always, Emeka,” she said. “Sure, I will dream of you tonight.”

“Thanks, baby,” I replied. “And bye.”

“See you soon,” she said.

I hung up the phone and went back to Medgar so we can begin work on the case.

It was already dark as we drove into West Baltimore in Medgar’s blue Chevrolet Impala Sedan. Medgar had earlier said that he is not in the mood to drive, so I had no option than to be the driver tonight. As everyone who lives within the state of Maryland knows at the time, West Baltimore is a huge section of Baltimore City notorious for violent and drug-related crime. The area also known for its unique culture, endless streets of old Baltimore row houses with their marble stoops, and sprawling parklands.

 “I kinda like this part of Baltimore City,” Medgar said, turning his head around to catch a glimpse of a tall, full-figured, black lady who was waiting at the traffic signals to cross the street and who had given him a long, friendly stare as we passed. “At least the women here appear to be excited about men. Believe me, that’s always a good sign that one can easily …”

“Shame on you, Medgar,” I interrupted him. “That’s all you think about – women. For a married man you should be talking to your priest and making some novenas for God’s forgiveness.”

“You will do the same thing if you were married to Anna,” Medgar said. “That woman drives me crazy. She is too needy and is always yelling for something. If I haven’t been mixing up with other ladies now and then, I would have concluded that they were all like Anna.”

“So, why did you married her, then?” I asked.

Medgar laughed bitterly.

“Are you nuts?” he replied. “She practically threw herself at me. In fact, it is the other way round: she married me.”

I slowed down and pulled to the sidewalk to ask a policeman where the Empire Hotel was. He told me that it is on Baltimore Street, and after about five minutes of driving, we came to the hotel.

The Empire Hotel  was a simple hotel. It was a tall building sandwiched between a block of offices and stores, including a Chinese restaurant. Opposite was the hotel garage, and when we had parked the Chevrolet Impala, we carried our bags across the street and entered the hotel. The hotel’s lobby looks shabby, and the reception clerk, a man of about 60 years, doesn’t seem to be in the mood to impress us.

“What a dump,” Medgar said. “I’m sure there will be bed bugs in the bedrooms.”

“What do you expect? Butterflies?” I said and crossed over to the desk.

Our decision to lodge in a hotel while working on LaToya’s case is only a temporary measure. After all, we both live in Baltimore county and have no business lodging in a hotel just to work in Baltimore City. It’s just that, since we are not cops, it is safer to work on a murder investigation like this from our hotel – the less our enemies knows about us, the safer for us. That’s the only reason were there. And since Mr. Sessoms is willing to pay for it, we have no qualms making the decision.

The clerk seemed delighted when I asked for two rooms and told him we were likely to stay a week.

“We have two rooms on the second floor,” he explained. “Would they be okay for you guys?”

“I guess,” I replied. “Will you mind taking these bags up?”

“Not at all,” he replied.

“Where’s your bar?” I asked.

“Over there,” he said. “Second door on your right.”

The bar was a long, narrow room with some potted chrysanthemums  and 4-legged swivel stools with wood frame and upholstered seat and back all over the place. There was no one in it except the barman who was reading the Baltimore Sun, a local newspaper in Baltimore. He folded the paper with a resigned air when he saw us.

“Hello guys,” he said.

He was a big and tall African-American with black but dull eyes of a drinker.

I ordered two Seven and Sevens, which was a mixed alcoholic drink containing Seagram’s Seven Crown and 7 Up.

“This place’s as quiet as the cemetery,” Medgar said looking around. “Don’t we have beer drinkers in this hotel?”

“It’s still early,” the bar man replied. “Are you guys staying here?”

“Yes,” I said. “Ever read the Baltimore Star?”

He showed his surprise.

“Of course I do,” he replied. “It is one of my favorite newspapers.”

I finished my Seven and Sevens at a swallow and pushed the glass back to him. Medgar, who believed in keeping pace with me, hurriedly downed his too.

“More Seven and Sevens, please,” I said. “We work for the Baltimore Star. We are covering the LaToya Young case. Do you remember her?”

The barman had picked up my glass to give me the Seven and Sevens. The glass suddenly slipped out of his hand and smashed on the floor.

“Damn!” he snarled,  as he bent to kick the bits of glass under the counter. When he straightened up I noticed he had lost some of his color.

“What was the name again?” he asked.

“LaToya Young. Remember her?”

“Of course I do.” He turned to fix another  Seven and Sevens for us. “If I understand you correctly, you are writing up the case?”

“Yes,” I said. “I mean, that is if we can get a new angle.”

He put the two Seven and Sevens before us and then leaned against the counter while he began to arrange some glasses in a more orderly group.

“Well,” he said, without looking at me. “What type of angle would that be?”

“I don’t know yet,” I replied. “But for now my colleague Medgar here and I are just looking around and seeing what we can pick up. I gotta tell you: this is an interesting case. LaToya, who was wearing only panties and bra, suddenly vanishes. So, where did she go? Why did she go? Do you have any idea?”

“What a question,” he said. “Why should I have any idea?”

“I thought you knew her,” I said.

He hesitated, then as he began to polish another glass he said, “No really. I mean, I don’t know her that much. But she was a customer here – she came in for a drink now and then, you know.”

“Was she alone?” I asked.

“She was always alone,” he said. “She came in here only when she’s looking for company.”

“She had a boyfriend, didn’t she?” I asked, aware that the barman was not comfortable discussing LaToya’s case. I was pretty sure he was scared.  

“Well,” he replied. “She didn’t seem to have any friend. She kept to herself most of the time.”

“But it might be possible she had a boyfriend without you knowing about it,” Medgar said. “What do you think?”

The barman scowled at him.

“You may be right,” he said. “What’s the point of writing about the case anyway?”

“You never know,” I said. “The truth is, unless we can find out why she disappeared, we won’t be able to write it about it.”

“If the cops couldn’t figure it out, what makes you think you can?” he asked looking quickly at me and then away, but not fast enough for me to miss the tensed expression on his face. This barman was beginning to interest me.

“Ever heard of Tyron King?” Medgar asked.

“Everybody knows Tyron King,” the barman replied.

“We are the guys who put him out of business,” Medgar said. “You will be surprised at what we can do. By that, I mean the number of unsolved cases my colleague here and I have solved. It surprises us sometimes, and Baltimore Police knows how good we are, and they work with us now.”

That seemed to get the barman’s attention, for Tyron King was a well-know Baltimore drug boss with ties to the Mafia. Even though he is an African-America, he once ruled the Baltimore City’s underground  economy for decades before his arrest.

“Is that right? Well, you’ll have to be pretty smart to crack LaToya Young’s case,” the barman said curtly and, turning, he moved to the end of the bar and fetched out his paper.

I finished my drink and said to him, “Know where Zodiac nightclub is?”

“About eighty yards down on the right,” he said without looking up.

As we left the bar, Medgar muttered, “This barman’s not friendly at all. Didn’t you notice it?”

“Something’s worrying him,” I said, letting the bar room door swing behind me.  “Wait a minute, Medgar.” I turned and peered through the glass panel of the bar room door. I watched for a moment, then joined Medgar. “The barman is using the telephone.”

“Maybe he’s putting a buck on the  Preakness Stakes,” Medgar said. “I heard the horse race is this weekend at the Pimlico Race Course. I want to put a buck on a horse myself.”

“At this hour?” I said. “You can’t be serious. Come on. Let’s get something to eat.” My mind was busy as we crossed the lobby and walked down the steps to the street. “I think I have screwed up, Medgar. I wouldn’t have told him about Baltimore Star if I had known he was going to react like that.”

“Like what?” Medgar said, confused. “He happened to drop his glass. So what? Anyone can do that. He wasn’t too friendly for sure, but then he may not like our faces. Some people don’t, anyway.”

“Medgar,” I said impatiently. “Will you stop talking and let me think?”

“I never knew when you became Aristotle,” Medgar said in a resigned voice. “Go ahead and think. The way I’m treated anyone would imagine I am your junior in this team.”

“Short up, Medgar,” I snapped.

 

 

END OF EPISODE 2

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 3, which  will be published here next Sunday.

 

LaToya: Episode I - Eyes of the Absent

 

"The mystery of LaToya Young's vanishing was like a siren's call in the night, an enigmatic puzzle that beckoned with its silence. In its depths lay not just the tale of a vanished soul, but the whispered secrets of a city that watched with eyes wide open yet saw nothing."

On a hot July afternoon I was dozing in an office I shared with my co-worker, Medgar Weaver, when the sound of our intercom bell brought me awake with a start.

I reluctantly picked up the receiver.

“Yes, Shaniqua?”

“Mr. Sessoms want to see you and Medgar immediately,” Shaniqua, Mr. Sessom’s beautiful secretary said.

I became very alert and looked at Medgar, who, I noticed, was also looking at me.

“Alright,” I replied. “Tell him we will be on our way pronto.”

For two years I have been doing my internship at the Baltimore Star, a monthly news magazine that was one of the leading source of news in Baltimore City and the surrounding counties. Because I am a college student majoring in investigative journalism at Morgan State University, I do my internships at the newspaper house only when the college closes for the semester breaks. Also, I am an international student with a student visa, I have no work permit. Hence, as much as  I do  like to work full time at the Baltimore Star, I was forbidden to do that unless I was lucky enough to get a green card or work permit. The good news, however, is that the terms of my student visa permits me to do internships at any American company, provided that my course of study requires it. My plan was to work very hard and impress Mr. Sessoms, who is the editor of the paper, well enough to convince him to get me an employer-sponsored green card.

When I started my internship at the Baltimore Star, I was assigned to work with one of its reporters by name Medgar Weaver. I was told that he is my mentor: he will show me how news reporting career work as well as guide me on how to navigate the media industry in general. But I was learning the work so fast that, by the time we knew it, Medgar and I began working as partners when gathering and reporting news stories.

When we entered Mr. Sessoms’ luxurious office that afternoon, he was sitting behind his desk, with a Marlborough cigarette between his teeth and an impatient gleam in his eyes. This was 1977, the period when it was common for people to smoke in their offices.

“Sit down,” he said, looking at us. “What do you guys have for me?”

We both sat down on the comfortable armchairs facing Mr. Sessoms. During this past two years, Medgar and I have written many interesting news stories for Baltimore Star. Most of the time, I did the thinking and Medgar did the writing. This arrangement helped us to become very prolific writers because I am very good at brainstorming and figuring out ideas and Medgar, who never have any ideas, was very good putting in enough energy to commit ideas to paper.

A former high school English teacher, Medgar was short, plump but very good-looking. He always has on a heavy horn spectacles that made him look more smart than he was. He had once confided to me that he never liked teaching at public schools, but had had to do it to impress his late parents, both of whom are public school teachers.

Medgar was always worried about losing his job. Whenever he was called to Sessoms’ office, he imagined he was going to get the gate. The problem with Medgar is that he was married to a glamorous and fun-loving wife who is willing to spend their last card on the latest fashion just to continue looking good. They also own and live in a very large single family home in an expensive neighborhood in Essex, and, of course, a flock of debts. So, their lives was one of continual battle to keep the creditors from the door.

“At the moment,” I began, “we are still brainstorming different news ideas. We’ll have something for you by next week and I can guarantee you it will blow you away.”

“Well, forget your ideas for now,” Mr. Sessoms said. “I’ve got something for you guys to work on, if you don’t mind?”

“Oh sure,” I replied. “Let’s have it.”

Mr. Sessoms produced a file from his desk.

“I want you guys to produce a series of articles on missing people in Maryland,” he said. “Do you realize people disappear almost every month in the state of Maryland? I have got  Griffin to dig up a few of the more interesting cases that happened here in Baltimore City, and I’ve a good one here for you. I want you guys to start working on it right away.”

Medgar and I exchanged glances. We have been brainstorming for story  ideas since last week without success. So, Mr. Sessoms’ suggestion was welcome.

“Let’s hear the story then,” I said.

“Last August, a girl named LaToya Young disappeared,” Mr. Sessoms said. “She was a very popular exotic dancer, working at the Zodiac nightclub in West Baltimore. This girl had been a big success, attracting the cream of Baltimore society to Zodiac every weekend. She was very beautiful, and she knows how to draw the crowd to the club. In fact, it was rumored that the Mayor of Baltimore city was once spotted among the crowd of fans at Zodiac one weekend – he disguised himself of course, but you know, there are still people with sharp eyes. Anyway, this will tell you how popular LaToya was before her disappearance. The manager of Zodiac nightclub told her he would extend her contract so she had no reason to disappear as she did. She came as usual to the nightclub on August 17 and went to her dressing room. At nine o’clock, David, the call-boy, informed her she had five minutes before her act began. He saw her wearing her stage get-up, which consisted of a pair of high-heeled stiletto shoes, golden micro G-string bikini, and a white Cleopatra-beaded head cap. She told him she was ready, and he left her. Sadly, he was the last person to see her. When she didn’t appear on the stage the manager of the club sent him to fetch her. That was when he discovered that her dressing room was empty. The clothes she had arrived in were there. In fact, David was surprised that even her purse containing thirty-seven dollars and some coins was on her dressing table and yet she had vanished.

“The stage doorman, a guy called Tyron, hadn’t seen her either. Apart from the customers’ exit which was through the restaurant, the only other exit was in the club’s basement. So the manager asked the man in charge down there if he had seen her, but he hadn’t. The manager learned from David that she was still wearing her stage get-up, so he concluded that no one could have failed to have seen her if she had used the delivery exit, the stage door exit or if she had gone through the restaurant to the main exit.  The manager was confident that she was still in the club. The building was searched but they didn’t find LaToya. The manager called the Baltimore City Police chief who was a personal friend and they sent there men down to the club. The police didn’t find her either. They learned that she had got the job at the club through Lobito Models and Talent, Inc., a popular talent agency in Baltimore City. The staff at Lobito Models and Talent didn’t know anything about her except she had told them she had worked at the Virgo Nightclub in Alexandra, Virginia. When the police checked, the Virgo Nightclub had never heard of her.”

“What a very strange story,” I said.

“Isn’t it?” Mr. Sessoms said, and then continued. “It looked like LaToya didn’t have any friends. She stayed at the Empire Motel, a moderate joint near the club, and the receptionist there said she never had any visitors nor any mail. The Baltimore City police kept at it for a couple of weeks, then as they didn’t get a lead or find her body, they closed the case.”

Mr. Sessoms closed the file and looked at me.

“What do you think, Emeka?” he said. “It sounded liker the markings of a good story, right or wrong?”

“It does,” I replied. “But if Baltimore City police couldn’t get a lead on her, how can we?”

“Well,” he said. “Most black folks don’t like talking to the police – they just don’t trust them enough. Besides,  I like this story. I’m sure it’s going to be a hit so I’m willing to spend money on it. Most black people trust journalists, and they will talk to them if they are convinced they are going to get something out of it. Believe me, this LaToya story is hot, and I want you two to go for it.”

“No problem,” I said and held out my hand for the file. “You have everything in the file?”

“I’ve basically told you guys everything,” he said. “But, in addition to that, the file have a few names and a photograph  of LaToya, that’s all. So you will have to start building this case from scratch.”

“We will begin work on it pronto, sir,” I said.

He looked hard at me and said, “Listen, Emeka. You still need that green card, right?”

“Sure,” I replied. “Why?”

“If you can crack this LaToya case, this newspaper will immediately sponsor you for a green card,” he replied.

Again, Medgar and I exchanged glances.

“I will take you on the offer,” I said.

He smiled.

“How about expenses?” Medgar asked a shade too early.

Mr. Sessoms scowled at him.

“Well,” he said. “I will caution that you be very careful with your expenses while you work on this page. In fact, I will need a record and report of every cent you spend – understand?”

Medgar smiled happily. He hadn’t been a teacher for five years without knowing how to pad an expense sheet with school supplies.

“No worries, Mr. Sessoms,” he said. “You’ll get the full record and report  of our expenses.”

I was looking at the picture of LaToya Young I had found in the file. The glossy photograph of a black girl of about twenty-four in a bright pink bra and matching thong, covered by a skin-tight, white, mesh dress with a pink garter. Her pretty face, framed by a thick black hair, was as seductive and sensational as her voluptuous figure. I handed the picture over to Medgar.

“What do you think?” I said.

Medgar’s eyes popped and he whistled.

“Well, well, well,” he said, getting to his feet. “A girl as sexy as this one is worth finding. Common, let’s go.”

 

 

END OF EPISODE 1

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 2, which  will be published here next Sunday.