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.