1
-Now-
“I was so pleased to see you last night.” Lucinda smiles while tossing a cursory glance over her narrow shoulder. “Tyler told me you’d just flown in from France, where you ended an assignment. Cognac, I hear?”
I trail behind her, admiring the striking, picturesque view of the rolling mountains of Ojai, California. Ventura County sure is an idyllic settlement abounding in historic magnetism. It’s a far cry from the third world villages and impoverished western communities he’s laid his head in to tell a story. Someone of his breadth of work needed an oasis of this serene level.
“Yes,” I finally answer while absorbing the valley’s view of the dainty shops, galleries, and Victorian structures sitting miles away. They’ve been preserved by the community for generations. “A few miles outside the Crouin locale. The food is remarkable,” I mumble, not wanting to lose a moment of the view. “I may return recreationally for that alone.”
Lucinda peers over her shoulder again with an arched brow and a faint smirk. “Any new discoveries?”
It takes no time to consider it. “Pour L’amour du Cochon.”
“Ah… For Pig’s Sake.” We reach the French doors at the end of the corridor and she turns to face me with an outstanding beam. “I’ve heard delightful things. I’ll have to put it on my itinerary for the next time I’m in Southwest France. If all goes well, I’ll be out there this winter. I can ask you to recommend a dish or two.” She winks innocently.
“If you want to explain the seven pounds you’ll put on in as many days.” I wink in return. “Go for it.”
She chuckles breathily. “Oh, don’t you spew such things.” Her delicate hand swats my imitative self-pity. “You’re doing well with your body, Ashton. At this rate, when you become my age, you’ll have more mileage for the long haul.”
I stop a few feet in front of her. “Are you trying to charm me with blandish and fanning lashes, Mrs. Thomas?”
Lucinda’s youthful giggle bounces off the floor and walls of the corridor as she reaches for her neck to finger the back of her silver Pixie cut. Her eyes fall away. “Oh, Ashton. It’s a wonder you’re still single, young man.”
I scoff while shrugging my brows. “A wonder for who?”
Her chin dips with class. “Your presence at the USC Annenberg dinner last night was generous and greatly apprized.” She tosses her chin toward the office. “He’s been awaiting you.”
After a courteous nod, I amble into my mentor’s home office. Ghosted Perique tobacco permeates the upholstery throughout the pharaonic room. That and the scent of scotch and whiskey bottled in crystal decanters on the bar stand against the wall. The oversized office features two walls of floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with literature he’s read more than once; it’s the only way a leaflet can take up coveted space here. And, at least, a dozen of the books were penned by the man himself. His desk is a cluster of files, loose papers, and a desktop he still fusses about and uses begrudgingly.
The beloved vintage typewriter he still engages from time to time to “maintain his virtuosity” sits on a pillar just beyond his desk. Symmetric to it is another brass stand boasting his framed Pulitzer Prize certificate. In the adjacent corner is a curio displaying the dozens of awards he’s garnered spanning his fifty-year career: recognitions from esteemed publications, NAACP awards, plaques from state and local organizations, and award statues from renowned academic institutions, including Blakewood and Harvard.
“You may be younger…and richer,” gruff rings out from across the room. “but I’ve given that woman laps around my heart and in my head for more decades than you’ve been breathing.”
He sits partially reclined in a leather Lazy-Z-Boy, gazing through the glass of the patio door, out to the amazing vista of the Topatopa Mountains. Tyler Thomas, a giant in the world of journalism and a legend in publishing, never allows a passing miniscule detail before reconnoitering each layer presented.
“She’s seen me shirtless,” I mutter, lifting a book by a familiar name and title from one of his shelves. Fingering the spine, I continue, “I think you should let the fine lady choose for herself.”
“How was Cognac?”
My head swipes up, eyes wildly shooting to the back of his head, then I return the book and glide over to him. Leaning against the glass door, I fold my arms. “What the hell are you up to, Thomas?”
Finally, his copper eyes reach mine. “I can’t ask about your work?”
“Only if you hadn’t already done your due diligence last night.”
Last night, USC’s School for Communication and Journalism honored him at a dinner. Quite a few influential suits in the world of journalism flew in to attend, including a subject loosely related to the assignment I’m now closing. Tyler Thomas is my mentor, a legendary journalist with over a half a century in the game. One of the first impactful African Americans to break American stories overseas and to write for major publications like The New York Times, Wall Street Journal, ESPN, Black Press, TIME, LA Times, and others. He’s the truest standard of what my generation terms as G.O.A.T. He’s even served terms as chief editor for many of them. Thomas has also begun his own small press called 40 Acres. The small digital paper has been thriving for over fifteen years. It’s been the holy grail for Black students pursuing internship opportunities and new writers beginning their career in journalism.
“I’m asking again!” shoots from his belly.
It’s a tone I decide right away not to test.
Letting out a fortifying breath, I scratch the back of my head. “Particularly harrowing.” I then brush my hand over my face.
“Did you get enough meat?”
Meat is his lingo for details. As a journalist, you need meat and teeth to create a complete, compelling piece.
“More than I bargained for,” I admit. “Similar to the wine industry, there are cartels destroying product and properties in the name of fair trade.”
Six months ago, I set out on an assignment for the New York Times to explore the shifting of the brandy industry. For centuries, the spirit was predominantly produced by the French. Over the past six years, the usual renowned brands received several new contenders on the market. The most aggressive competitor is helmed by a Black man. I flew to “brandy country” to research the market and all of its players. What I didn’t expect to discover was the underworld that attempted to regulate the brandy industry.
His eyes widen with concern. “Jacobs isn’t involved, is he?”
Azmir Jacobs is a mutual comrade of ours. He’s the owner of one of the most popular brandy line on the market, thanks to pop culture. Jacobs is how I met my mentor and friend, Tyler Thomas.
I shake my head. “He’s the only giant unscathed by the attacks, though. The JFD Cartel, also known as Justice for Distilleries, is a group of ruffians who’ve taken it upon themselves to right the brandy industry. They’ve gone as far as setting vineyards afire, slashed tires of brokers, and planting bombs in the headquarters of the bigger brandy heads’ offices.”
I know because I’d shown up to one of the corporate offices nearly three weeks ago to interview the head broker to find a quarter of the building charred.