Turned out it actually was fun. They’d welcomed him in without much surprise at his appearance at Anchors. Apparently, it was acceptable for colleagues to invite themselves to things like this. Good to know, Mac thought. In contrast to the cheerful ambience of the Zocalo that Angie preferred, Anchors strived for a men’s club feel. Dark woods, old-fashioned lamps, secluded tables separated by shelves of books. Used hardback books — Mac wondered if someone had actually selected them or if you could buy them by the yard or something. The bar was an old-fashioned mahogany one with a large mirror behind the bartender. Liquor bottles gleamed on shelves flanking it. The bartender was wearing suspenders, Mac noted. He didn’t roll his eyes, but it was hard not to.
Still it was a comfortable place. And the happy hour prices made the drinks reasonable. All a person could ask, Mac thought.
There were six men at the table, and Mac recognized their faces, although names might be another story. They greeted him as he walked up and made room for him to pull up a chair. Although they all had liquor drinks in front of them, Mac ordered an O’Doul’s which showed up with a glass. Of course, it did, he thought as the waitress poured it into the specialty Pilsner glass for him.
“We’re discussing whether women’s soccer will truly ever become a thing,” said Mike Brewster.
“And?” Mac asked.
There was laughter. “Most of us couldn’t even name the local professional team,” Mike said, so we’re guessing no.”
“There are two,” Mac said. “The Sound and the Reign. The Reign is in a 14-game winning streak. They’re amazing.”
“You watch women’s soccer?” someone else asked incredulously.
Mac nodded. “I share a house with my aunt on Queen Anne,” he said. “She’s an art professor at the U. She and her friends are very into women’s soccer. I’ve not seen anything like them. Not even college football fans. Or the Seahawks. I don’t know how common their loyalty is, but it’s something else.”
“But do men watch it?” Mike asked.
“I do,” Mac said. “There are worse things to watch than women running around in tight shorts.”
Everyone laughed. “So, what’s it like to work for Janet, speaking of women?” another reporter asked. He was lounging back in his club chair, one leg over the arm of it, drinking what looked to be scotch.
Poser, Mac thought with a mental eye roll. “Best boss I’ve ever had,” he said. “What’s Whitaker like?”
And that turned the topic to everyone’s favorite topic, their own boss. Mac listened.
The men liked Steve Whitaker. Thought he was a serious journalist. That’s what they wanted to be. They talked about IRE and NICAR and investigative reporting. And that Whitaker was fighting to keep real journalism alive at the Examiner. They were dismissive of beat reporting, of features. Sports was needed as relief from the serious news of the day. And an editorial page.
“Our editorial page sucks,” said one of the men, a guy named Christopher Johnson.
Mac agreed.
“Too much emphasis on diverse opinions. It lacks focus and seriousness.”
“What pages do you like?” Mac asked. “Diverse opinions seem to be the norm.”
One suggested the Wall Street Journal, but got hooted down. The New York Times, of course, but that wasn’t possible to replicate out here.
“I like the LA Times editorial section,” Mac said.
Silence again. “You read the LA Times?” Chris asked.
Mac nodded. “Had a prof who liked it, and I started reading it to earn brownie points,” he said with a grin. Everyone laughed. “And lo and behold, the damn thing grew on me. And I still check them out whenever there’s a regional or national debate going on.”
“Anyone going to order food?” someone asked. “Burgers here are good,” he told Mac.
So, Mac joined them in eating burgers and fries. And they were pretty good, Mac thought.
Happy hour ended at 6 p.m. and there was a different crowd beginning to fill the bar, older, wealthier. But still white men in suits. The few women joined them tended toward tight dresses and high heels, which made Mac curious. But the Examiner crew tossed money on the table and headed out.
“Happy hour? It’s a great place,” Mike Brewster said as they left. “But it gets stuffy later. We going to see you around more?”
“Probably,” Mac said. “It was pointed out to me that my life was getting too work-focused, and I needed to broaden my social life.”
“So, you’re going hang with people you work with?” Mike said. “That’s probably not what they meant.”
Mac laughed. “Beats hanging with cops,” he pointed out to everyone’s laughter.
Interesting, he thought as he drove home. And he had had a good time, somewhat to his surprise.
Once he got home, he logged into Facebook and started making inroads into the world of Cabot Williams and George Martin. He used the list of names Joe Dunbar had given him. He befriended a few who seemed particularly active.
But it was MLK4whites that he zeroed in on. He traced his friends. He looked at who he reposted. At his comments. The Facebook groups he belonged to.
At 10 p.m. he logged off and sat back. Did people realize how much personal information they were giving away online? Even the most paranoid accounts like MLK4whites — Mac fumed every time he saw that name — were open about who they associated with, what they read, and who they looked up to. He thought he’d recognize MLK4whites if he met him in real life.
The Sensei was more enigmatic, however. Shorty had figured out who was involved here out of the millions who used the name, and Mac was curious as to how he’d done it. He posted very little. His friends list was blocked from public view. Mac approved. He put in a friend request, and answered the man’s questions: Do you own guns?
