Dire Means (10 page)

“Unbelievable.”

“Yeah. Uncle Leon eats at the pizzeria any time he wants for free.”

“So Uncle Leon visits Allegro often?”

“Yes, and he’s all over the Promenade when he isn’t volunteering.”

“Where does he volunteer?”

“He works at the Soft Landing Shelter House just a few blocks that way,” Chad said as he gave a sloppy hand gesture out window. “I think they feed him there, too.”

He pulled the car into a metered parking space on Main Street and got out.

Mark opened his door and said, “Here, I’ll help you carry those in.”

Chad held up his hand and said, “Hold on. You probably ought to wait—I’ve got it.”

Mark eased back into his seat and closed the door. “Right. I’m unappetizing.”

“Sorry, dude.” Chad got out, stacked his pizzas, and disappeared into an office building.

After the delivery, Chad dropped Mark off on the corner, one block from his apartment at Mark’s insistence. As Mark neared the walkway to his apartment he was excited to be almost home. The notion of rest and food in the privacy of his apartment quickened his pace despite his aches.

The two-story apartment complex was U-shaped and enclosed a courtyard that opened to the street. Mark lived upstairs at the bottom of the U. His living room window opened to the courtyard, which featured a few planters and a dried-up fountain stained with pigeon droppings. The fountain was flanked by torn, sun-faded patio furniture on one side and resident mailboxes on the other.

An outdoor staircase led to an upper floor walkway that wrapped the inner perimeter of the building. All unit doors faced inward and enabled all residents to witness the arrival or departure of any neighbor. Slipping a key into a mailbox assured that several blinds in the overlooking apartments would part as nosy neighbors peeked through.

Mark didn’t have his keys, but did have a magnetic key box that he hid it under the mailboxes. His mailbox was near the bottom so despite the peeking neighbors, removing the metal box without revealing its hiding place was easy. His apartment manager, Todd Felsom, was a friend and next-door neighbor so there was little chance Mark would ever be locked out. Still, he liked the key box; he’d rather not ask Todd for help if he were ever locked out.

He scanned the courtyard and then retrieved his secret key. As he climbed the stairs, he prepared for the possibility that Todd Felsom might see or hear him. Todd was an irresistibly friendly beach bum who made it a point to know as much of Mark’s business as possible, and would no doubt make a scene if he saw Mark’s current condition.

Last night Todd and Mark had another of their frequent arguments about the legitimacy of panhandlers that were so prevalent in their neighborhood, and more so north in Santa Monica. Todd maintained that many of the homeless were scam artists who actually made good money hoodwinking well-meaning people who were suckers enough to give. “These guys rack up fists full of cash hidden in their dirty clothes,” Todd insisted.

Mark disagreed, rebutting Todd’s claim with a news report he had seen saying that even in a busy intersection, panhandlers are lucky to make ten bucks a day.

Now Mark eased down the walkway, hoping to slip into his unit unnoticed. His plan was to shower, get food to top off his slice of pizza, and then spend the rest of the afternoon contacting his insurance and credit card companies.

He had almost made it to his front door when he heard Todd’s voice.

“Hey, is that you, Buddy?” Todd hollered from inside his apartment. A moment later Todd’s screen door flew open and he peered out, dressed in a black unzipped wet suit with an egg surfboard tucked under his arm.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Mark said, keeping his face low and close to his door so Todd wouldn’t see his busted mouth or swollen eye.

“Doo-hoo-hoo-d! What happened to you?” Todd’s voice echoed throughout the courtyard and the curtains in several units parted.

Mark got his door open, and was inside with the screen door closed behind him before Todd could approach.

“What happened to you?” Todd asked again.

“I’ll tell you later. I really have to take care of some stuff right now.”

“Buddy, you look like you might need a hospital or something. Did you fall off a bus?”

Mark closed the door to a crack and said, “I’m fine. I’ll see you later.”

“Hey, will you be here about four? When I get back I’m gonna be hungry.” Todd lifted his surfboard for Mark to see. “Thought you might wanna head over to Bonfiglio Café for some grub.”

“Not today. Really, I have too much to do,” Mark replied.

“Suit yourself,” Todd said as he turned and began to retreat down the walkway. “But I bet you’re going to be hungry,” he yelled over his shoulder. “I’ll ask you again when I get back, Buddy.”

Todd called Mark “Buddy” since the day they met—long before Mark felt like a buddy. Todd always seemed to greet people with more enthusiasm than Mark could understand—like a puppy after its owner arrived home from an extended absence. The excitement was nice for a few minutes, but then Mark wished the pooch would calm down.

Todd seemed to carry with him an innocence that made it difficult to get mad at the guy. Even when Mark would boot Todd out of his apartment so he could get some work done, Todd never held a grudge. In fact, he would often be standing outside Mark’s door an hour later, hollering in to see if Mark wanted to catch a movie. Life was good for Todd. After inheriting a fortune—that included this very apartment complex—from his grandmother, he moved in to spend his days surfing. Lack of financial worry only added to Todd’s zest for life.

Mark closed the door and sank to his knees as the weight of the day’s events caught up to him in his first private moment.

His one-bedroom apartment was spotless. Cleanliness was easy to maintain since his place was so small and furnished with only the bachelor basics: a sofa, an entertainment center, a dining room table and chairs he had assembled himself. He had a cheap particle-board bedroom set.

In the living room, an antique coffee table given to him by his mom doubled as his office desk. It had a cleared space for his laptop between a notepad and some tourist magazines on California—an inadequate attempt at an aesthetic touch for the rare occasion he had company other than Todd.

Each evening at six o’clock he cleared his coffee table of any client-related paperwork without fail. It helped him maintain his strict line between his personal and business lives.

The kitchen had a stove and refrigerator included with the rental. He kept the vertical blinds drawn on the living room window facing the courtyard. Having no privacy for his entrances and exits, Mark was determined to keep his inner apartment completely private—even at the expense of the two hours of morning sunlight his unit got. This opened him up to ribbing from Todd, but Mark didn’t care.

More than anything now, he simply wanted to take a shower and change, but decided to first top off the delicious pizza slice he had with Uncle Leon. His stomach had returned to grumbling.

As he opened the fridge, he noticed the blinking light on his answering machine that sat on the countertop within arm’s reach. He pressed the play button. A female voice said, “Mr. Denny, this is American Express calling to confirm a charge of twenty-one hundred dollars on your card at 11:13 a.m. today. Please contact us to verify this charge. Thank you.”

Before the next message could begin, Mark hobbled to his bedroom, leaving the refrigerator door open to swing shut on its own. He grabbed the phone and called American Express from the caller ID.

At first he was concerned only about the inconvenience of losing his wallet. Now he was afraid the problem may have grown to affect his financial and possibly his physical safety. Ty and his accomplice had his home address information, birthday, and more than enough information to steal his identity if not stake out and burgle his home.

Mark closed his eyes to concentrate. He tried to visualize the contents of his wallet. He carried a health insurance card and two other credit cards—a MasterCard and a Visa bank check card. Mark now assumed they would soon be maxed out if they weren’t already.

After wading through a series of automated prompts, an American Express human picked up. She helped him cancel his card and assured him of non-liability for any fraudulent charges. Mark’s worry subsided only a bit, as he spent the next hour calling his bank, insurance company, the DMV, a car rental agency, his other credit card companies and the client with whom he had an appointment that morning.

While waiting on hold, he turned on the television. Police had no leads on the seven people who had gone missing in as many days. It was not only the number of disappearances, but also the regularity with which people had disappeared that had brought this story to the front of the local news broadcasts. Last year Santa Monica had six missing-persons cases. Now seven in one week was big news.

Mark had missed the press conference on this story, but they were about to show the highlights. The camera showed a long table with several families sitting behind it. A reporter announced that family members of each of the missing people were present and that each family would have an opportunity to say a few words to the public regarding their missing loved one. One by one, with wobbly voices and long pauses, they took turns between the fumbling, sniffling, and adjusting of microphones to plead for the safe return of their loved ones.

Near the end of the press conference, a reporter asked the last family member if there was any chance that their twenty-year-old daughter had simply run away. The father jumped to his feet and pounded his fist on the table, rattling the mics. He jabbed his finger toward the reporters, saying, “Don’t you dare try to make this into something it isn’t. She wouldn’t do that! I’m her father—we talk three times a day!”

The man’s wife whispered consolation into his ear as she pulled him by the arm from the press. Her words failed to calm him. “My daughter would have called!” he shouted as he backed out of the room. “She would have called.” He said this again and again until he was gone.

Chapter Eight

MARK’S LAPTOP SAT on his coffee table opened to an identity theft assistance web page. At a little after three o’clock, he fell asleep. An ice pack he had alternated between his lip and eye lay melting on the couch beside him. It was made from a re-sealable plastic bag filled with a clump of ice cubes melted and refrozen together after several power outages that plagued the apartment complex. A pounding on his screen door startled him.

“Let’s go, Buddy. I’m starving!” Todd’s voice reverberated throughout the courtyard like an intercom announcement. Back from surfing, his still-wet hair was slicked back. Mark heard two windows slam shut outside followed by Todd shouting, “Sorry ma’am!” even louder.

Mark stood up and winced from the pain in his ribs. He was stiffer and he felt new bruises on his legs. His left knee felt like someone had injected acid under his kneecap. He groaned his way to the door. “Look, I’m a little tired, I’m going to pass,” Mark said through the screen door.

“Aw, c’mon, Buddy! You need to get out. Let’s run to Bonfiglio,” Todd insisted.

Mark opened the door—more to end Todd’s courtyard shouting than to be hospitable, and Todd marched in.

“Da-yum, Buddy! What happened to your mouth?” Todd said, laughing with disbelief.

“I was attacked,” Mark said. He eased back down onto his couch.

Todd stopped laughing and looked sideways at Mark, skeptical.

“I offered to help some guys that needed gas and got the crap kicked and punched out of me. They took my wallet and car.”

“No way! Your ride too?”

Mark nodded, staring at the floor.

“Buddy, I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, well…”

For a moment Todd had nothing to say. He just shook his head while examining Mark. He broke his silent spell by saying, “C’mon, let’s get something to eat, Buddy. It’ll be good for you. You need some food.” He held the front door open, gesturing for Mark to exit.

Mark wasn’t in the mood for Todd’s loud company, but his fridge held nothing appetizing and waiting until tomorrow to get cash and groceries wasn’t an attractive idea. “I just told you I’ve got no wallet and no money and I don’t feel like walking anymore today…”

“I’m paying. I’m betting that the rest of your story is gonna be worth whatever our tab is,” Todd said, waving harder for Mark to go out the door. “Do you want me to drive you three blocks? Or Old Man Robins downstairs has a wheelchair—I bet he’d let us borrow it.” Todd laughed loudly at his own joke.

On the slow, three block walk to Bonfiglio Café, Mark relayed the experience of the two men and the empty gas can as he kept his upper body stiff and moved his arms little to avoid pain.

“Look, I’m sorry you got hurt, Buddy, but I could have told you that gas-money scam is old. In fact, I think I saw it on TV once.”

“Thanks for that. Apparently everybody knew about it except me.”

They rounded the corner onto Abbott Kinney Boulevard and saw Bonfiglio Café, a mom and pop eatery run by Henry and Althea Bonfiglio. Its appearance resembled a cottage more than a restaurant, with its clean white exterior, neatly railed sitting porch and shake roof. The age-worn green neon sign jetted out from above the front door with two letters burned out. The Open sign and the patrons standing in line outside the door at meal times were the only indicators that Bonfiglio Café was a commercial establishment. Inside, Henry and Althea had made a decent attempt to decorate it with a surfing theme complete with long boards hung on the wall blending into a wallpaper mural of a beach with sand.