Dire Means (11 page)

The Café had grown to enjoy local fame. One could tell rough time by the grill exhaust venting over the nearby streets. Long before the café opened, the aroma of Althea’s fresh baked bread wafted from its ovens, through the vents and into the windows of early-risers blocks away.

By 11:30 a.m., the aroma shifted to grilled onions, peppers, steaks and soups to go with the bread.

Dinner time brought the hearty smells of the café’s famous chili and Henry’s Tequila-Jalapeño marinated steaks seared with his secret surf ‘n turf rub.

A television mounted near the ceiling had instigated many a heated argument in Bonfiglio Café since Henry insisted that it stay tuned to all news, all the time. Politics was the most common reason for debate in Bonfiglio Café, but Henry would always keep the tension from becoming physical by yelling, “Hey! Guys, take it outside. We got kids in here.” He’d say this whether kids were present in the café or not and it always seemed to work.

All seats in Bonfiglio Café were counter seats featuring a red vinyl rotating stool and chrome menu rack at each place setting. The counter wrapped around the cashier and grill so that each patron could see their food preparation from beginning to end. Althea and Henry Bonfiglio worked full time with only a chef named Mario as an employee.

It was 4:20 when Todd and Mark entered—just ahead of the dinner rush. Todd sat at his favorite stool and made it a point to greet each of the patrons in his usual style—with too much volume. Most of the café’s regulars acknowledged Todd’s greeting with a nod or a simple “hello.”

“What happened to you? Car accident?” Henry asked Mark. He paused from his grillwork and peeked over his partly-steamed bifocals to examine Mark’s face. Mark had cleaned up as well as possible after his shower, but it would take a week or more to hide the injuries to his face.

“Good Lord! You look like a train hit you, Darlin’!” Althea chimed in as she stepped over for a look too.

“He kicked some ass today,” Todd answered for Mark. Some the diners turned their attention from the TV to Mark.

“Todd, please...” Mark said, lifting his hand to silence Todd. “I was assaulted today and got some souvenirs out of the deal.” Althea gently touched Mark’s chin and he turned his head slightly for a better look. Althea had a maternal air about her—especially with the younger men like Mark.

“Thank God you are still alive,” Henry said. “Did they catch the guy?”

“It was two of them, and no, they got away,” Mark answered, raising his hand again for Todd to be quiet and let him answer.

Todd obliged him, but then said, “Yeah, but not before Markie cracked open a can of whup ass on one of them though.”

Henry said, “Listen—we feed sick and afflicted here. No charge for your dinner tonight. Whatever you want.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Mark protested. Henry pressed his hands against his ears and turned his head as if he didn’t want to hear it.

“You want the usual? I just made a new batch, Hon,” Althea said to Mark as she stepped to the cash register to swipe another customer’s credit card.

“Sure, thank you. I appreciate it,” Mark said.

“Steak and lobster, my friend,” Todd said. He ate steak almost every day.

Three years earlier, when Mark first began dining at Bonfiglio, he overheard Henry venting to one of his patrons about a computer problem. Apparently, Henry had suffered a computer crash that had rendered much of Bonfiglio’s business data inaccessible and the computer unusable. Henry lamented that they would need months if not more than a year to reenter their financial and inventory data into a new computer—if that was even possible.

Mark apologized for butting into the conversation, and offered to take a look at the crippled computer for him. Henry agreed, wary at first because he didn’t know what Mark might charge him.

That evening, Mark spent over an hour, after closing, pounding commands into the sick computer’s keyboard and plugging in external devices to reconfigure and reset settings. He managed to recover all of the Bonfiglio’s computer data and actually fine-tuned their computer to work better than it ever had.

When Henry and Althea saw their monitor display their inventory and bookkeeping information on the screen Henry yelled, “Bravo,” clapping and cheering with his hands up high. Althea clutched a dishrag to her face, nearly in tears with gratitude. Mark’s refusal to allow them to pay him launched the Bonfiglios into a tirade that Mark couldn’t escape without at least accepting a free meal the next day.

Henry knew Mark as a regular and it hadn’t taken long for him to notice that Mark was vegetarian. He put together a new vegetarian recipe composed of some fresh, leftover ingredients he had on hand at the Café that day. Mushrooms, olive oil, macaroni, several types of cheeses, seasoning and other vegetables combined to make a spicy baked macaroni dish.

The next day Henry gave Mark a sample and after Mark pronounced the dish to be absolutely delicious, Henry put it on the menu, naming it Mark’s Macaroni Madness. Althea made sure to keep enough of the ingredients in inventory to have a portion prepared and ready for Mark at least a once a week.

“Another person gone,” Henry said. He slid napkins and clean utensils in front of Mark and Todd and then pointed up to the television where the rest of the Bonfiglio diners were focused. “Somebody’s pickin’ folk off,” he said, and then pursed his lips at the gravity of it all. He grabbed his exclusive remote control from under the counter and turned the volume up.

The anchorwoman recapped the few known details of the first seven disappearances as a square graphic appeared displaying all seven photos in a grid with names superimposed under each.

“Keith Mendalsen, the founder of Mendalsen Investments was the first person reported missing a week ago. He was last seen by his secretary as he left his twelfth floor office in the ALCO Development building. His phone service provider has been able to confirm that since that time, his phone has not been used. They also indicated that Mendalsen’s phone signal was turned off approximately two miles from his office at 8:42 a.m. With the phone not in use, it is impossible to get a trace on the phone’s location, according to his service provider.”

The news report continued, reviewing where the next six victims were last seen in Santa Monica.

Brandon Chargon and Jackie Dunbarton, the second and third missing persons were last seen by coworkers at their respective office buildings. The cars of both were found in their assigned parking spaces, untouched.

Police found the cars of Dana Erweiller, a registered nurse, and Lucy Carabello, owner of a nail salon, abandoned on opposite ends of Ocean Avenue overlooking Santa Monica Beach.

The subsequent disappearances were reported from various parts of Santa Monica and involved people of widely varying professions and residential locations, with no common thread. The cars of the missing persons had all been recovered. Neither the vehicle condition nor the location was abnormal. The eighth and most recent disappearance was a postal carrier whose abandoned postal truck was found after being missing for twenty-four hours.

The anchorwoman encouraged anyone with information about these missing people to please call the 800 number shown on the screen. She urged calm and reminded the public that any lead, no matter how small, was important. “If you see something, say something,” she ended.

Henry turned the TV volume back down to its normal level, triggering a buzz of voices speculating on the disappearances.

“Surf and Turf, baby!” Todd shouted as Henry placed his food before him. Todd’s excitement about his food seemed misplaced and caused scowls from nearby diners.

Althea served Mark a melted cube of the delicious, gooey macaroni dish named after him.

“I sure hope it’s not a serial killer,” she said from behind the counter. “It’s so many dear souls so quick. I hope nobody’s killing ‘em.”

“Naaaa,” Henry argued. “Serial killers want the same type of victim again and again. These missing people are too different from each other.”

“Dead!” an old man at the end of the counter hollered. He was another local regular who was practically a fixture at Bonfiglio Café. His nickname was Mashy because on any given day he could be seen eating mashed potatoes at the counter, After having a stroke last year, Mashy spoke in only one- or two-word sentences. Henry and Althea had taken a strong liking to Mashy and fed him meals in exchange for the minimal amount of help he could give them sweeping up their supply room after hours.

“DEAD!” Mashy said louder. “All.” He lifted his hands in the air and raised eight crooked fingers. For a few moments everyone stopped and considered the proclamation.

Althea broke the silence. “Well, you can’t know for sure, and me and you both hope you’re wrong, don’t we, Mashy?” But he just shook his head and went back to eating his potatoes.

The November sun had all but disappeared, dragging dusk over the city and darkening everything on Mark and Todd’s walk home. They walked in silence—unusual for Todd. Both of them kept a watchful eye as they passed the few buildings and alleys that lined their route home.

As they approached their apartment complex, a sick feeling developed in Mark’s gut—a feeling that became stronger each time he remembered the loss of his car, keys, identification, and credit cards. A stranger had them.

They turned to walk up the sidewalk to the base of the apartment stairs. Mark slowed and checked over his shoulder, scanning the cars on the street to see if anyone was sitting, waiting, or watching him. What if Ty was staking out his place?

“What’s your problem, Buddy?” Todd said. “Who are you looking for?”

“No one,” Mark said. At the top of the steps they headed down the walkway to their units. “Listen,” Mark said to Todd, reducing his voice to a whisper, hoping Todd would do the same. “Those guys this morning—they took my ID. I think they may come back to rob my place.”

“Chances are slim to none. Your car is in a million pieces by now,” Todd said, resting his wrist on Mark’s shoulder.

Mark stepped away and closed his eyes.

“Look, I’m sorry to give you bad news, but that’s what they do—they call ‘em chop shops. You got insurance?”

Mark nodded.

“Then you’ll be fine. You’re gonna end up with a better car than your Camry after your claim. As for the stuff in your place, what do you own that a thug would want?”

“TV, computer…not much I suppose, but—”

“Ha! You gotta learn to relax and enjoy life, Buddy, or you’re gonna kill yourself from the inside out!” Todd emitted a cackle that returned his voice to its usual grating volume. “And I’ll get your door rekeyed tomorrow. Don’t worry about it!”

“Alright, see you then,” Mark said. He hesitated at his apartment door.

“Want me to check your closets for ya?” Todd’s laugh echoed throughout the courtyard as he continued to his own apartment.

Someone hissed, “Shhhh!” out of their window before slamming it shut.

“Oh relax!” Todd shouted back.

Mark couldn’t sleep. Each time he dozed off, any sound—each click of a closing door in another part of the complex or the footsteps of a neighbor passing by his front door—opened his eyes. He imagined the bitter irony of Ty and his accomplice using his own car and keys to come rob him again.

He finally fell into a restless sleep at 5:00 a.m.

§

At 6:30 a.m., Mark’s clock radio alarm jolted him straight up in bed even though the sound was familiar. The pain that invaded every joint of his body lingered and he groaned as he got up.

In the bathroom, he noticed the swelling in his eye had gone down, but a dark patch had developed under it and there was no way he could hide it.

The shower and fresh clothing made him feel better and that was progress. “Baby steps—good,” he muttered as he paused to look around his apartment, trying to remember if there was anything else he needed to do while he was out today.

He exited his front door and tucked his folded notes into his pocket as he walked the few steps to Todd’s front door. Todd had offered to drive Mark around town to help with the identity damage control and other chores. Mark knocked on Todd’s screen door and then peered in. Todd never locked his front door.

“Todd?”

“Enter!” Todd’s voice came from the back of his apartment. A few moments later he came out of the bathroom in his underwear, brushing his teeth. He held up a finger for Mark to wait and ducked back into the bathroom to spit.

“Where is our tour today going to start?” Todd said, with his irrepressible, buoyant mood.

“I need to drop by the DMV, my bank and then I can rent a car to take care of the rest on my own.”

“Like hell you will. Just use my car until you get your insurance settlement. I won’t need it while you are using it during the day.”

“Naa, I don’t want to drive your car. I get nervous in it. I don’t know how long I’ll need it. I’d just rather have my own.”

Todd shrugged and rolled his eyes. “Fine. Suit yourself.” He tucked his pulled-out pockets back into his shorts and stepped into his flip-flops by the door.

They walked from the apartment complex to a house next door. Todd pulled the frazzled rope handle to open the garage door. Inside, Todd flipped back a car cover to expose a pristine, black ‘63 Corvette Stingray.