Dire Means (18 page)

“No, but I think my ego will be sore tomorrow,” Mark said. “I just realized that they broadcast that already. My phone’s been blowing up ever since.”

“Of course they broadcast it. It was live and a hot story, man! I was flipping through the local news channels and you’re on almost all of them, Superman. Hey, did you know that guy?”

“No.”

“What did he say to you? Give me the play by play.”

“Listen, Brian, I’m not really up for it right now. Let me catch up with you later.”

“Aww, c’mon, man!”

“Seriously. I’ve got to go. Sorry.”

Mark pressed the End button. He cupped his face and exhaled. His answering machine beeped every five seconds and showed twelve new messages. He pressed Play and got a pen and paper from his coffee table.

The first message was from his mom in Florida who had heard the news from a family friend and urged Mark to call her back. The remaining messages were from friends who had seen the news and were calling to make sure their eyes had not deceived them.

The phone rang again and the caller ID showed private. Mark let it go to the answering machine and used his cell phone to call his mom in Florida.

She answered on the first ring, saying, “Thank God you’re alright. Now, why were you in your underwear?”

Mark gave her a brief summary of his predicament with Al and put her fears to rest. After a stern reprimand for the danger he had put himself in, she admitted that she was proud of him.

Since the news had been shown on prime time local television, Mark’s act was saved on the DVR’s of thousands of people in greater Los Angeles and already broadcast over the Internet. He took out his laptop and found streaming footage of the incident. The cameras zoomed in on his waist when he slipped his pants off. Watching this, he winced and then relaxed, resigned to the reality that there was no taking back his choice that night. No big deal—probably. In fact, people might even call his act heroic. The problem was that Mark hadn’t sought to be a hero. He had simply wanted to avoid a new nightmare of failing to prevent a suicide.

He turned off his phone’s ringer, disabled the message-alert beep on his answering machine, and slapped off the kitchen light. He wanted to dive into bed, but instead he crept between his sheets with a tenderness that respected his aches. He tucked his hand under his pillow and reveled in a moment of quiet darkness. He realized that his act atop the building in Santa Monica had likely launched his fifteen minutes of fame. While he slept, his answering machine worked overtime. The number of saved messages ticked up and up as friends, family and former coworkers left messages of inquiry and congratulations. Most asked for a call back.

Todd woke Mark by pounding on the door at 6:00 a.m. yelling, “Buddy, you’re famous! C’mon, open up.”

Mark mumbled as he struggled into some jeans. When he unlocked the door, Todd came in and yelled, “Oh my God! You’re a superhero!”

“Shhhh!” Mark said, closing the door to spare his neighbors. “Don’t you ever whisper?”

Todd was giddy and paced in Mark’s small living room. “Buddy, what got into you? I know you are into giving to beggars, but I never thought I’d see you on TV, standing on a skyscraper rescuing one—and naked! What was that about?”

“Look, it wasn’t a skyscraper and I got drawn into the situation. I wasn’t trying to be a hero,” Mark said. “I was the first person to see the guy so I tried to help him. The TV cameras happened to be nearby and found us.”

“Well, you better get ready to sign autographs, buddy.”

“Naaaah.”

“You don’t believe me? There’s a news van out there getting ready for you right now.”

“What?” Mark parted the blinds to peer into the courtyard.

“I went jogging this morning. When I came back, a Channel 5 van was parked out front. So I turn on my morning news, and what do I see? My next door neighbor saving a bum on a building. Man, I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks.” Mark jiggled his doorknob to make sure it was locked and turned on the TV. He saw himself high above Rona Vintage Clothing, shouting down at the crowd. Al stood beside him, looking down, his face shadowed by his baseball cap and his noose tucked out of site.

The anchorwoman said, “Mark Denny, a computer support technician, performed a heroic act, stripping down to his underwear to approach a despondent man and foil a suicide attempt. Denny, twenty-nine years old from Venice, appeared to be in conversation with the desperate man. After disrobing to his underwear, he suddenly dove, risking his own life to save the suicidal vagrant. It is not yet known if Denny’s stripping act was a distraction tactic, or if it was the result of conversation with the suicidal man. We’ll have more on this extraordinary footage later…”

Mark stood and shook his head at the TV. Todd jumped up after him and demanded a high-five that Mark ignored.

“Hey, did that guy make you strip?”

“Look, Todd, I’ll tell you about it later, but right now I need your help.”

“Whatever you want, buddy.”

“I don’t want to talk to the media. I’m hungry. I have to get to a client appointment that I’ve already postponed once. If they come to the door could you run some interference and help me get out of here?”

“Say no more.” Todd went to the blinds and peered through. “Here they come,” he said.

A female reporter in a business suit approached. She had a clipboard tucked under her arm and talked on her phone as she examined the unit numbers—looking for Mark’s. A man behind her shouldered a large TV camera.

Mark joined Todd at the window and said, “Get rid of them and don’t tell them anything! I’m going to grab a quick shower.”

Mark went to the bathroom while Todd dealt with the reporter, telling her that Mark was not home and would not grant an interview even if he were. The reporter was persistent and pressed Todd for Mark’s whereabouts. This set off a brief argument that ended with Todd slamming the door. Mark heard this from the shower and, for once, was grateful for Todd’s loud mouth.

After he dressed, Mark found Todd flipping channels on the TV. He poured some coffee.

“Let’s go to Bonfiglio for breakfast,” Todd said.

“You think I’m going to get hounded?”

“Look, buddy, you got no choice here. You did something wild and people want to know about you. Today, the whole city will be talking about what you did. You’re gonna have to deal with it.”

“I suppose. I just wish it hadn’t been caught on tape.”

Todd went to peer through the peep hole when Mark noticed that the display on his answering machine was blinking Full.

“Hold on, Todd.”

He pressed play and the machine announced, “You have fifty-three messages. Memory full.”

Todd pumped his fist in the air, cheering.

Mark leaned back against the refrigerator and laughed in disbelief. For the next fifteen minutes, he listened and took some notes while Todd silently cheered in amazement with each new message.

While Mark took down the names of his callers, there were two more knocks at his door. Mark motioned for Todd not to answer. Todd peeked out the peep hole and gestured as if he were holding a microphone.

Between the many well wishes and congratulations from family and friends were requests for interviews from newspapers and TV stations. Three local morning TV shows left phone contact information, each packed with urgency for Mark to call as soon as possible.

Producers from “Good Morning America” and “The Today Show” left requests for exclusives, promising to accommodate Mark’s choice of flight, hotel, dining, and scheduling requirements. If he couldn’t fly to New York immediately they offered to send a crew to him for an interview at his convenience.

Mark turned on his telephone’s ringer and in less than a minute a new call came in. He turned it back off. He pressed speed dial for voicemail on his mobile phone and discovered that it, too, was full.

As they continued to listen, Todd pointed to the answering machine and said, “You gotta find a way to make money on this. You’re gonna be rich!”

Mark frowned, shook his head and checked his watch. He pressed stop on his answering machine and said, “I need to get going. I’ll listen to the rest of these on the road.” He had listened to, and deleted, over thirty of the messages and had a list of almost as many numbers scrawled on a piece of paper.

“Bonfiglio?”

“I’ll try it…” Mark said. “I don’t want to make a scene.”

“You sound like a rock star.” Todd peered through the blinds again. “I’ve got an idea,” he said.

Mark followed Todd along the upper walkway, down the steps, and out a side door located within the courtyard. It exited to an alley and they were able to reach the street without leaving through the apartment’s main entrance—now staked out by reporters. Three news vans sat on the street. Near them, a reporter spoke into a microphone with the apartment complex as a backdrop. Todd and Mark crossed the street at a great enough distance to avoid notice.

At 7:00, Bonfiglio Café was already serving its regular customers. Todd went in and held the door open for Mark. Henry said, “Hey, there he is,” and began to clap his hands. Patrons turned to look and then the applause spread around the square counter as people rose to their feet. A few minutes earlier they had seen the news on the café’s TV.

Mark smiled. Todd, next to him, clapped too, but stopped as soon as Mark noticed him. Althea came out from behind the counter, gave Mark a big hug, and told him how proud she was of him. She squeezed his arms as if to check for damage.

The applause subsided and they sat at the counter. A loud voice said, “Good!” Mark turned to see Mashy point a finger at him and smile.

“Scared is a better word, Mashy,” Mark replied. He pointed a finger at himself and Mashy’s shoulders shook in a silent laugh.

The TV news had transitioned from Mark’s heroic act to the missing people in Santa Monica. Another woman had vanished yesterday. Now thirteen people were missing.

“That was a helluva brave thing you did, kid!” a postal carrier yelled from the opposite side of the café. “Why’d you strip?” All eyes turned to Mark.

“It was a dare. I was desperate to help and that’s all I can say,” Mark replied, hoping he wouldn’t be asked to elaborate. His answer seemed to satisfy them.

Henry slid plates and placed utensils in front of Mark and Todd. “Breakfast for you today is on the house,” he said.

“Oh, you don’t have to—”

“No, I insist. Whatever you want.” Henry opened a menu and handed it to Mark. “I tell you what,” he said, “if I’m in danger, I want this guy standing near me.” Henry thumbed at Mark for all the patrons to see.

“No doubt about that,” Todd said.

Since Henry would not accept Mark’s usual order of a bagel and coffee, Mark ate as much as he could of his eggs, hash browns, toast, fruit, and pastries. Afterward, he thanked Henry, said good-bye to Todd, and left the café. 

§

Northbound on the 405, Mark exited on Sunset, going east to Bel Air. He arrived at the home of Jaffey Melugin, a wealthy commercial real estate tycoon. Jaffey had been one of Mark’s first clients and developed a great trust in Mark to handle his personal computer needs at his multiple local homes as well as his Beverly Hills office. Today’s visit would be routine: set up Internet connectivity and two new computers in Jaffey’s guest house.

Mark’s car rolled to a stop a few feet from the massive entry gate. He rolled down his window and pressed the intercom call button. The speaker hissed and a voice with a heavy Spanish accent announced, “Melugin’s residence.”

“Hi Camille, it’s Mark.”

The hiss muted and the gate jerked. It crept open, sliding into a brick wall that surrounded the entire property. Mark drove in and crossed a bridge over a stream that ran lively during the day thanks to some powerful pumps on timers that Mark had helped Jaffey program to control from a computer in the home. The Melugin’s steep driveway was long, winding, and disappeared from sight a short distance from the entrance gate.

Mark reached the top of the hill and the estate came into view. The Jaffey home was opulent—even by Bel Air standards. It was secluded, yet had a near 360-degree view that included mountains, ocean, and distant city lights. The twelve acres of landscaping and gardens, two guest cottages, three floors of living space totaling something over 14,000 square feet were designed by Jaffey himself. A full-time staff of eighteen managed it.

The driveway led to a motor court where valets stood ready to park and wash guests’ cars.

Mark pulled up beside Javier, one of Jaffey’s assistants, who was removing a portable wardrobe of dry cleaning from the back of a white van.

“Hi, Jav. Mr. Melugin inside?” Mark asked as he closed his car door and slung his black computer bag over his shoulder.

“Yes, Mr. Mark. Go on in, sir,” Javier nodded toward an arched wooden gate.

Mark opened the gate and entered a rose garden. He followed a path past a polished fountain. At the end of the path he came to a pair of carved wooden doors and swung one open.

“Camille?” he called.

“Yes, Mr. Denny.” A woman in a house cleaning uniform and white shoe covers appeared. “Mr. Melugin is waiting for you in his study.” Camille vanished around the same corner from which she had appeared.