Dire Means (19 page)

Mark made his way down the hallway lined with wood trim and smelling of furniture polish. The floors gleamed with a reflection that could rival a mirror. At the end of the hall, Mark knocked on the double doors of Jaffey Melugin’s private study.

“Come in, Mark.” The faint reply barely penetrated the doors.

Mark entered an office the size of an Olympic swimming pool. A fire crackled in a stone fireplace. Sofas and easy chairs faced it with enough seating for a dozen people. The high domed ceiling featured a mural of Jean Andre Rixens’s
Le Capitole
. The smell of coffee and wood burning offset the grandeur, making it feel cozy.

Jaffey sat behind an enormous mahogany desk. He put down his newspaper when he saw Mark.

“Hello, Mr. Melugin.”

“Good to see you, my friend.” Jaffey stood and extended a hand to Mark.

“It’s good to be back home,” Mark replied and they laughed.

Jaffey was dressed casually, with jeans, a button-down shirt, and loafers. At thirty-eight he had the trim build of an athlete.

“I’d like you to set up two new computer systems that are waiting for you in the guest house, but while I have you here, I want you to check my computer, too. It’s been slow the last couple of days and I think I may have screwed something up.”

“Glad to check that for you, may I?” Mark gestured toward Jaffey’s laptop.

Jaffey moved to a sofa and raised a remote toward the large television mounted on a wall facing the desk. He changed the channel a few times before he landed on a news channel that featured an anchor person announcing the disappearance of the thirteenth person.

Jaffey turned to Mark and said, “How about those people who keep dropping off the face of the earth? It’s crazy that officials won’t say they are abductions yet. Of course somebody’s nabbing these people. Say, don’t you live over in Santa Monica?”

“No, I live in Venice, but that’s close enough. My clients in that area are more paranoid every day so they’re keeping me busier.”

“How so?”

“Well, I’ve got a backlog of surveillance web cam installations. I’m getting calls for that almost every day now.”

“Really? So public fear is good for your bottom line, eh?” Jaffey laughed and snapped his newspaper open.

Mark knew that the news was likely to show his rescue of Al at some point. He wondered if it would happen while Jaffey was tuned in.

His wait wasn’t long. The next story began with a photo beside the anchorman’s head showing two figures on a building. The caption below read, “Stripping Savior.” The anchorman began the segment by saying: “Tourists walking the Promenade last night got a rare glimpse of an unorthodox form of heroism last night. Mark Denny, a local computer technician, managed to join a suicidal vagrant atop a building, ultimately saving the man’s life after lunging at him…”

Jaffey folded his newspaper. He looked at Mark, then back to the TV, and then back to Mark again. Through an incredulous laugh, Jaffey said, “Is this for real?”

“I’m afraid so,” Mark said. “I was fortunate enough to prevent the guy from jumping, but they are really blowing it out of proportion—”

“Shhhhh, hold on,” Jaffey interrupted. He stood to watch the actual footage and said, “My God, that is incredible! You took him down like a defensive tackle!” Jaffey’s eyes sparkled with new admiration. “Where did that come from? Did you know you had that in you?”

“No,” Mark said, still pecking keys, trying to focus on the computer. “I lost a great friend to suicide a short time ago. Something got into me last night. When I saw that guy,” Mark pointed to the TV, “I must have run for him with that energy and one thing led to another.”

“Unbelievable.” Jaffey slapped his knee as he smiled at Mark. “You’re too modest. But why the clothes off?”

“Sorry,” Mark said, grimacing.

Jaffey laughed. “No, seriously, what’s the story on that?”

“He wanted to see if I could pass some sort of humiliation test.”

“Are you sure he wasn’t just trying to get his rocks off?”

Mark nibbled his cheek, considering Jaffey’s question. “I suppose there’s a slight chance of that, but he had a hidden noose around his neck and it seemed like he was crying several times during our conversation. I doubt he was up there looking for excitement.”

“Man, I am so impressed. Can you stay for lunch today? I’d be honored.”

Mark checked his watch and said, “If I can finish your guest house by noon it’s a deal. Otherwise I’ll need to take a rain check.”

“Excellent.”

Mark set up the new computers in Jaffey’s guest house with plenty of time to spare. When Mark returned to Jaffey’s study, they talked over lunch about a project Jaffey wanted to launch in Santa Monica. It was an art gallery and Jaffey wanted to donate and convert it to a technology shelter for homeless people. A place where they could go to clean up, use email if they wished, listen to music, and watch television.

Mark told Jaffey about his experience at the Soft Landing Shelter House and the computers that he had set up there. Jaffey listened and congratulated Mark on his altruism. Jaffey was a generous philanthropist—particularly for the homeless cause—but he typically used his checkbook instead of his hands to contribute.

Mark’s phone vibrated non-stop during lunch so he finally turned it off.

He said good-bye to Jaffey and left through the rose garden. He turned on his phone and saw nineteen missed calls.

The valet brought his car. Mark drove out of the protective gates of the Melugin estate, his phone pressed against his ear to retrieve messages.

§

The next day, Mark had a full schedule of work. At every service call, clients congratulated him. A few strangers recognized him as he walked to and from his car. One woman said, “That was a brave thing you did.” A man said, “You sure do got guts, pal.” A young girl asked him for his autograph and Mark checked over his shoulder to make sure she wasn’t talking to someone else.

After work, he opened his mailbox. More letters than usual fell out, including a missing child card. In light of the missing people in Santa Monica, he actually studied the face of the child on the card and wondered if these would soon have rows of local faces instead of only one or two children.

As he neared the end of the walkway, he noticed a gift package the size of a shoebox placed squarely in the center of his doormat. It was wrapped in green paper topped with a shiny gold bow.

Inside his apartment, he pulled his stash of mail from his computer bag and tossed it on the kitchen counter beside the gift. He took a moment to study the package. It was simple and it came with no card. He checked all sides, searching for the scrawl of a name, a tag, or any identifying feature, but there was none. He pulled the gold bow loose and tore the paper, exposing a plain white box. As he opened the box, confetti swelled out like rising dough. He lifted a handful from the box and examined it. The thin strips of paper were white with spliced black lettering on them—document shreds.

He dug his hand deep into the confetti and felt an object the size of a wallet. He pulled it out and shook paper shreds from a gray cell phone that appeared to be brand new. He flipped it open and noticed that its keys were missing except
Call
and
End
.

The mystery had the earmark of one of Todd’s practical jokes. Mark was tempted to toss the phone into the trash, but knew curiosity would nag him indefinitely if he did. He pressed the
Call
key and lifted the phone to his ear. He didn’t hear the sound of a ring, but instead one high-pitched beep before a male voice said, “Hello, Mark Denny.”

Mark frowned. “Who is this?” he said.

“I hope my gift won’t be a letdown. My name is Pop.”

Mark pulled the phone from his ear and frowned at it for a moment. “What do you want?” he said.

“First I want to congratulate you on a job well done at the Brennan building.”

“What building?”

“The rooftop on the Promenade—the origin of your new fame? Your bravery took my breath away.”

“Thanks,” Mark said, barely above a whisper.

“You’re welcome, although my compliment is not a gift to you—you’ve earned my esteem.”

After an awkward pause, Mark said, “Is there something else I can do for you?”

The man on the phone cleared his throat. “Yes. I want to show you something that will please you. I promise it will be a better gift than a phone in a box.”

“What is it?”

“Although I could tell you, seeing it will give you a satisfaction that my words cannot.”

“Look, I’m flattered, but I really don’t have time for games. What are we talking about?”

“When I saw you save that poor brother on the rooftop, I knew that I had something that would appeal to you.”

“Look, you still haven’t answered my questions. This gift phone is a little weird and I don’t have time to—”

“I guarantee that you will be thrilled with this gift because it will soon please all heroes of your sort. Just meet with me once, Mark.”

“Listen, I don’t know who you are, ‘Pop,’ but thanks for your congratulations. I’m not interested—no offense.”

“No offense taken, but you will regret not knowing—I promise you that.”

“Fine. By the way, why the jimmy-rigged phone in a box? Why didn’t you just call my home phone? I’m listed.”

“Two reasons. First, I suspect you have a great number of calls to return since your answering machine is full. Second, I’m big on privacy.”

“So that’s why I’m talking on a phone with no number keys?”

“Yes.”

Mark thought this guy could be crazy after all. He decided that it was time to get off the phone. “Thank you for the offer—whatever it is. I’m not interested in meeting. Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Mark, if you hang up, the phone in your hand won’t operate a second time.”

“Thank you for your call.”

Before Mark could press the
End
button, the man said, “There’s a DVD under your doormat. Please play it. I’ll be in touch.” The line went dead. Mark pressed the Send key again. The LED was blank and did not respond. He tossed it back into the confetti-filled box and stepped outside his front door. Under his doormat, he found an unmarked DVD in a plain white paper case. He picked it up and flipped it over. It had no label.

The gas-money cons had taken his DVD player with his television so he reached under his sofa and pulled out his laptop. As it booted, he reviewed his odd conversation with this ‘Pop’ guy. All sorts of people had contacted him since his now-famous rescue. Some were gracious, others simple one-time congratulatory fans, yet many seemed more excited about Mark’s act than he felt was warranted. He wondered if this publicity had made him a more-likely target of obsession.

He put the DVD in his computer. The movie began with a black screen and the words “Part One” centered in white letters. It faded to a jittery, grainy image of cross traffic at a busy intersection. The camera steadied somewhat on a street sign labeled, “Wilshire Boulevard,” and then jerked left to the cross street’s sign, “12th St.” The camera wobbled back to slowing traffic on Wilshire and steadied. The cameraperson had to have been standing in the center median to get this angle of traffic.

The video showed a line of cars that waited in the left turn lane. It began to bob as it moved passed cars, turning to face each driver.

Most drivers turned away from the cameraperson—or locked their gaze straight ahead. Some drivers viewed the cameraperson with surprise. Others examined the cameraperson from foot to head before their expressions soured. The windows of drivers that the camera approached slid closed—just as they had for the gas-money cons.

The fifth car in line was a white Mercedes convertible with the top down. In it, a man in a dark pinstripe suit talked on his cell phone and worked a toothpick with his tongue.

The camera approached the car and paused beside its driver. The movie’s sound muted for a moment and then the driver told the person on the other end of his cell phone, “Hold on a minute.” He turned to the camera and said, “Can I spare change? I don’t want to spare one more second of my time on you, asshole.” The driver resumed his phone call, apologizing for the interruption.

The camera moved back and the audio muted again. Then the driver turned and said, “If you were really sorry to bother me, you wouldn’t, you parasite. Get a job.” The man spit his toothpick toward the camera. The car behind him honked. The light had turned green and the cars ahead of this driver had pulled away. The Mercedes’ tires chirped as it lurched ahead, its driver extending a middle finger toward the camera. The light turned yellow and a truck ahead stopped, forcing the Mercedes driver to slam on his brakes. He leaned on his horn, cussing over the open top of his convertible’s windshield at the driver in front who had decided not to stretch the yellow light.

The camera remained on the Mercedes from a distance of four car lengths. The driver got out and, leaving his car door open, he stormed toward the cameraperson. On the way, he tucked his phone into his suit pocket and pointed a finger at the cameraperson. Closing in, profanities flew from the driver’s mouth. The movie’s audio muted several times as the cameraperson spoke. At one point, two dirty gloved hands slid into frame. The driver slapped the hands aside and shoved the cameraperson. The image flipped up to the sky and then cut to static. The static faded to black and the words “Part One” appeared again on the screen.