Dire Means (48 page)

Morana knocked on Mark’s suite door at 7:00 a.m. After a sleepless night, his eyes were dry and he blinked hard on the way to the door. He had already put on new khaki pants and a collared olive shirt—no doubt bugged with the polymer battery just like all the other clothes.

The last time Mark had seen Morana she was standing beside Pop, her face soaked in tears. He hadn’t had an opportunity to speak to her about it, and wouldn’t get that opportunity unless they were able to find some private, shirtless, time somewhere while out.

“We’re doing another screening,” she said.

“Really?” Mark said, surprised that Pop would approve another movie after having reprimanded Morana yesterday.

“Yes, this movie is a symbolic reward. We’ve obtained twenty-five fodder, and today we deliver the fifteenth fodder back to the streets. For Pop, these numbers are a milestone and significant progress toward our goal. After we finish the delivery of the expired fodder, Pop is allowing us to screen the movie of our choice.” Morana delivered this news with the appearance of enthusiasm Mark knew she didn’t feel. She was good.

Mark knew that a movie meant another opportunity to talk privately with Morana. Depending on which movie they chose, they would have at least an hour.

As they made their way down the hallway, Morana leaned into several of the rooms and announced her departure to several other Trail Bladers.

In the garage foyer, Mark said, “Have you told Pop we’re leaving?”

“Yes, he knows. He’s out in town this morning,” she said.

“What about my disguise?”

“We won’t be in public. For the movie, I’ll buy the tickets. You’ll be fine. We have a hat and sunglasses in the truck—that will get you though the checkpoint with no problem,” Morana said.

“I’d rather get the disguise on—”

“Look, we don’t have time, Mark!” Morana shouted. “I’ll work on something while we’re on the road. Now let’s go.”

Mark followed her; he wanted her to stop shouting, but he knew that without a disguise in public he wouldn’t pass more than three strangers before someone recognized him. He planned to stay locked in the truck unless Morana could provide him with a sufficient disguise.

When they entered the garage, two Trail Bladers climbed out of the back of a truck. One of them pulled off some latex gloves as he greeted Morana and Mark with a nod. The other held the truck door open for them to get in.

“Is the body already in the chute?” Mark asked.

Morana nodded. “This is part of the process. It is much calmer than obtainment and takes no time at all.”

She pulled a hat and sunglasses from a built in compartment in the wall of the truck and tossed them to Mark.

Chapter Eighteen

POP RODE IN the back of his limousine through the Mulholland pass. Traffic on the southbound 405 freeway slowed to a crawl. Congestion was normal here, but since the intensification of the checkpoints surrounding Santa Monica, rush hour lasted all day. Pop’s driver exited on Wilshire, heading west. At Barrington Avenue, traffic was stop and go all the way to the city limits at Centinela Avenue. Moving less than a block a minute, there was plenty of time for Pop to observe the city he had changed.

He reclined and crossed his legs. A faint smile appeared on his face as he gazed out the window inspecting his successful, nearly complete project.

The limo was now within a block of the checkpoint. Pop’s phone rang. “Yes, I’ll be right on time… Excellent.” He hung up.

Police officers stood on either side of the road at checkpoints that now resembled a movie set. Two cameras on eight-foot tripods were aimed at the front and rear of each car that entered Santa Monica. Those exiting Santa Monica had twice the cameras trained on them and now, German Shepherds dragged their handlers around each vehicle that attempted to leave the city.

Cables strung from the cameras ran to a booth on the sidewalk where more uniformed people sat with laptops, wrote on clipboards, and talked on phones. As Pop’s limousine came to within a hundred feet of the men, a sign beside the road read, “Roll down window, unlock doors, and release trunk for inspection.”

Cars ahead stopped for inspection and drivers were interrogated in view of the recording eyes of cameras.

Pop pressed a button on his armrest and the driver partition slid down. “It looks like they’ve set up a greeting party for Santa Monica visitors,” Pop said to the driver. “What a budget they must have.” He rolled down his window, raised his nose, and took in a big breath. He was calm and his faint smile reappeared.

They pulled ahead and the limousine’s front tires stopped on the temporary limit line taped to the street. Two officers appeared, one on each side. Pop cocked his head so he could hear the driver’s conversation.

“All I know is how many passengers I’m supposed to have and a destination—that’s all I know,” the driver said—a practiced phrase.

“Sir, we are going to need to speak with your passengers.”

“Help yourself. Door’s open,” the driver said. He took off his hat, put the limo into park, and scooted down in his seat as if he was prepared to wait for hours.

An officer appeared at each of the limo’s rear windows. One leaned in and asked Pop for identification and what business he had in Santa Monica.

“Gentlemen,” Pop said, still reclined with his legs crossed. “Here is my license.” He handed it over. “As for my business in Santa Monica,” Pop continued, “I, like most proprietors in this beautiful city, am trying desperately to keep my company afloat amidst the nightmare that we are enduring. Oh, and by God, you boys are doing a fantastic job. I’m comforted to see you on guard.”

“Are you a resident of Santa Monica, sir?” an officer asked.

“No, I’m in and out almost every day.”

The officer who examined Pop’s license said, “Your destination, sir?”

“I’m going to a business lunch. Bocca Saportia on the Promenade.”

The officer handed Pop’s license to him. “You’re free to proceed, sir.”

The limousine pulled forward and on the muted television, Mark’s mug shot appeared. Underneath the photo, a new reward showed $450,000.

As the limo crossed 20th Street, they approached a street vendor’s stand that caught Pop’s eye. “Pull over,” he said. The driver obeyed.

Ryan Thesan and Gil Dubert had wasted no time expanding their thriving yellow “Homeless Friendly” placard business to include a new service. Beside the road their table draped the same, “Show Your Love for the Homeless” banner for passing drivers to see.

There Ryan sat, working a laptop and printer. Gil stood on the edge of the street spinning a three foot sign on a stick. One side read, “Photo w/Homeless.” As cars passed, he twirled it to the other side that read, “PROOF OF INNOCENCE!”

A third man who had joined their venture stood a few feet away with a camera, coaching a homeless man who had a grime-smeared laundry bag slung over his shoulder. He trained the homeless man by miming as if he carried a heavy bag and struggled under its weight. Then he asked the homeless man to do the same with his real bag. The homeless man complied and Ryan paused from counting bills at the table to laugh and clap.

Pop saw five customers waiting in line. The first was a woman who tried to hand Ryan her money, but he refused it, pointing to the homeless man and his trainer.

The woman posed, as she handed the homeless man cash. He put on his best smile of gratitude. A camera flashed and she released the money. The homeless man brought the cash to Ryan who stuffed it into a cash box under the table. A moment later a color photo slid out from Ryan’s printer. He pinched the edges and waved it to dry before handing it to the woman.

Pop clenched his teeth and his temples flared as he watched. “Not too close,” he said to the driver as they neared the booth. “This will be fine.” They stopped fifty feet from the booth. Pop got out and began a casual stroll toward the photo booth.

Gil saw Pop first and called out, “You interested in a photo shield, sir?”

The tension in Pop’s face had disappeared. He smiled. “Why don’t you pitch your wares for me?”

“Why certainly, sir,” Gil said. “As you know, there is a psycho homeless-lover out there preying on people who are mean to bums. If he chooses you, then you’ve got no chance of saving yourself—no proof of having been kind to a bum. We provide a service we call POK, ‘Proof of Kindness’. If you step over to our booth we’ll pose you with Herman, snap your photo, and you’ll receive a sheet of prints in three sizes. Our two-by-three is the size of a business card and fits perfectly into any wallet or purse. Our four-by-six comes with a half-inch golden shield border and a suction cup, perfect for sticking inside a vehicle’s window. Finally, we offer an eight-by-ten, ideal for posting by the door of any business or residence. Think of our service as a vaccine. Now, how many life-preserving photographs may I sign you up for?”

Pop laughed aloud. “Perhaps I would be foolish to pass up this opportunity to ensure my safety.”

“I guarantee you aren’t making a mistake,” Ryan chimed in from his seat at the laptop. A cigarette flopped between his lips as he spoke. “How much do you think any of those dead people would have paid to be able to pull a photo out of their pocket or purse showing themselves helping a bum?”

“Oh, I couldn’t tell you how much.”

“A hell of a lot,” Ryan said.

“How much is my safety from the bum-lover going to set me back?” Pop asked.

“We were charging fifty bucks a set, but because of our popularity and the community service we are providing to the public, we have lowered it to twenty.”

“By all means, it’s worth it,” Pop said. He produced a hundred-dollar bill, creased it lengthwise, and thrust it toward the Ryan.

Ryan did a double-take at the money in Pop’s hand before taking it. He counted out five twenties into Pop’s hand and then signaled with a “thumbs up” to the attentive cameraman who guarded Herman. “You give a twenty to Herman as he poses with you,” Ryan instructed.

“One more question,” Pop said.

“Sure, what is it?”

“If you’re taking all the photos with the same bum, don’t you think this psychopath will be suspicious?”

“We’ve already thought of that. Odds that the killer would see more than one of our customers are slim. He’s hitting victims all over the city—experts say he’s reckless, random. Besides, most of our customers are tourists. Their photos will go home with them to become conversation pieces. In fact, the photos could be collector’s items one day. But all that aside, if we can save just one local life, it will be worth it to us.”

“Interesting,” Pop said. “Would you boys be interested in a group sale?”

“How many people are we talking?”

“Oh, it may not be huge—let’s say up to a hundred people for fifteen hundred.”

Ryan’s face registered disbelief. He looked at Pop for some sign of a joke. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“Hey, he wants a group buy of a hundred for fifteen hundred,” Ryan hollered to Gil.

“No shit?” Gil replied. “If he’s serious then all three of us will dress up like bums for a group buy.”

“Deal. I’ll take you up on that,” Pop said. He pulled out seven more hundred-dollar bills, counted them, and handed them to Ryan.

Ryan pulled his cigarette from between his lips and squinted at Pop as he blew smoke off to the side. “You are serious, aren’t you?”

“I’m seriously concerned for the welfare of my employees. Concentration on work has been a problem for us and your service could contribute to a sense of calm and translate to better productivity during these scary days.”

Pop pulled out his phone, pressed a button, and turned away. He spoke loud enough for Gil and Ryan to hear. “Yes, I need eight-hundred cash delivered to the Pacific Grove office and held for me right away. Thank you.”

Pop clicked the phone off and turned back to the men. Ryan pulled the computer a bit closer and then rubbed his hands together as he controlled his excitement.

Pop addressed the men together. “I’ve paid you seven hundred cash. Eight-hundred more will be waiting for you along with my grateful employees tonight. I’m a fun-loving guy, so if you three boys really show up looking like Herman, we’ll take some photos and give you something of a bonus. Can you be at my office at 7:00 p.m.?”

“Sure. Where’s your office?”

“You see that tall building on the south side of Wilshire?” Pop leaned and pointed.

“Yes.”

“That’s the Pacific Grove building. Come to the third floor. The lobby directory says Brosan and Marques, but our business is tucked behind their offices. We’re all working late on a project tonight.”

“Sure thing, sir. I say you’ve earned a complimentary photo. Go stand over there by Herman and we’ll shoot you for free.”

Pop flinched slightly before approaching the backdrop of a brick wall. He put his arm around Herman’s dirty shoulder, rubbing it as if he were a long lost friend.

“You don’t have to hug him, just hold some money out to him for the photo,” Ryan said.

“Oh, my apologies, Herman,” Pop said. He wiped off Herman’s shoulder with his hand and then removed a twenty-dollar bill from his suit pocket. He handed the money to Herman, who mustered a strained look of gratitude. The camera flashed.