Dire Means (49 page)

Ryan pointed to Herman, “Give his money back, we’re doing him for free.” When Herman tried, Pop stepped between him and Ryan and subtly curled Herman’s fingers around the twenty-dollar bill and whispered, “Slide that into your pocket, brother.”

Pop shook the entrepreneurs’ hands and returned to the limo. He tapped his knuckles on the glass, startling the sleeping driver who clawed his way out from under a disheveled newspaper.

“The Promenade at Santa Monica Boulevard,” Pop said as the driver closed him in.

The limo pulled away and continued west on Wilshire. Ryan and Gil waved to the blackened limo whose passenger had sent their balance sheet well into the black for the day. They would scramble to be on time for their final photo shoot.

§

Pop’s driver opened the door and then Pop dismissed him. A few pedestrians on the Third Street Promenade slowed to look at the well-dressed man that exited the stretch limousine. A man in shorts, a Hard Rock t-shirt and a camera around his neck, clutched the hands of his young son and daughter. He dragged them closer to Pop for a better look at a potential celebrity. At about thirty feet, the man stopped, no recognition registering on his face. His little girl pounded his leg, saying, “Daddy, who is it? Who is it?”

“Nobody, honey,” the man replied. Pop overheard the exchange and lifted his hat to the man.

A storefront sign hung from polished brass hooks on the door of an engraving business and read, “Homeless Friendly.” Next door, a pastry shop had a modest, but effective cardboard sign with the scrawl of magic marker: “Day-old bread free to Homeless ONLY,” with “only” underscored twice.

On the opposite side of the outdoor mall a theater sported an electronic scrolling marquee. After announcing show times, the words, “We are our brother’s keeper. We give to the homeless,” flew by in lit dots at half the speed of the show times.

Police strolled the outdoor mall. They studied each face, stopping to linger on suspicious-looking passers-by. The number of media and security personnel exceeded tourists and local shoppers combined. Security guards stood beside the doors of all restaurants—hired by proprietors whose businesses would not survive without the public comfort that private security brought.

Pop’s phone beeped and he pulled it from his inside coat pocket. He held it close to his face and widened his eyes to read it. He tapped the screen a few times and then returned it to his pocket. He stopped beside a waist-high tent sign that faced both directions. In red lettering it said, “If you see something, say something!”

He came to Bocca Saportia, an Italian restaurant not far from where Uncle Leon had arranged a drive home for Mark. Pop requested a table for one, insisting on the outdoor patio.

After he was seated, waiters in long white aprons like knee-length skirts balanced multiple plates up on their arms as they served the outdoor guests.

It wasn’t his first visit to Bocca Saportia. His first visit was the week before and he was now ready to integrate this restaurant into his mission. After he ate a few bites of salad, Pop went to the single-occupancy men’s restroom and locked the door. He removed his jacket and slacks and buried them in the bottom of the deep, wall-mounted waste paper bin. Underneath his clean clothes he wore the dirty clothes of a homeless person. He leaned to the mirror and pawed at his hair until it was messy. He wet his fingers and sprinkled a packet of dirt on them before applying smudge marks to his face and beard.

He retrieved a white capsule from his pocket and inserted it between his teeth before he exited the restroom. On the way back to his table, he bit down on the capsule. The fizzling spread across his tongue. When he reached his chair, some foam dripped from the side of his mouth. He knelt, and then fell onto his back beside his table. A woman shrieked and a waiter ran inside to get help. Pop began to convulse as more white foam trickled from his mouth to his earlobe.

Chapter Nineteen

MARK AND MORANA’S truck exited on Sunset Boulevard and went west to one of the largest checkpoints in Santa Monica. At least five police vehicles lined each side of the road. Tables occupied by people with cameras and headsets monitored each vehicle that passed. Their truck inched its way forward in a line stretching for a quarter mile.

The wait gave Mark plenty of time to build his nervousness over being questioned at the checkpoint. He and Morana didn’t speak. They knew their opportunity was coming in the theater.

Finally at the checkpoint, one guard walked the perimeter of the truck inspecting it, while the other questioned the Trail Blader driver. Mark and Morana heard the conversation from the rear of the truck. There was a knock on the back door. Morana placed her hand on the console and the doors clicked open.

An officer shone a flashlight inside and Mark covered his face, feigning pain from the flashlight’s glare. The officer paid him little attention.

“Just the two of you, Ma’am?” the officer said.

“Just us,” Morana said.

“Fine. We’d ask you to please be watchful of any unusual activity you might see while in Santa Monica today. If you see something, say something,” the officer said. He handed Morana a pamphlet that listed an 800 number and best practices for safety while in Santa Monica.

“Thank you so much, officer,” Morana said. They then continued their drive deeper into the city.

When Mark peeked out the back window, he saw that they were on San Vicente Blvd., in the northeastern edge of Santa Monica. He recognized the wide, grassy median and manicured lawns of the north Santa Monica residents.

The truck slowed to a stop and Morana pressed a button on the wall to lower the partition that separated them from the cab. Mark looked out the windshield. They were parked at the curb beside the road, under some large trees. To the right was the gated driveway of a private estate and on the opposite side of the street was a park with brightly colored play equipment for children.

“Ready, Maury?” she said.

“Yes,” the driver answered.

“Hold for Bracks.” Morana put her phone to her ear and said, “We’re ready for drop fifteen. Do you have us? …Good.” She hung up her phone and opened a small compartment the size of a deck of playing cards on the wall of the truck. It blended in perfectly and Mark would never have seen it. Two switches were underneath it. She rested a finger on one of them.

“Mark, please open the bay.”

Mark got up and pulled back a mat that covered the truck’s chute and grabbed two handles. Last time he had seen a chute, he had been lowered into it to escape the city.

He swung the doors open and felt a sudden rush of nausea at what he saw. Even though he knew what was under the doors, the sight still shook him. It was a woman in ragged clothing, lying face up, her eyes closed. Her pale face was not contorted, but was calm, and she had a DVD hung around her neck like a necklace.

“Thanks,” Morana said. “There’s no need for you to do anything more. You can have a seat—you look sick.”

“I don’t feel well.”

Toward the front of the truck she said, “Forward, Maury.”

The truck’s engine labored in first gear as Maury moved it as slowly as possible. Morana hit the switch and there was a hiss. The chute’s bottom tilted, creating a ramp, and the woman’s body began to slide. When her head touched the ground, her body slid gently from the chute and onto the pavement.

Morana pressed the switch in the opposite direction and the chute’s bottom retracted back into place. Rather than having Mark close it again, she stood and did it herself, closing the chute’s doors and rolling the mat out on top of it again.

As they drove away, Mark peered out the back window. He saw the woman lying face-up beside the road just as she had in the chute. Cars approached in the distance and would soon pass the body. Perhaps one of their drivers would see something and say something. But what was there, really, to say? The drop had been so quick and concealed that for anyone watching it, the dead woman would have practically materialized from thin air. The truck doors hadn’t opened. There was no struggle to remove a heavy body from a trunk. There was no mess. Just the flick of a button and slow acceleration until the body appeared.

“I don’t suppose you are hungry,” Morana said.

“No.”

She reached into a small cooler and pulled out a sandwich. “We’ve got your favorite if you change your mind.”

§

Mark and Morana went to a new theater on the Third Street Promenade. Maury dropped them off at the curb after Mark had taken the time to pull his hat down snug and don sunglasses. He waited by the truck while Morana purchased their tickets. She waved Mark over and they entered the theater. The doorman paid no special attention to Mark as he ripped his ticket.

Morana had chosen to see
The Candle Basket
, a sappy holiday film that had received lackluster reviews. Inside, the audience was scant—a few women and children sat in the middle of the theater. Mark and Morana found seats in the empty back row and waited for the lights to dim so they could get on with their wardrobe change.

The theater went dark. Mark and Morana pulled their shirts off and draped them over the backs of their chairs before exiting. After Morana ensured that the hall was clear, they hurried to the adjacent theater.

There were only a few more people in this movie than in
The Candle Basket
. As they settled into their seats in the back row, Mark blurted, “What is going on with Janne? Why is she at the Nest? Is she getting dropped into an oubliette—are you going to kill her?”

“Mark, wait,” Morana said. She held up her hand to him.

“Because she’s innocent—”

A guy sitting a few rows ahead turned and said, “Shhh!”

“And what about the threatening email to Jim Kourokina?” Mark tried to whisper, but their privacy had released his pent up emotion.

Morana clapped her hand over his mouth. “You need to get a grip,” she said.

“I had his cooperation. We didn’t talk about an email. You might have freaked Jim out enough to send him to the police.”

“He won’t be going to the police,” Morana said.

Mark’s eyes widened. “You didn’t…Did you obtain him?”

“No. We have his dogs.”

“What?”

“They’re fine. Don’t worry. They like liver. One of our actors is taking good care of them and will return them in exchange for the TellTale Jim is now encouraged to build.” Morana took out her phone and played some video footage for Mark of a truck that was familiar to him. It was the plumbing truck he had seen outside Jim’s house. The driver held up Walkie and Talkie by the napes of their necks; their legs hung folded in front of them in submission as if held by the jaws of their mama. The driver put them into one of the truck’s body cabinets and closed the door.

“It’s ventilated and they have plenty of food,” Morana said.

“What’s going on?” Mark said. “I thought you and I were the only ones involved in our plan.”

“Some of the Trail Bladers obey me implicitly. They don’t know my feelings, nor do they question or discuss my orders. I have to gamble on their loyalty. We have no choice. We cannot do this alone. Jim Kourokina loves those dogs and will not risk them. We’ve insured that he’ll cooperate.”

“Unbelievable,” Mark said. He slumped in his seat.

“Mark, I have something much more important to tell you,” Morana said.

“What now?”

“It’s your mom. She’s landing at LAX in less than an hour.”

“What? Why?” Mark sat up straight.

“Aldred arranged it. He had Teddy call and convince her that you were secretly captured and are in protective custody. Teddy posed as your lawyer and told her she could visit you—provided that she keeps your detainment a secret. She took the bait and Teddy bought and arranged her flight from Miami.”

Mark jumped up from his seat to run out and Morana grabbed him with both arms, pulling him back down. “Sit! You’ll fail! Sit! There’s nothing you can do right now.”

“C’mon, take it outside!” the angry movie-watcher shouted.

Mark breathed hard and his stomach knotted. Aldred was about to get his hands on his mom and Mark could do nothing about it..

Morana pulled his head to her and whispered, “The only chance we have to save Janne, your mom, and the remaining fodder is to save them all at once—at the Nest. If we can only do a partial rescue, all those who remain will be killed within minutes—I promise you that; Aldred is not kidding. The only chance you have to help the victims is to cooperate—to remain on Pop’s side for a while longer. I know that feels wrong, but it will get the result you want.”

Mark couldn’t process Morana’s words. “Can’t you divert my mom somewhere else?” he begged. “Morana, you’re in charge of all operations—I mean, can’t you order Teddy to take her somewhere safe and get word to her to hide?”

“Yes, I can do that, but Janne and all the others will die and we will be on Aldred’s most wanted list—a list he always completes. You can’t panic. She will be safe if our plan works. If we interfere with her pickup, she will be dead and we will be dead shortly afterward. We must succeed.”

“Let’s go back to the Nest now! We can overpower Pop. He’ll cooperate,” Mark pleaded.