Dire Means Read online

  “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.

  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 la
st 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.