Dire Means

by Geoffrey Neil

  “Hold one minute,” she said into the phone and pressed the hook down. “Hi Mark. I’ll let Cody know you’re here.” She pressed a button on her head set, announced Mark’s arrival to Cody and then said, “He’ll be right with you.” She then pressed another button to resume her call.

  Cody appeared through an arched doorway. He was a big, round man, approaching four-hundred pounds with perpetual sweat on his forehead.

  “I’m sorry about your loss. I heard about Carlos,” he said.

  “Thanks, I appreciate it,” Mark replied.

  “Come on back to my office and let’s talk about these cameras, Mark.”

  They went down a hall, passing several cramped offices, “I’ve got lease renewals up. I’m going to lose tenants if I don’t do something,” Cody said, wheezing with every other step.

  “Is it that bad?” Mark asked.

  “Yep—and gonna get a whole lot worse if I don’t do something.”

  They entered Cody’s office. It was larger than the others and had a 2nd story and ocean front view. Disheveled stacks of papers six inches deep sat edge to edge under coffee cups, donut crumbs and empty candy bar wrappers on his desk. Mark turned down Cody’s offer of coffee and they sat to talk.

  Cody’s chair squeaked as he reclined in front of the window. He saw Mark’s face clearly now and asked, “What happened to you? Your face is scabbed up.”

  “I was assaulted and robbed.”

  “Gosh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Cody said, leaning in for a better look at the healing scratches. “Did they catch the guy?”

  “Nope. But I’ll be fine.”

  Mark gave Cody an abbreviated summary of his assault ordeal and then they got down to discussing the matter at hand.

  “What in the hell is going on in Santa Monica?” Cody said, throwing his arms up. He still panted a bit after the walk down the hallway. “Did you hear that three people disappeared from this building?”

  “I thought it was only two.”

  “Only two! ONLY two! Mark, you gotta help me here. These cameras I got—can I view them from home and record it?”

  “I can make that happen for you.” Camera installations like the one that Cody wanted were common and simple to install. New technology made it easy to view the camera feeds from anywhere—even on a phone.

  They discussed the logistics of setting up the building surveillance system and Mark explained how he would make the camera feeds recordable and available to Cody via the Internet.

  Mark got a key from Gina, retrieved a ladder from the storeroom and went down to the lobby to set up the cameras.

  Neville ribbed Mark about being in league with Big Brother and Mark laughed it off.

  Within three hours, Mark had positioned six cameras that, together, would record every inch of the lobby. Anyone entering or exiting the building would be under recorded surveillance.

  Mark went back up to the Broadman & Carose office and announced that the cameras were installed and ready for use. He gave Cody a tutorial on viewing the various camera feeds right on his computer. Cody was excited about his potential involvement in catching a criminal and the fat reward he could earn.

  “I got two more things I need you for,” Cody said. “The first is a little sensitive. See, Gina, she’s doing too much personal stuff on the computer. She’s messaging, Tweeting and Facebooking with her friends all day to the point of not getting her work done. I confronted her about it. She claimed to have stopped while at work, but I don’t believe her. Her work isn’t getting done. I told her that I could watch what she does on the computer, but she knows how to work that thing so well—I don’t think she believes me. Is there anything I can do?”

  “Easy. Want me to block those web sites?” Mark asked.

  “No, I’d rather catch her in the act—I mean we’ve gone over this so many times, I’m ready to let her go.”

  Mark remembered his prized TellTale and knew it could secretly confirm any computer activity Cody needed.

  “Say no more,” Mark said. “I’ve got the perfect tool. I’ll set it up for you on my next visit.”

  “Excellent. I knew I could count on you. The second thing I want your help with is this: We still have five old computers in the storage room from our computer upgrades last year and we need to get rid of them.”

  “Bingo,” Mark said. “I did some volunteer work at a shelter last night and they mentioned needing some computers. They’ll receipt you for them, too.”

  “Great, take them. I didn’t know you did volunteer work at shelters.”

  “I’m fortunate, so I try to give back as much as I can.”

  “Hmph. What a good guy. I’m impressed,” Cody said with a smirk. He walked Mark out to the front office and bid him good-bye.

  In the storage room, Mark found the computers. There were four desktop systems and a laptop covered by a clear plastic tarp. He remembered these computers. There was nothing functionally wrong them; they were simply dated and slow by current standards. Mark could wipe them clean of data and then restore them to their factory condition for Soft Landing Shelter House.

  As he drove out of the garage, Mark called the shelter to make arrangements for delivery of the computers. After two rings, a woman’s voice answered. He recognized Tory’s accent and she remembered him from last night’s volunteer service. Mark reminded her of Neva’s request for computers and told her he had obtained five of them. Tory was excited, said it was a good day for Neva to hear such good news and that it would be okay to deliver them Sunday, if possible.

  The next morning Mark’s phone rang. It was Cody.

  “Listen, Mark. We have a company that provides general building security for our tenants. They saw the cameras you put up for me and they had a fit on the phone, saying that they either want to supply their own cameras or we need to give them full access to our footage. Not sure why they’re so interested, but they’re making a real stink about it.”

  “So what do you want from me?”

  “I don’t know—you tell me what to do. I’d rather leave them up and just give them access—after all, you’ve done all the installation work already. Be a shame and a gigantic waste of my money to pull them all down. Besides, after a fight outside the law office, some of the things that happen in our halls and lobby are downright entertaining and I’d hate to lose them.”

  “That’s fine. I can give your security company access to view the recordings via the web. What’s their name?”

  “The guy who called is Bracks—and he was a real jerk on the phone. He wants the name, model number, and location of every camera you’ve installed.”

  “Give me his email address and I’ll send him his logon info. He can get a ladder and look up the camera models on his own.”

  “His email address is bracks@trailbladers.com. Hey, man, when you give him access, can you keep a couple of cameras for my eyes only? I want that reward and if anyone goes missing from my building again—the money will be as good as mine.”

  “Alright, I might accidentally reserve a feed or two for your eyes only.”

  “Great. This will get them off my back. I appreciate it.”

  The next day, Bracks contacted Mark and told him that two camera feeds were missing from the ALCO building. Mark knew then that Bracks’s level of technical expertise was above average.

  Mark logged onto his computer and had the missing feeds restored within five minutes. Cody would have to share his surveillance equally.

  Chapter Ten

  IT WAS SUNDAY, four days since Mark’s assault at the gas station. He found it easier to sit up in bed and swung his feet out to the floor. Although he still felt some pain in his ribs, the scrapes on his arms and face had darkened to scabs.

  He was ready to spend some time at Soft Landing Shelter House setting up the computers donated by Cody—unmerited favor, as Uncle Leon would have called it. He hoped to eventually see Uncle Leon there.

  Soft Landing already had much going for it. The
shelter seemed to be well-funded, and Mark intended to further enhance its resources. He would donate his labor to configure the computers so that the homeless and other visitors to the shelter could access email accounts and, perhaps, acquire some computer skills.

  He dressed, grabbed his computer bag, and headed to Bonfiglio. With a solid half-day of work ahead, he’d need some breakfast.

  The café was quiet since most of its regulars slept in on Sundays. Althea was on her knees up on the counter using both hands to scrub the grill with a steel brush. Henry leaned against the counter watching the TV with a rolled newspaper tucked under his arm. The only other diner was a young man of about nineteen who had stopped in for breakfast.

  “Morning, Mark,” Henry said. He tossed the newspaper on the counter and slid a place setting to Mark.

  “Good Morning. Any news?” Mark said, pointing to the television.

  “A new one went missing—the tenth. A college kid. He’s been gone for two days and they found his bicycle in an alley over off Main Street,” Henry said. He sucked his teeth and mumbled, “What a shame.”

  “Any leads?”

  “Well, if there are they aren’t saying. FBI’s been on it for three days now since the postal worker went missing.”

  “I think they got nothing,” Althea said, climbing down from the counter top and wiping it off. “I don’t like it one bit. These folk couldn’t have disappeared any better if they had gotten in their cars and just drove off somewhere.” She tossed her rag over her shoulder and washed her hands. “That should scare the hell out of all of us.”

  Mark ate, thanked Althea and Henry, and took off for the Soft Landing Shelter House.

  The shelter’s front door was locked, so Mark rang the buzzer. Tory answered and welcomed him.

  “Ho, ho, ho,” Mark said. She laughed. “Did you explain this donation to Neva and did she have any problem with it?” he asked.

  “Are you kidding? She was ecstatic. It isn’t often that I get to tell her something that makes her happy.”

  “Is she here?”

  “No, she doesn’t come in on weekends unless she’s giving a tour.”

  Tory propped the door open for Mark to bring in the computers. He set them up along a wall of the dining room.

  For three hours he configured, connected and tested the computers. He found a closet where the shelter’s router and DSL modem were located. He installed a network switch and connected the newly installed computers to the shelter’s Internet service that, to this point, only served Neva’s office.

  It was mid-afternoon when Mark finished. He was tired, but very satisfied with his installation. The computers looked great, lined up in a row, keyboards scrubbed free of grime, and screen savers running on monitors. The computers would provide a useful technological service to people who, in many cases, had no home.

  Mark was disappointed that he hadn’t seen Uncle Leon at the dinner service. On his way out of the shelter, he leaned into the kitchen and called Tory over to him.

  “Have you seen an old man come in to volunteer? He calls himself ‘Uncle Leon.’”

  Tory thought for a moment. “What does he look like?”

  “He’s about 5’ 7”, white, combed-back hair.”

  “Does he wear green socks?”

  “Yes—that’s him.”

  “We call him Leonardo. Yes, he’s been a regular and tells great stories, but he had an argument with Ms. Boyston a couple weeks ago and hasn’t been back.”

  “An argument about what?” Mark asked. He couldn’t imagine Uncle Leon offending anyone.

  “He was entertaining the other volunteers before dinner service with this silly dance and Ms. Boyston said it was inappropriate behavior in the shelter. I think she was jealous of the attention he was getting. He told her that the shelter should supply happiness and she said something about reputation. They went back and forth until he walked out.”

  Mark thanked Tory for the information and she thanked him for the computers.

  Mark left the shelter admiring Uncle Leon even more. Their interesting conversation about favors remained with Mark. He wanted to talk to him again and decided that he owed it to himself to try to find him. He’d be sure not to bear gifts or thanks or payback that would ruin Uncle Leon’s grace.

  Mark would return to the place where they had met—the Third Street Promenade. The odds of finding Uncle Leon should be good if it was true that he lived there.

  §

  Despite the unusual chill in the evening air and the unsettling news reports of people going missing each day, thousands of tourists and local shoppers walked the outdoor mall of the Third Street Promenade.

  Mark parked on Ocean Avenue facing the high Santa Monica beach bluff and walked toward the Promenade. After a block, he passed a mobile news crew working under two skinny spotlights. Two short, lighted palm trees framed the reporter with the Santa Monica Pier as her backdrop while another woman powdered her face with a brush. Two blocks away, Mark saw hundreds of people coursing into and out of the pier’s entrance. The shops and amusement park rides of the pier sparkled and their neon colors danced on the ocean’s surface.

  A man wearing headphones cued the reporter. She raised her microphone, pointed to a row of parking spaces, and explained that the abandoned cars of four victims were found there.

  Mark didn’t wait to watch the report. As he walked he wondered how there could be absolutely no leads in this case. Maybe the police weren’t telling all they knew. That was a more comforting thought than a person abducting citizens using a perfectly untraceable method.

  Every person Mark passed began to appear suspicious to him. A man passing in a van stared for a moment longer than was necessary. As Mark passed a dark alley, he saw a man force a shop’s back door closed by ramming it with his shoulder. Was the man pressing the door against a struggling victim?

  Still, he wanted to find Uncle Leon and walked as if he was on a mission. He checked all the benches just north of Broadway Street where Uncle Leon claimed to live, but saw him nowhere. He saw the fountain where he had been tempted to lift a few coins for a phone call, and shook his head in disgust at his temptation.

  After a block, he came to the bench where Uncle Leon had found him. He sat. With any luck, the man who could see favors would show up.

  The Promenade seemed different to Mark. Something about the mix of people was not as he remembered. There appeared to be more homeless people than ever—despite the relatively chilly evening. He wondered if his short stint with poverty had affected the lens through which he viewed the world.

  As he waited, he saw a woman on the opposite side of the mall. She wore a tie-dyed bandana and dirty baggy clothes that looked like they may have been bright orange and green at one time. She lifted the lid from a trashcan. Stubby fingers poked through gloves that were missing their fingertips. She placed the lid carefully against the base of the trashcan as though she were the regular janitor about to empty the trash. She rummaged through the can’s contents for a few moments and her nose wrinkled up. She pulled out several food items and after inspecting each, she threw them back like a quality-control agent on a factory assembly line. Then she pulled out a half-eaten hamburger sniffed it, and re-wrapped it. She stuffed it into a dirty, green knit bag slung over her shoulder.

  Mark remembered how good the food smelled when he was stranded here. Even now, the aroma from a grill promised something tasty. As he watched the woman, he wondered how many more hours or days it would have taken before he was driven to lift the lid of a public trash can and look for something to eat.

  The woman smoothed the trash liner, placed the lid back on top, and shuffled away toward the next trash bin on her route. Todd would have argued that the woman was an actress, trying to dupe people into helping her. Mark felt sympathy and followed her. Now that he had a sample of how difficult it was to obtain help from most people, he had new resolve to help her out.

  Her face was locked down as she scuffed her f
eet along. “Excuse me,” Mark said. She didn’t respond. “Excuse me,” he said louder.

  The woman stopped and her head turned slightly. The lines in her face sketched years of unrelieved pain. She stood up straight, bracing herself for an insult.

  “I have something for you,” Mark said, a vague sentence to test her reaction—her sanity.

  She was shorter than she had seemed from a distance—the top of her head only chest high to Mark. She turned and then looked up to his face. Mark had two gift certificates that a client had given him over a year ago. He fanned them, saying, “These are gift certificates for Traney Bistro right down the way.” He pointed and the woman followed his finger. “I want you to have these,” he said.

  The woman’s eyes went back to Mark and he thrust the certificates toward her. She took them with her dirty fingers and examined them just as she had examined each item from the trash can. The certificates were for $30 each. Mark had hoped to sneak the certificates into Uncle Leon’s bag or jacket unnoticed, but he was losing hope in his search for Uncle Leon. On impulse, he decided that this woman was a worthy recipient.

  The woman’s expression saddened and she pointed in the direction of Traney Bistro. “They don’t let me go in there,” she said, brushing the certificates against her leg.

  Mark wasn’t prepared for that answer. He expected her to say, “Thank you,” or “God bless you.”

  “Are you kidding?” Mark said. “That’s money in your hand—of course they’ll let you in!” Mark said this even though he could smell the stench of her body odor each time the cold breeze came from behind her.

  “Disturbing the patrons, disturbing the patrons, disturbing the patrons, gotta move, gotta move, move it outta here,” she repeated, her voice getting louder. Mark looked around to see if she was attracting attention. He only wanted to give a gift quietly and be on his way.