Dire Means (21 page)

“Hey, I saw your dive on TV,” he told Mark. “Brave move, dude. Real brave.”

“Thanks.”

“Why did you take your clothes off?” Jim pushed his glasses higher up on his nose and smiled from under a bowl haircut. A tomato soup or ketchup stain smeared Jim’s wrinkled dress shirt.

“Let’s just say it was a dare and that I’m glad things worked out. But all the attention is a little much for me.”

“Ah, don’t be embarrassed. I admire your courage. What can I do you for? Carlos finally gonna let me have a look at his secret eavesdropper?” Jim laughed.

“Carlos is dead.”

Jim’s expression went flat. “What? Oh, man—I’m so sorry. What happened?”

“He killed himself. A bridge.”

Jim pulled a chair from under his workbench and pushed it toward Mark. He sat down at his desk piled with wires, screwdrivers, and electronic parts. “When? Are you okay?”

“It happened a couple months ago. I’ll be fine.”

“Seriously, if there’s anything I can do to help you out, just say the word.”

Mark pulled Pop’s phone from the gift box and handed it to Jim.

Jim identified it with barely a glance. “A Mondral x260 flip phone. Basically a clone of the old Motorola v260 flip phone. It’s severely dated, but still might be tweakable.” Jim rattled off the specs of the phone with the ease of recalling his own birthday and social security number.

“You are incredible.”

“I know. What’s with the gift box? Were you going to surprise me?” Jim said, and then laughed loudly.

“Some guy left it on my door for me to call him. He talked and when we hung up it went dead. Here, take a look.”

Jim flipped the phone open and examined the missing keys. He pivoted in his chair and pulled down the bent arm of a lamp that had a built-in magnifying glass. He studied the open phone, turning it.

“I made one call by pressing the Send key,” Mark said. “The guy who answered talked with me for a while and said I wouldn’t be able to make any more calls on the phone.”

“Bingo,” Jim said.

“What?”

“You can’t use the phone anymore because it’s got no keys!” Jim slapped his knee and let out another nerdy laugh. Mark had to close his eyes for a moment to bear Jim’s corniness.

“May I?” Jim said, pointing to a mini screwdriver. Mark nodded.

He popped the phone open and adjusted the magnifying glass. After he rotated it back and forth and tapped it gently on several parts of its circuit board with the tip of his screwdriver, Jim said, “Real bingo.”

“What?”

“This isn’t a cell phone. It’s been Frankensteined into a two-way radio. Did you hear a ring when you called this guy?”

“No, it was a beep.”

“Of course. It’s set to full duplex. Normally you would have to press a button to talk and release it to hear. Someone has gone through the trouble to convert a relatively popular cell phone into a sophisticated, encrypted walkie-talkie. Probably to keep you thinking it’s a cell phone—or to avoid tapping.”

“So what’s the range? How far away was this guy I called?”

Jim checked the circuit board again and then popped the battery out and examined it. “Three miles or less, unless he used a repeater, in which case the caller could have been anywhere on earth.”

“Where would a repeater be?”

“Nearby building, house, or a vehicle—if they thought they’d need to follow you to keep the signal hot.”

“Thanks, that doesn’t narrow it down at all.”

“Did he threaten you or something?” Jim snapped the phone back together. He twirled it in his hand and then stopped to check it for a serial number.

“No, I think he wanted to sell me something.”

“This is sorta cool,” Jim said, shaking the phone toward Mark. “Good clean work on the keys and c-board resizing. Someone knew what they were doing. It’s clever.”

“Yeah, gives me the creeps,” Mark said, catching the phone when Jim tossed it to him. “Thanks so much, man. I knew you would know.”

“You can thank me by healing ol’ Betsy on your way out.”

“She’s sick again?”

“Yep. It might be viral.”

Mark made his way along Jim’s path of junk to the front room where an antiquated PC hummed in the corner. Mark sat down and fixed her up, working his magic, his fingers pounding away on the dirty keyboard to tune up Jim’s computer. After a few minutes, Betsy wasn’t running any faster, but she was clean, her retirement delayed again. The professional courtesy was comfortable for Mark. And it was rare that he could swap service in this way.

“Betsy’s feeling much better. See ya later,” Mark yelled as he left.

“Thanks,” came Jim’s reply from the back of the house.

§

Mark dialed in and retrieved his home phone messages as he drove home. A synthetic voice said, “Mailbox full.” His answering machine rarely had more than a number five blinking when he got home. He began to play and delete the messages, many from reporters still wanting interviews.

He turned onto Venice Boulevard and was about to hang up when he heard the familiar voice of Janne Prophet, a client with whom he had developed a close friendship. She left the shortest message of all: “Mark, I saw you. You were phenomenal. Please call me.”

He hung up and dialed Janne’s number. Her assistant answered and asked him to hold for a moment. When she came back on the line she announced, “You’re connected, Ms. Prophet.”

“Am I speaking to a bona fide hero?” Janne’s voice echoed from a place that sounded spacious.

“You gotta help me,” Mark said, and he smiled the smile of a person speaking to a rescuer within reach.

Janne laughed. “My goodness, I can’t imagine your popularity right now.”

“Whatever, but seriously, can you spare a few minutes for me?”

“Whatever you need. I’m home. Come here now.”

“You’re a life saver. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Janne Prophet was a media mogul, founder of a successful press syndicate and owner of a chain of nine newspapers evenly spaced from San Diego to Seattle. She had recently broadened her media empire to include several television stations. Mark had met her three years ago when she was referred by another client. On his first visit, he helped her convert to a near-paperless electronic office. He set her up with electronic address books and a scanning service to convert the tons of paper in her filing cabinets to computer files. “Bring me into the twenty-first century, and spare no expense,” she had told Mark. He did so by using every tree-saving technology available. Over the years, Mark had helped Janne develop her office technology and even to enjoy it.

He knew he could tap into Janne’s vast knowledge of the media for advice on how to handle his newfound fame. Al’s words about humiliation and public lack of concern for the homeless had affected Mark. The praise he received after rescuing Al seemed excessive, and benefiting from it felt exploitative.

Although Janne’s southern California corporate offices were in Century City, she preferred to work from her beautiful home in Santa Monica. Her assistants routed her calls to her house on most days and it was there that Mark now raced.

Janne’s home sat tucked on two and a half acres of prime real estate only a block from the beach. Mark parked in the driveway and climbed three steps to the wide porch of the colonial-style mansion. A housekeeper greeted him and offered him a seat in a parlor off the entryway.

The home had the look of a museum, with order and cleanliness that Mark loved. Fresh flowers were on every table and open windows stirred their scent. Oriental rugs under antique chairs partially hid polished hard wood floors. Souvenirs of bows, arrows, paintings, and mounted taxidermy from Janne’s world travels sat on a crown-molded ledge high on each wall.

“Would all reluctant heroes please come upstairs?” Janne’s voice echoed from the top of the staircase.

He met her at the top of the stairs. She smiled with open arms. In her fifties, trim and always fashionable, she dressed with the same attention to detail that she gave her home. Her hair was always done and each time Mark saw her she looked as though she had just left the salon. Designer red bifocals made her appear more like a professor than a media mogul.

After they hugged, she stepped back and lifted Mark’s chin with her fingertips. “You look good outside, but in your eyes—ehh, not so good. Are you hurt?”

“Who isn’t?”

Janne laughed and interlocked her arm with his, leading him down the hallway to her office. The upper floor of the house was more open and contemporary. Large framed mirrors enhanced the natural light that streamed in through skylights.

For some reason Janne had taken a special liking to Mark. “It seems that your new fame has cramped your style,” she said as they neared her arched office door.

“I’ll survive, but you gotta help me with these reporters. Are any of them from you?”

“Probably, but I didn’t send them, specifically. They are doing their jobs. If I call mine off, you won’t feel the difference. You are news, my friend. Come. Tell me all.” She swung open the tall door and gestured for Mark to enter.

A desk sat diagonally in the middle of a sprawling office. On his first visit Janne had explained that the desk was made from an unhinged barn door that she had seen beside a road near a farm in Mexico. She fell in love with it at first site and paid a generous sum of money to the thrilled family that owned it. Its ornate carvings and artisanship were visible since the desk held little more than Janne’s laptop, a penholder, and a few newspapers. Framed debut issues of her publications, awards, and commendations from charitable organizations lined her walls. French double doors opened to a tiled sun deck with a view of the Pacific Ocean, interrupted only by a row of lanky palm trees creating a postcard perfect view. Ceramic hand-painted waist-high urns lined a planter that ran the perimeter of the deck. Each urn contained flowers visited by occasional hummingbirds. A railing at the deck’s far edge overlooked a swimming pool and guesthouse.

They went out onto the sun deck. Mark proceeded to tell Janne the story of his assault and of the supposed heroism of his rescue of Al.

After listening intently, Janne said, “Do you realize how ‘on time’ your act was?”

“What do you mean?” Mark asked, puzzled.

“I mean this city has entered a state of complete terror.” Janne stood and stepped inside the office to get a New York Times from her desk. She snapped it open, folded a page back, and laid it on his lap. The headline read, “Santa Monica Loses a 14th Person.”

“This city is under attack. People are frightened—and to see someone such as yourself take the risk you did to save a person many would consider insignificant is exactly what the people needed to see. And televising it was the healthiest distraction I can imagine for a city thirsty for something—someone they can count on. Your victory amidst all the mysterious horror that surrounds us these days was refreshing.”

“Thanks. That’s all nice, Janne, but I didn’t know I’d have to deal with the cameras, aggressive reporters, phone calls, full answering machines—”

“Would that have changed your mind about rescuing that man?”

Mark leaned back and gazed at the blue sky flanked by palm trees. He shook his head.

Janne stood and motioned for Mark to follow her into her office again. “I know what you need,” she said. She sat down and began flipping pages in her appointment book.

Mark sat on a chair facing her desk. “Why aren’t you using the handheld I set up for you?” he asked.

“I’m ashamed to say I forgot everything you showed me so this is faster for now, trust me.”

Janne jotted some notes on a pad and said, “We’re going to hold a press conference—an official response from you that the media can sink their teeth into and eliminate your paparazzi and overbearing correspondent problem. If you don’t give them something, you won’t be able to live at home for a week.”

“No. Please, no. I really don’t want to be on TV again,” Mark said.

“To you, fame is a sickness. It will go away on its own, but it’ll leave quicker if we treat it. Now, do you want my help or not?”

“I do, but—”

“Do I tell you how to fix computers?”

“No.”

“Do I trust you to get me out of my technological mishaps?”

Mark smiled. He could not refute her.

She turned to a heavily marked calendar on the wall beside her desk. “Can you be available tomorrow afternoon?”

Mark nodded.

“Leave everything to me.” She reached across her desk and pressed a speed dial button. Her assistant answered on speaker and Janne greeted her. “Tracey, dahling…”

“Yes, Ms. Prophet.”

“I need a press kit, announcements, and location set up sooner than humanly possible. Please book the Doubletree Renaissance Room for four o’clock tomorrow and cyber-blast the kit to all our outlets. Title it, ‘Mark Denny makes statement and answers questions about heroic act on the Third Street Promenade.’ And did I mention that this needs to happen by tomorrow?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Contact the San Diego, Santa Barbara, Salinas, Portland and Seattle offices and have each fly down their best person for coverage—tell them it’s exclusive, so it’s a reward of sorts.” Janne leaned back in her chair and smiled.