Dire Means (6 page)

A police car pulled in diagonally and blocked access to the bank of gas pumps beside Mark and his dwindling audience. A stocky officer emerged, leaving his car’s blue lights to strobe on the glass windows and doors of the gas station and Mark’s remaining audience.

For Mark, a police officer was not a welcome sight, despite having nothing to hide. Three years ago he had endured a nightmare that featured the police. The clean cut, innocuous-looking Mark Denny wouldn’t normally be profiled—it was his unfortunate choice of attire one day that brought unwanted police attention. While waiting in line to make a deposit at his bank one afternoon, Mark became one of several witnesses to an armed robbery. The robber wore jeans and a button down shirt that was close enough to the style of Mark’s shirt that day to later cause several of the other bank occupants to wrongly identify him as the robbery suspect. Before he was exonerated, Mark spent two days locked up, enduring a horrible ordeal of verbal abuse and physical threats by fellow detainees between several grueling interrogation sessions he would never forget. To this day he would rather not see, nor be seen, by the police. He didn’t want to be questioned or examined by anyone.

When he saw the police cruiser pull in, he struggled to his feet. More sharp pain emanated from his ribs and shoulder, and his head began to throb. As the officer stepped to the front of his car, the gas station attendant left to go tend to his cashier duties. Mark began to follow, trying to blend in and to walk without displaying the pain he felt.

“Sir, I need you over here,” the officer said. He motioned with a gloved finger as his other hand adjusted his baton. The plump officer wore small round sunglasses that made his face seem rounder. He twisted his neck to speak a code from the side of his mouth into a radio handset mounted to his shoulder and the dispatcher responded with a confirmation that was full of static.

“Hey! Show’s over!” the officer turned to the remaining spectators and pointed his gloved finger toward the street. The watchers scattered.

He then pointed at Mark and said, “You wanna tell me what’s going on here?” The officer tugged at his belt a few times and then pointed in front of his cruiser’s hood where he wanted Mark to stand.

“No trouble, Officer, just a misunderstanding. I’m not pressing charges,” Mark replied.

“We get an assault call, I show up and you’ve got blood on your face and clothing—looks like you misunderstand your own involvement. You got any ID on you, partner?” the officer asked.

“Everything is fine. I’m okay,” Mark answered. He licked his upper lip and felt a lump where swelling had begun.

“Right. I still need that ID, sir,” The officer held out his hand. He leaned toward Mark for a better view of his mouth and eye. “You got tagged real good,” he said.

“No, I’m fine…”

“Well, your eye’s swelling up, your lip’s busted, your clothes are ripped, and you want me to believe nothing happened here? Medical is on their way. They’ll need to check you out.”

“I didn’t say nothing happened. I said I don’t want to press charges.” Mark slipped his hand into his empty back pocket where his wallet should have been. He checked his other pocket even though there was no way Mark Denny would have ever put his wallet into his left back pocket. He patted all his pockets including the front pocket of his torn, now-dirty shirt. All were empty.

“No ID, sir?” the officer said.

“It’s gone,” Mark said. He stepped a few feet away to search the nearby asphalt where his car had been parked. “My car and keys are gone too,” Mark said. The seriousness of his dilemma had begun to register.

The officer removed a glove, licked his thumb, and flipped through a few pages pinched by a small clipboard. “Sir, do you have a description of the assailant for me?”

Mark stared at the ground and gave the officer an abbreviated description of his car, Ty and Ty’s accomplice. All the while his arms were folded and pressed gently against his stomach, which gave him some relief from his rib pain.

After the officer took Mark’s description, he said, “Now we’ll file a report on your vehicle and get you on your way. Do you have someone you can call for transportation?”

Mark sank to his knees and slapped the asphalt with his open hand. The pain that came from pounding his fists on Ty’s face shot through his knuckles and he immediately regretted displaying his frustration.

The officer pressed his lips together and pushed his sunglasses higher on his nose. “Sir, I realize you’re in a tough spot, but I’m going to need your cooperation for a few more minutes so we can get things squared away for you.”

“Squared away for me,” Mark mouthed. As the officer wrote notes, Mark stared beyond the gas pumps to the side of the road where he imagined the muscular accomplice must have parked the gray Chevy to help Ty. His car was gone with his keys, wallet, and identity. His shoulders sagged introducing a new pain across the top of his back.

“I need a restroom,” Mark said.

The officer motioned with his pen for Mark to head into the gas station. “Fine, sir. You go use the facility and we’ll wrap this incident up.”

The officer followed Mark into the gas station and stepped over to the candy aisle while Mark got the restroom key from the attendant at the cash register. Outside, Mark slid the key into the men’s restroom door. He looked over his shoulder through the glass door of the food mart and saw the officer thumbing through some bills to pay for some snacks.

Mark let go of the doorknob, leaving the key, chain, and stick dangling from it. He hurried around to the rear of the gas station and hobbled through an alley that led past a dumpster and the back door of a restaurant. He zigzagged as fast as he could through several city blocks, stumbling through pain he anticipated would only worsen. After six blocks he entered through the hedged arch of an upscale apartment building courtyard. It provided good concealment from street traffic. He felt that he was a safe enough distance from the gas station to buy some time for rest.

§

Mark sat on a bench, panting to catch his breath. He was relieved when some passing pedestrians ignored him as they entered and exited the apartment complex.

He noticed his torn shirt. Three buttons were missing and his jeans were smudged and grimy. The back of his hands looked like he had been punching a brick wall; chards of skin hung from his knuckles. He felt a lump the size of a lima bean on his bottom lip and his right eye felt swollen. He wiped his mouth on his arm, and more blood and dirt came off onto his sleeve. His head throbbed, both from the pounding that it took on the concrete and the strong fumes of gasoline that he had soaked up and that now exuded from his body.

Perhaps the sudden series of unfortunate events in Mark’s life was payback for his thousands of unpunished good deeds. Anyone who knew him would call Mark a good guy. Each evening before he went to bed, he emptied his pockets of whatever coin and bill change the day had yielded, placing them onto his bedside stand. In the morning, before leaving, he put this change into his left front pocket. When he saw someone in need, out from his pocket came a gift of whatever bill or coin his hand found.

Mark’s altruism didn’t discriminate—whether male or female, young or old, clean or dirty he gave without hesitation and without any requirement that the recipient promise to avoid booze or drugs. He offered cash or food to panhandlers, beggars, the “societally-challenged”—or whatever you care to call them—because that’s simply how he was. He sincerely hoped that each person he helped would get back on his or her feet, but wasn’t delusional enough to believe that his small, token gifts were life-changing so much as tangible sympathy given with no loss of dignity to the recipient. His gifts were a human-to-human contribution to Abraham Mazlow’s first layer of basic human need.

Today, Mark’s tardy punishment had caught up with him.

After his brief rest in the courtyard, Mark decided that a phone call to a local friend or client for a ride home was his next best move. He could then begin the miserable recovery process that included conversations with credit card and insurance companies.

“Sir, you’re going to have to leave. No loitering. You’re on private property.” A doorman stood behind him, his arm extended with a finger directing Mark to the archway.

“No problem,” Mark said. He stood and made his way slowly to the street while his evictor watched to ensure complete obedience.

Mark had at least eight clients in Santa Monica. The nearest, Milt Wingren, had an office just off the Third Street Promenade—an outdoor pedestrian mall. He figured he could endure the walk, but finding a closer place to make a phone call seemed to be the better option.

He checked the street signs and discovered that he was on the corner of 9th and Broadway, only six blocks from the Promenade.

As he began his foot journey, his aches were waking. His impulsive decision to take on the cons had demanded a steep physical price.

He saw a well-maintained business park. A row of single-story suites with tinted glass windows stretched north from the street. He entered through a red-brick walkway lined with planters, manicured to perfection. The walkway opened to a small park and symmetrical Spanish-tiled benches, reserved, named parking spaces at the far end and modest signage adorning the entrance to each suite.

He approached the closest door to make his phone call. He would ask to use the receptionist’s phone for a quick call and be back outside to wait for his ride in less than three minutes. He pulled the locked door twice, causing a clanking loud enough to turn the heads of several gardeners working nearby. Beside the door, three black signs embossed with white lettering read, “All Deliveries to Back Entrance,” “No Soliciting,” and “Absolutely NO Loitering or Sleeping in this Entryway.” Under these signs was a worn intercom button.

Before Mark pressed the button, he leaned to the tinted glass of the front door and froze when he saw his reflection. His right eye had swollen nearly shut. Grease and dirt smeared his face, and his lip had swollen as if it had been stung by a bee. His torn and filthy shirt hung untucked with a shred of it hanging almost to his knee. His jeans had larger swaths of the grime that his face had collected.

He cupped both hands over his eyes to peer inside the tinted window. A woman in a gray business suit and wearing a wire mouthpiece sat behind a half-circle glass desk in a spacious lobby. She swatted at something high above her head. Mark waved to get her attention. The woman’s lips moved, but Mark could not hear her because the thick, glass door muted her.

She swatted the air again in Mark’s direction. He realized that her hand swats were for him—to shoo him from the front door. She curled her fingers around the tip of her mouthpiece and glared at Mark with an intensity that startled him. She jabbed her finger hard in his direction—gesturing for him to go back in the direction he had come.

Mark mouthed, “Me?” to her and she rolled her eyes and nodded, flicking him away with a backhand.

Mark mimed dialing a number and placing a phone receiver to his ear. She shook her head. As Mark stepped back from the glass, she approached it from inside.

“Go away!” she mouthed. Mark turned to leave, but not before he saw her give him the OK sign and a sarcastic smile to punctuate her victory.

Dejected, he returned to the street and began walking toward the Third Street Promenade.

As he waited for the next pedestrian crossing signal, a flower-delivery driver in a green van with a giant floral logo on the side stopped at a red light beside Mark. He made eye contact with Mark and then frowned. He did what many people do after making accidental eye contact with a homeless person: he pressed his lips together and shook his head in small shakes of repulsion as he turned away. Mark almost laughed in disbelief. He was thankful that the world still had plenty of good people. Good people like his clients. One of them would certainly help him out.

§

Milten Wingren was Mark’s accountant and client. He was also a practical jokester. Last year when he finished doing Mark’s taxes he arranged for his receptionist to call Mark. She posed as an IRS agent, launching into an uncomfortable interrogation citing fictitious tax laws about which Mark knew nothing. Milten listened on the other line, biting his lip to keep from laughing out loud. After a final question to which a flustered Mark didn’t know the answer, Milten broke in with uproarious laughter. Mark was not amused and fired Milten as his accountant and quit as his tech support person. Milten apologized profusely, calling several times, over several days to apologize and to continue the business relationship. Mark eventually agreed, putting Milten on probation.

In the following months, Milten refrained from his practical jokes. If Milten could help him now, Mark would certainly consider him fully redeemed.

He turned on Fifth Street and headed north. He would probably think Mark’s appearance was part of a gag for payback of the practical joke. Mark imagined having to repeat the words, “I’m serious,” at least five times before Milten believed the story of the gas station scuffle.

A block from the Third Street Promenade, Mark watched shiny sports car after luxury car pass by him. His thoughts returned to his own stolen car. Where was it now? Chance of recovery was slim—especially without a police report—and he understood that. He needed a car to conduct his client visits. How much would a rental cost? And how long would he need it?