Most drivers turned away from the cameraperson—or locked their gaze straight ahead. Some drivers viewed the cameraperson with surprise. Others examined the cameraperson from foot to head before their expressions soured. The windows of drivers that the camera approached slid closed—just as they had for the gas-money cons.
The fifth car in line was a white Mercedes convertible with the top down. In it, a man in a dark pinstripe suit talked on his cell phone and worked a toothpick with his tongue.
The camera approached the car and paused beside its driver. The movie’s sound muted for a moment and then the driver told the person on the other end of his cell phone, “Hold on a minute.” He turned to the camera and said, “Can I spare change? I don’t want to spare one more second of my time on you, asshole.” The driver resumed his phone call, apologizing for the interruption.
The camera moved back and the audio muted again. Then the driver turned and said, “If you were really sorry to bother me, you wouldn’t, you parasite. Get a job.” The man spit his toothpick toward the camera. The car behind him honked. The light had turned green and the cars ahead of this driver had pulled away. The Mercedes’ tires chirped as it lurched ahead, its driver extending a middle finger toward the camera. The light turned yellow and a truck ahead stopped, forcing the Mercedes driver to slam on his brakes. He leaned on his horn, cussing over the open top of his convertible’s windshield at the driver in front who had decided not to stretch the yellow light.
The camera remained on the Mercedes from a distance of four car lengths. The driver got out and, leaving his car door open, he stormed toward the cameraperson. On the way, he tucked his phone into his suit pocket and pointed a finger at the cameraperson. Closing in, profanities flew from the driver’s mouth. The movie’s audio muted several times as the cameraperson spoke. At one point, two dirty gloved hands slid into frame. The driver slapped the hands aside and shoved the cameraperson. The image flipped up to the sky and then cut to static. The static faded to black and the words “Part One” appeared again on the screen.
Mark sat in silence for a few moments when the ninety-second movie ended. The footage disturbed him. Was Pop the cameraman? Was the driver Pop? Why had Pop asked Mark to watch this movie, and was this what he thought Mark would enjoy? Would Pop really contact him again?
Mark went back to the kitchen and sorted his mail, but remained distracted by the phone call and movie. He opened some bills and some letters that turned out to be from fans who congratulated him. One of them included a dinner invitation from a woman with a photo of herself posing on the beach. He tossed it onto the counter. He needed to get ready to go to the Soft Landing Shelter House. It would be his first opportunity to see the donated computers in use. He also hoped for a chance to see Uncle Leon.
On the drive to the shelter, fewer people than usual were out shopping on Main Street this evening—despite the beginning of the holiday season. Pedestrian traffic was lean and parking spaces along Main Street were abundant.
Once again, the Soft Landing dining room had a group of chairs arranged in classroom formation. Neva’s lectern stood tall at the front.
When he entered the shelter, he scanned the dining room and saw none of the computers that he had set up. The entire wall was bare. He tried to convince himself that there was a good explanation and took a seat in the back row.
About the same number of volunteers were present as before. Most of the faces were new and most of the volunteers seemed as anxious as he had on his first visit. He did recognize a few of them, including Randy, the one—who had been excited about Happy Hour. Uncle Leon wasn’t there.
He did see the top of Tory’s tall chef’s hat moving among the others beyond the serving counter and below the hanging pots and pans. She could provide answers about the computers if Mark could get a moment with her.
Neva arrived late again, clicking into the dining room in stiletto heels and a purple dress with matching lipstick. She feigned surprise when she saw the volunteers, then patted her hair and kissed the air toward them as she approached the lectern.
She began the introductions—heaping praise on the volunteers for their choice of Soft Landing Shelter as a place to serve the needy.
Neva came to Mark and said, “You look incredibly familiar. What’s your name?”
“I’m Mark. I volunteered here last week.”
One of the two women who sat in front of Mark waved to get Neva’s attention, then pointed over her shoulder and said, “He’s the stripper guy that saved the man on the building.” All the volunteers turned to look at Mark. Some smiled with amazed disbelief. One affirmed, “Hey, it is that guy!”
“Thank you,” Mark said to the tattletale.
“So, we have a hero in our presence,” Neva said, a smile of recognition creeping onto her face.
Mark lifted one hand in an informal, obligatory wave to the group.
“Oh,” Neva said, now smiling at Mark. “What you did was so brave, so selfless and so phenomenal; may I please shake your hand?” She left her lectern and arced around the volunteers, clickety-clacking to Mark, hand extended. She shook his hand and after a moment he let go, but she wouldn’t, holding his hand tightly as she turned to the rest of the volunteers. “Now here is a man that you want to have around when you are in need,” she said. “And look, he’s adorable too!”
Mark blushed, forcing a smile and waited for Neva to return to the head of her classroom. She kept looking at him during her “History of Soft Landing Shelter House” lecture and the story detailing her rise to Executive Director. Mark ignored her and the other volunteers who kept looking back at him. His mind wandered back to the mysterious phone conversation.
The phone had completely died when he hung up. Mark knew computers and, though not as skilled with the inner workings of cell phones, he remembered someone who could help him: Jim Kourokina. Jim was a ham radio operator, mobile-phone-tweaker, electronic gadget guru, and as far as Mark was concerned, a certified circuit-board genius. Mark decided he’d pay Jim a visit for some answers about the technology used by this mysterious “Pop”.
Neva asked the volunteers to stand and bow their heads. She went into her manic prayer, complete with all manner of calls to God. Mark watched the new volunteers peek through squinted eyes—scarcely able to believe her metamorphosis.
Afterwards, she delegated roles to the volunteers for the night’s dinner service, assigning Mark to add slices of pie to each tray. “Sweet as you are, that ought to suit you just fine,” she said. Some volunteers chuckled at Neva’s attempt at humor.
Mark felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Tory. She smiled and congratulated him too. “It’s good to see you back again. Thank you for the computers,” she said.
“Tory, back to the kitchen,” Neva snapped. All voices in the dining room stopped and all eyes turned to Neva. “You have duties, and our celebrity is busy. Now!”
Mark scratched his head, surprised at Neva’s reprimand as he watched Tory scurry, head bowed, back into the kitchen.
“Let’s go people. Places everyone!” Neva shouted, as if she were a film director.
A bell rang. The front doors opened and the hungry dinner guests began to flow by with their trays. Mark served over three hundred sweet-potato-and-lemon pies to trays that seemed to fly by quicker than they had when he served rice last week.
At the end of service, Neva halted the volunteer work and Happy Hour began. Mark, as before, had no desire to party. He wanted to make an inconspicuous exit to get home as soon as possible, but he also wanted to finish his conversation with Tory. He rose to his toes and strained to see into the kitchen, but did not see her so he approached for a better view. Another woman in a white uniform who was wiping off countertops saw Mark searching. “Is Tory back there?” Mark asked.
“Un momento,” the woman said, and then disappeared into the executive hallway on the other side of the kitchen. Behind Mark, Neva supervised some of the volunteers as she directed them to arrange ch
airs around two of the tables for their Happy Hour reward.
The woman came back into the kitchen pulling a confused Tory by the hand and pointed to Mark. Tory smiled and continued to him.
“I hope you aren’t in trouble,” Mark said.
“Nah.” Tory waved her hand dismissively toward the dining room where the incident happened. “I’ll be fine.”
“She’s absolutely fine,” a voice interrupted. It was Neva, standing right beside him. In one smooth motion Tory turned an about-face, picked up a dishtowel, and began wiping dishes with it. She mouthed, “I’m okay,” and stepped back deeper into the kitchen.
Neva touched Mark’s shoulder and said, “Oh, please tell me you’ll join us for Happy Hour, Mark. I’m sure my other volunteers would love a firsthand account of your adventure.”
“No, actually I have to get going. By the way, I’d like to ask you about the computers I brought here.”
“You are the person who donated the computers?” Neva said, looking Mark up and down.
“Not me, a client of mine donated them. I installed them on his behalf, but now they’re gone and I’d like to know where they are.”
“I can’t tell you what good those computers will do!” Neva pointed to Mark. Now, with the undivided attention of everyone in the entire shelter, she said, “He’s heroic and generous in one fine package—unbelievable! Come with me.” Neva gently pulled Mark into the kitchen. Without slowing her step, she barked for Tory to take over the Happy Hour service in the dining room and led Mark past the other kitchen workers and into the executive hallway. She pulled a chain, long enough to be a necklace, from her purse. It was loaded with keys. She still clutched Mark’s arm with one hand while sorting keys with the other. She unlocked the door to her office and Mark shrugged his arm free. Neva released a fake laugh that failed to reduce the awkwardness.
She held the door for Mark, followed him in, and locked the door. Mark shoved his hands into his pockets.
Neva’s desk was an antique, with carved legs and a rich finish. Two chairs were slip-covered with silk and faced a matching sofa. An entire wall was adorned with shelter awards and framed newspaper clippings about Neva’s work at the Shelter. More watercolor paintings hung on the walls. On a mantle, three renderings of Neva in intricate wooden frames looked down on them. Candles lined the window sill and top shelves. Cinnamon and other candle scents were distinct from the aroma in the rest of the shelter.
Mark heard distant laughter from the kitchen and dining area. Happy Hour was underway.
“So, tell me about that fantastic rescue you performed,” Neva said. She lifted an ornate pencil holder from her desk and dusted the place where it sat. “I want to hear all about your heroic rescue of one of our own!”
“If you don’t mind, I would prefer not to recount that right now. I would simply like to understand what happened to the computers I delivered and installed.”
“Oh yes, those.” Neva walked around her desk to Mark and put her hand on his shoulder. “Sit, please.” She pointed to the sofa. “I’ll tell you, but first can I get you a drink?”
“No, thank you.” Mark sat, keeping his hands in his pockets. His eyes followed her. She opened two tall cabinet doors exposing a wet bar, and pulled out a clean glass from its cabinet. She scooped ice into it. “We had to move the computers,” she said.
“But when I left they were set up and ready for use,” Mark said.
Neva walked to the sofa and sat next to Mark. He shifted to make room. Neva crossed her legs, leaned back, and put her arm on the sofa behind Mark. “Yes, I know, and I do appreciate your hard work. But the truth is that the dining area is a veritable security risk for our shelter.” She gestured toward the door with her glass and the ice clinked against it. “We cannot supervise what goes on out there, and frankly, within a week they would be stolen and traded for a thirty-dollar fix.” She winked at Mark while tipping her glass back for a large gulp of her drink.
“So you still haven’t answered my question. Where are they now?”
Neva shifted on the couch and patted her hair as if insulted that her explanation hadn’t closed the matter. She dropped her smile and turned to Mark. “Your computers are fine, hero.” She slammed her drink onto the small table in front of the sofa. It didn’t spill since only ice remained. “God!” she said, rubbing her temples with both hands, her eyes closed.
Mark stood up and stepped back. “Look, I’m not trying be a pain in the ass. I was happy to contribute my work. I only want to see it help the people who come here.”
Neva stood and walked to Mark as he continued to step back toward the door. Neva’s smile reappeared. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped. Can you forgive me?” She leaned close; Mark could smell her liquored breath.
“No problem,” he said. “I’ve got to get going.”
“You know tomorrow I’m getting my hair colored,” Neva said, stepping even closer to Mark. She had him backed up to the door. He stepped sideways to avoid begin pinned. “What do you think of platinum blond?” she asked.
He wondered if her performance was a joke. It was over-the-top enough to be a TV gag. He scanned the room for objects that could hide cameras—like a one-way mirror, a cabinet with dark flush knobs, but saw nothing. He had no answer for her so he said, “I don’t know what I think of blond—I’ve never been a blond.”
Neva laughed hard and then curled her fingers around the open edge of her blouse and said, “You may not have ever been a blond, but have you ever had a blond?”
“I’m all finished here,” Mark said. He turned away, unlocked the deadbolt, and exited to the hall, leaving the door open. As he headed toward the back door that led to the alley he heard Neva say, “Thanks a million for the computers, hero.”
Chapter Eleven
JIM KOUROKINA WAS an electronics genius. Mark had met him three years earlier when he hired Jim to install a car alarm system. They shared a love of technology—albeit in different areas—and became friends. Mark kept Jim up to date on computers and software technology and Jim prodded Mark to let him tweak each new phone Mark purchased so that it could do things for which it was never intended. Mark rarely agreed, always afraid that doing so would void his warranty.
He dialed Jim’s number and paced the hall between his bedroom and living room. Jim answered and made a geeky joke about not remembering who Mark was. Mark told Jim he’d be dropping by to show him a new electronic mystery that Mark was betting Jim had never seen.
“Surprise me,” Jim challenged.
After he hung up, Mark removed Pop’s phone from the confetti filled box and examined it again. It was still dead.
Jim Kourokina’s house was cluttered. A giant, blocky HAM radio antenna shot skyward like a big unfinished cage on top of his house. When Jim opened the door, two small Pomeranians, “Walkie” and “Talkie,” rushed out. They barked and jumped on Mark’s legs. He squatted to greet them.
Jim’s place was exactly as it was about a year ago on Mark’s last visit. Two dirty sofas on matted carpet were the foundation for a graveyard of electronic gadgetry. Circuit boards, manuals, wires, bubble wrap, and fast food wrappers cluttered both sides. Jim led the way on a walking path that went through the electronic debris to a converted bedroom at the back of the house that contained his HAM station and workshop.
“Out you go, guys,” Jim said as he opened a screen door to the back yard. Walkie and Talkie scurried out.
“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 l
ook 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.”
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