“Good afternoon, Mr. Bracks Hemlanson,” Pop said. “Good of you to greet us.” Pop’s sarcasm missed Bracks. “I want you to meet Mark Denny. He’ll be a new director.”
Morana stepped aside to give Bracks a better view of Mark.
“Hi,” Bracks said. His eyes stayed on Morana. “Hug?” He opened his arms to Morana and she brushed him off as she walked by.
“Knock it off,” she said.
Bracks’s office was a suite the same style as Mark’s, but much smaller and rectangular. It was split lengthwise into a living side and what was obviously a work side. On the living side were some folding chairs, a sofa, a kitchen with a stack of dirty dishes on the counter, a small coffee table, and a door to a restroom.
“Bracks refuses to allow housekeeping to enter his suite,” Morana said, pointing to a stack of dirty dishes on the kitchen counter. She went to it and began to rinse the dishes and load them into a dishwasher.
Pop sat down on the sofa and crossed his legs as if he planned to stay a while. “Sit. Relax,” he said to Mark, pointing to a chair opposite him.
Mark studied Bracks’s work area. This is what he had been waiting for—the control center.
Monitors lined one wall over a desk with a laptop, a notepad, and two keyboards. Beside the long desk was a cabinet with a locked Plexiglas front. Computer and networking equipment was stacked neatly inside. Mark recognized a row of humming external drives, battery backups, and at least a couple of servers.
Bracks sat and rolled in his chair to the desk and began to type on the laptop. “We’ve got three potential droppers,” he said to no one in particular.
Pop got up and joined Bracks to look over his shoulder at the monitors. Bracks clicked his mouse a few times and then brought up camera shots on each of his monitors showing the interior of oubliettes. Each contained one person. Out of twelve that were on camera, half sat still, their backs against the wall of their container. The others lay sprawled out on the six-inch bed of confetti that covered the floor.
The chef, on the far right monitor, walked in a circle around the perimeter of the oubliette’s interior dragging his hand against the wall. He stopped from time to time, scraping the wall with his fingernails as if trying to find a weak spot.
“I give numbers three and eight less than twenty-four hours,” Bracks said. “They haven’t moved for six hours.”
“That timing is excellent,” Pops said. He grinned and they shook hands.
Mark walked to Bracks’s sink, and took a few deep breaths to put a wave of nausea in check.
Morana said, “Let’s go, I can see Mark is reaching his threshold for today. Are you hungry, Mark?”
He turned to her with a look of disbelief. “No.”
When they exited Bracks’s suite, Mark tried to remain calm, but he was visibly shaken. He and Morana walked ahead of Pop and Bracks, who remained in conversation a short distance behind.
“How are you feeling?” Morana said.
“There’s so much to learn,” he answered, averting the question.
“Overwhelmed?”
“I’ll be okay.”
“Go to your suite and rest.” She pointed ahead. “I’ll be there in a few minutes to talk to you.”
Mark continued to his door. When he placed his hand on the console, he looked back and saw Morana speaking closely to Pop, who rested his chin between his thumb and forefinger, listening carefully.
Mark entered his suite and sat in the living room to wait for Morana. His task was daunting. The Trail Bladers were technologically advanced and their methods were polished, organized and monitored by Bracks, an apparent mad genius to whom no one had access.
A few moments later, Morana let herself in through the console without knocking. She sat beside Mark on the sofa. “I know that what you’ve seen is overwhelming. We owe you an apology,” she said. Mark’s face didn’t brighten. “I apologize because we have rushed you. Papa was disappointed with your reactions in Bracks’s office. Your demeanor concerns him. He hoped your enthusiasm for our mission would have progressed more by now. I convinced him that you simply need a short break and that you’ll come around. I hope you understand the importance of my having intervened.”
A chill shot up Mark’s back and he sat straighter in his seat. “No, I’m with you guys. I don’t need a break—”
“I know you say that, but your eyes are glazed over. You need a break. Why don’t we go to the movies? It will clear your head.”
“Movies? Are you serious?”
“Yes. Tomorrow.”
“Do you have a theater in the Nest?”
“No.”
“I can’t possibly leave because, apparently, I’m America’s most-wanted felon above ground,” Mark said, pointing up.
“The public focus on you that we’ve arranged is for a higher cause that you’ll understand soon. You’ll ride it out in our care. Papa teaches that if we slam the book closed in the middle of a scary chapter, then we never reach the book’s satisfying ending. The media attention on you may be unnerving, but you are about to see our mission create a world better than you could have imagined. No one will harm you while you’re under our watch.”
“I’d still rather help our mission from here in the Nest,” Mark said.
“Trust me. When we are out in public, you will be unrecognizable.” Morana got up and went to the door. “Get some rest. Tomorrow we go see The Mullesville Torts,” she said. “Papa wants us to screen it for him.”
“Why?” Mark asked.
“Some homeless advocacy groups that we respect have protested this film. Apparently, it disparages our brothers and sisters. Papa’s concern is that the movie exploits the stereotype of homeless people. Papa considers any profits from such a film to be blood money. Although the director—a guy who lives in Santa Monica—had defended the movie’s premise for weeks before its release, the day after we released the Keith Mendalsen video he disappeared and didn’t phone his employees at his office for two days. He was in Aruba. It made the news.”
Mark vaguely remembered the news story about a week ago.
Morana checked her watch and said, “Get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.” She left his suite and Mark went back to the bedroom.
His second day in the custody of Trail Bladers had been exhausting. He rested on his bed. Despite still feeling on edge, it was as though he had depleted his body’s supply of adrenaline and he fell asleep.
The next morning, Morana led him from his suite to what looked like a closet converted to a dressing room a few doors away. It contained three vacuum cleaners, some mops and buckets. A back wall had shelves stocked with cleansers and sponges. A vanity mirror sat angled on a small table in front of a swivel chair.
A male-figure mannequin stood in the middle of the floor, dressed in a dark pinstriped suit. An elderly Asian man knelt beside it. He had a yellow measuring tape draped around his neck and two safety pins pinched at the corner of his mouth. He looked up at Mark and said, “Perfect. No adjustment needed.”
“We’ll see, Chul,” Morana said. “Try it on, Mark.” She pointed to the mannequin.
“Where?”
“Here. I’ll turn my back if it will make you more comfortable.”
“No, it’s fine.” Mark took off his shirt and pants. He pulled the designer suit jacket—a Tallia 4-button, pick stitch—off the mannequin and ran his fingers along the seams. He put on the entire ensemble and turned to the mirror. He examined his new duds from several angles, spread his arms apart, and then raised them. Every aspect of the cut—the waist, chest, collar, and length matched his proportions.
Morana and Chul applauded.
“Do you feel as good as you look?” Morana said.
Mark only nodded.
“Excellent,” she said. “That will be all, Chul. You are free to leave. Send us the bill.”
Chul gathered up his measuring tape, chalk, and a leather carrying case and exited.
“Now it’s time to finish
off your transformation,” Morana said. “Please have a seat.”
Mark sat in the swivel chair. “What exactly are you going to do to me?” he asked.
Morana flung out a red and white striped apron over his front side. It settled gently over him and she secured it around his neck with Velcro.
“What I’m going to do is completely reversible,” Morana said. She rotated Mark’s chair so he faced the mirror. She removed a hand-drawn rendering from a folder and handed it to him.
Mark laughed when he saw it and said, “No way, no how.”
“Just wait,” she said. The image showed a man much darker than Mark, head shaved clean, with a thick mustache and eyeglasses. The only way Mark resembled him was that they wore the same expensive suit. “Our task today is to make you unrecognizable to reward seekers. If we keep you as handsome, that will be a bonus.” Mark blushed.
Morana began working on his skullcap and make up. She added a prosthetic nose and mixed a color-matching paste to conceal seams. She mounted a Zapata mustache that extended down the sides of his chin, tapering with a perfect trim at the ends. She thickened Mark’s eyebrows and gave him some round spectacles as a finishing touch.
Mark stood and looked in the mirror, stunned at the transformation. He picked up the paper that contained his rendering and shook his head. “Unbelievable,” he said. “Wow. You are good.”
“The only visible feature you’ve kept is your height.”
“Are you going to shorten me?”
Morana laughed.
§
When they stepped off the truck onto Arizona Avenue at Third Street, Mark was nervous, despite wearing a disguise good enough to fool his mother. He took a few steps from the truck and looked around, half-expecting eager reward seekers to whoop, point, and call the police.
Morana gave the driver instructions for two local container pick-ups and told him to return in two hours. He nodded and climbed back into the truck.
The few shoppers examined merchandise displayed in windows, but paid more attention to other shoppers who walked by. As Mark and Morana walked toward the theater none of the shoppers or security guards came close enough for a good look at Mark and he wanted to keep it that way.
Street performers were scarce. A nearby lone juggler tossed knives while the faint sound of a synthesizer with an electronic drumbeat blended into the juggler’s act from a block away.
Morana talked on her phone while they walked. “We’re at the theater and we’re seeing The Mullesville Torts, so I will be down for a couple hours,” she said. “Fine…I will.” She hung up.
“Let’s do it. This will be my treat,” she said, winking at Mark. Something looked different about Morana the moment the truck pulled away. She didn’t strike Mark as the winking type. A warmness seemed to come over her. She took Mark’s wrist in her hand and pulled him toward the box office.
“Two for The Mullesville Torts,” she said to the teller. She took a credit card from a handbag she had slung over her shoulder and slid it into the cylindrical payment cup under the window.
The teller’s voice squawked back, “Would you like to donate five dollars on behalf of the theater to help the homeless?”
Morana turned to Mark, her face full of pleasant surprise. “Why of course. Who wouldn’t want to give to the homeless these days, right?”
The teller laughed, “No, kidding. I’m thinking about wearing my donation receipt on my sleeve after I finish my shift. I used to hate this protected cage I’m stuck in.”
Morana looked up and around the box office and over to the main entrance where a security guard walked a short, three-step pace in front of the door, thumbs hooked in his pockets. “No one has gone missing from your theater, have they?” Morana tapped Mark’s foot with hers out of the teller’s view.
“No, ma’am. You’ll be safe and sound and can enjoy your movie in here, that’s for sure. We’ve installed twenty-four-hour video recorders at all our exits,” she said, pointing to a large hand-written sign that confirmed the same. She then pointed up to high-mounted cameras that aimed down at the main double doors.
“That’s why my husband and I only come here,” Morana said, gently elbowing Mark as she took the tickets from the tray.
Mark kept his back to the teller. His hands were sweating again and he felt his heart pounding under his expensive suit. At that moment, the freedom of being on the outside was actually more stressful than confinement in the Nest. Any passerby could become rich from a handsome reward by simply recognizing him.
They entered the theater after a pimple-faced boy in uniform tore their tickets without even looking at their faces—much to Mark’s relief.
As they passed the concession stand, Morana said “Do you want popcorn? No,” she answered for Mark and then laughed at herself.
“What’s going on with you?” Mark said. He noticed that not only had she become more relaxed, but she was giddy, like someone who had just won something.
“We work hard,” she answered. “And it is a pleasure to screen this film for Papa. I haven’t been to the movies in months and I’m looking forward to the break from work for a couple hours. In fact, there is one more movie that Papa has approved us to screen. We can see that one tomorrow if our schedule permits.”
She released her ponytail, raised her chin, and shook her long hair. The generic Trail Bladers uniform failed to obscure Morana’s curvaceous figure—even though they were designed to make Pop’s workers look uniform. Her red polo top allowed for a partial display of her cleavage with only two buttons undone. The black, straight-fit pants struggled at the top—unable to straighten the arc of her hips.
She pulled Mark into the velvet rope-lined path to the concession counter. There was no wait. Two bored workers had set up a bucket and were tossing ice into it in some sort of contest. Morana interrupted their on-the-clock fun by clearing her throat. She purchased a large bucket of buttered popcorn, a large Diet Coke, and a Sprite for Mark, who had moved away to a corner of the hall where the light was dimmer.
They had only five more minutes until show time, yet when they entered, only three other patrons sat in a theater that seated two hundred.
Mark headed toward his favorite spot in a theater—a middle row—but Morana pulled his arm.
“Let’s sit there,” she said, pointing to the rear of the theater.
Mark frowned, but before he could say a word, Morana put her finger to her lips, telling him to be quiet. He followed her to the very back row.
She sat and slouched in her seat to put her long legs over the seat in front of her and rested the bucket of popcorn on her stomach. She rested her head on the seat and began to eat her popcorn.
“Are you going to be able to see?” Mark said.
“Do you want to move further back?” Morana scowled then pressed her finger over her lips.
“No, sitting here is fine,” he said, going along with whatever she was up to.
She smiled and her buttery fingers stuffed more popcorn into her mouth. “By the way, I know you have been sworn in—so to speak, but since this is the first time we are out of a controlled environment together, I want to remind you that we never discuss any aspect of our business in public.”
“Understood,” Mark said.
They watched the slide show of pre-movie local advertisements. One was a public service announcement about the Santa Monica crisis, reminding viewers to, “Say something if you see something”. At the bottom of the screen, an 800 number was displayed above no less than five rewards for over six-hundred thousand dollars combined for the capture of the perpetrator.
“What a waste,” Morana said through a mouthful of popcorn. She threw a kernel at the screen. It fell three rows ahead.
“That reward will never be awarded,” Mark said, hoping that’s what Morana meant. She nodded and kept eating.
The next slide showed an image of Mark’s face, declaring him a person of interest and captioned with the same 800 number. Morana co
vered Mark’s eyes and snickered.
“It isn’t funny,” Mark whispered, pushing her hand away.
“It wouldn’t be funny if you were in any danger. Relax,” she said. She wiped her fingers on her shirt and then patted Mark on the back.
Mark couldn’t relax. Even with an impeccable disguise he felt naked. Suppose the woman in the box office had recognized him and secretly reported him. What could Morana do if police stormed into the theater?
When the lights dimmed for the previews, Morana leaned to Mark and said, “If there’s one thing that I hate, it’s people who talk during movies, so you’re going to have to be totally quiet until it is finished, got it?”
“No problem,” Mark said. He reached over and took a handful of popcorn. Perhaps it would help him to chew away some anxiety.
The theater darkened and the screen cast a green glow over the walls and rows of empty seats when the preview began. Mark saw that Morana had placed her bucket of popcorn in the seat beside her and brought her legs back to the floor. Instead of watching the preview, she gazed at Mark in silence until she caught his attention.
“What?” he said.
She frowned and touched her forefinger against his lips. Mark nodded and she slowly pulled her finger away. She reached down and took the bottom of her shirt with both hands and pulled it up slowly. When her shirt was just below her breasts, she reached up behind her neck and pulled it up over her head by the back of the collar. The scene changes of the movie previews blinked and flashed, strobing the theater and giving Mark flickering glimpses of Morana’s upper body in only a bra. She took her shirt and draped it gently over the back of the seat beside her.
She unsnapped her bra and let it fall to her lap. She draped it neatly on her shirt.
Mark shifted in his seat, unsure what Morana was doing. He looked around the theater to see if any of the three other patrons might somehow have noticed that a woman in the back was now topless. They hadn’t.
Morana turned Mark’s chin toward her. He tried not to gawk and kept his eyes on hers, but soon his eyes went down to her bare shoulders, breasts, and stomach. She put her finger to Mark’s lips again. He nodded.
Dire Means Page 32
