Commitment Issues

by Wynn Wagner

  He told the security guard in the lobby that he needed all the security tapes for the past forty hours. He asked the guard if they had a way to shut down the swimming pool and tennis court and told him they would have to put barricades over the entrance of the garage. The security guards were told to stay out of the parking garage and walk around the outside of the building.

  Within another half an hour, more agents and officers showed up. I saw them on the video monitor at the guard's station in the lobby. Wyatt and I weren't allowed back in the garage. Most of the new people had jackets with FBI or POLICE in big white letters. A few had ATF on their backs. They were taking this very seriously. I guess we won't make the eleven p.m. meeting.

  The police brought a little robot, but it was too wide to get between the wall and Wyatt's car. They had to send in a heavily padded officer.

  Every security guard on staff was there too, and I saw the building manager arrive. They were going to post a couple of guards at the entrance of the parking garage and do valet parking for the residents. I was halfway expecting the building manager to ask me to move, since my presence made everybody in the condo tower a target, but he never said anything about it.

  As Wyatt and I headed back to our condo, I saw an officer with a dog going to each car in the garage. It was probably a bomb-sniffing pooch. The guard station had all the monitors turned to the various cameras in the garage. Somebody could have landed a helicopter on the roof and nobody would have known. Maybe the system recorded all the cameras but only showed a select few.

  If Wyatt was afraid, he didn't show it. I was terrified, and I was angry that somebody would go after my lover when I was the real target. What kind of demented creep would even do something that disgusting? The bomber had already attacked me, and now he was attacking Wyatt? Yeah, I could have been killed if the car blew up, but it was just as likely to take out Wyatt on a solo trip to the grocery store.

  So now what? I guess that I live in fear, even in the protection of a condo with security guards. The bomber had proved that I was not safe even in a guarded cocoon. This just gets better and better. Do we move to Antarctica? Do we live in a maximum-security prison?

  Wyatt seemed to be able to go on about his business. We were in the den of the condo. He had gotten his motorcycle helmet and had pulled out some of the padding. He was carving a hole for his Bluetooth intercom around where his right ear would be.

  "Be careful,” I said.

  "Always."

  "No, I mean it. If you are ever in a motorcycle wreck, God forbid, you don't want anything harder than a cotton ball or piece of tissue paper next to your head."

  "Good point,” he said. “I'll make the hole deep as possible."

  Just as he was finishing his helmet, there was a knock at the door. It was Agent Iacocca.

  "Wow,” he told Wyatt. “Great eye, Wyatt. We got the bomb, and it is on its way to the FBI lab in Quantico in Virginia. The bureau is sending a jet and team just to get it. This is something that we've all been after for a couple of years. It's awesome."

  "So you get a medal?” I asked.

  "Maybe a toaster,” Wyatt said.

  "I'm afraid they're taking your car,” the FBI guy said. “Evidence. All I can say is that I will try to get it back to you ASAP, but no guarantees."

  Wyatt looked surprised, but he just shrugged. “Evidence,” he said. “Keep the car as long as you need."

  "Keep it forever,” I said. “We'll rent a car tomorrow and go out looking for a new one. I've been wanting a new car for a while."

  "You don't like my wreck?"

  "It's not that—okay, in a word, no."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Ten

  ... And that's how this nation of immigrants is facing the latest in a long string of immigrant waves. That's Perspective America. I'm Sean Roberts....

  "And, we're clear. That's a wrap,” Ronny said through the studio intercom.

  "We got our rental car,” Wyatt said. He poked his head into the studio when he saw the ON THE AIR light go off. We were probably the only condo in the entire building with its own on-the-air light. It was a very exclusive club.

  "Rental?” Janie Marroquin asked. My editor seemed miffed. “You throw your money away. You guys could have borrowed my car."

  "We're going out to look at cars today,” I told her.

  "He's embarrassed by my wreck,” Wyatt laughed. “I think he planted the bomb to force me to agree to get another car."

  "What are you going to get?"

  "I want a GTC,” I said.

  "That's a Bentley,” Wyatt whispered.

  "Chinga, man,” she laughed. “What are you really thinking about?"

  "He's probably serious,” Wyatt said. “He wanted a Corvette until one of the other residents told him that the Corvette scrapes the ground at the entrance. It sits so low to the ground, and whoever designed the garage didn't plan for it."

  "We're going to look at everything, Aston Martin to Kia,” I said.

  "Go-fast car, though?"

  "Yeah,” Wyatt said.

  "Hey, you know that you can get a security system that will alert you if anybody so much as touches your car?"

  "Really?” Wyatt said.

  "After-market stuff,” she added. “The best ones even make sounds on your key fob to know somebody's messing with your wheels. It starts flashing an LED in case you don't hear the chirps. I'll get you some brand names and shops. You just set the car to let you know if anybody touches it in the garage, and you can check it by looking at your fob. I mean, we see that you can't count on these rent-a-cops here."

  She was right. I was hoping we could get a Tesla, which is an electric sports car. There weren't any Tesla dealers within a thousand miles. And the Tesla Roadster was on the other side of $100,000. Ouch.

  Wyatt wanted a smart car, but I insisted on something made in the USA.

  We settled on a Cadillac CTS-V coupe. It was barely sporty enough for me, but Wyatt was excited. I had to admit that the guys at Cadillac had produced a tight car. In the past, my complaint had always been that even sporty-looking Cadillac models were mushy on the road. Our CTS-V held itself well in corners. It wasn't as good as a Corvette, but there isn't an American car on the road that behaves like a Corvette.

  It took almost a day to buy the car, and I didn't even want financing. I had been making good money for a while, and I didn't have much in the way of expenses. There was a monthly payment for the common fees at the condo, but I didn't have a mortgage. All these years of having a good job and cheap apartment finally paid off. Imagine me buying a Cadillac and paying cash.

  I tried to get them to let me put it on a credit card, but the dealer wouldn't go for that. Imagine how many points I could have gotten.

  Janie told us about a car-alarm store that had the fancy don't-even-touch-me alarm. The store picked up our car from the dealer and took it to get its alarm and tinted windows.

  We didn't see the new car for a couple of days. Let's see, what in the world will Wyatt and I do if we're trapped in the condo with no wheels for a couple of days?

  "Rental car, babe,” he said. “Don't forget we—"

  "Whatever,” I said in protest.

  * * * *

  "How long were you and Chico together?” Wyatt asked as he looked up from his menu.

  "Huh?” I said. You can always count on the big-time radio announcer to come up with witty banter.

  Wyatt had gotten me out of the condo for supper. I didn't really want to go out. Funny how a bomb can make you nervous about getting into a car. He got on his knees and looked under the car. He wanted to start the car and drive up to the condo elevators to pick me up. He said it was because I was still on the mend from the apartment explosion. I told him that if there was a mad bomber trying to kill me, then I couldn't really disappoint him. The truth was that I knew I wouldn't be able to face another day if Wyatt was hurt in some plot that was aimed at me.

  The security d
esk kept a camera trained on our rental car all day and all night. A local police officer was assigned to the building. It supposedly was to be backup for the regular security guards. Funny how the guards were more alert and attentive when the officer was near. I'm sure it was just a coincidence.

  Why was I a target? I had no idea, but I knew that I had to protect Wyatt as much as I could. Wyatt had to take the lead in crawling around on the ground looking for bombs because I wasn't completely healed.

  Oh, fuck it. I got on my knees to look under the passenger side of the car. When I got up, there was a grease stain on one of my knees. Wyatt wanted me to go change, but I told him that we ought to just go. Grrrr.

  "You and Chico? I see how you look at him."

  "We weren't a couple,” I protested.

  "Sean, it's okay. I knew you weren't a virgin."

  "But we weren't a couple. We really weren't."

  "Okay,” he said softly. “I'm just saying...."

  "We took care of some physical needs a few times,” I whispered, “but it wasn't ever anything more than that."

  "Okay."

  "I would tell you if you wanted me to. I got no secrets, but there's nothing to tell."

  "It's fine, babe,” he said. “I love you. Chico's really sexy, so I'm glad that I don't have to compete."

  "No competition, lover. None. I love you, and I never once loved Chico. He was just a—"

  And the waitress walked up.

  "Rib eye, medium rare,” I told the waitress.

  There's only one kind of steak: rib eye. There's only one way to cook it: medium rare. Anything else is a crime against the cow. The French sometimes put an egg on top of a steak, which is at least an eight or nine on the weird scale. I love Bearnaise sauce, but an egg? I will even eat Bearnaise with a steak, even if they threaten to throw me out of the Southwest. In general, if the rib eye can't be eaten by itself, then it shouldn't be cooked as a steak. Sometimes an herbed butter is good. I've had lemon butter that was nice. But if you need to load it up with a bunch of goop, maybe you need to be eating goulash or pot roast. Oh, and please don't season the crap out of the steak. A good steak needs freshly cracked pepper before it is cooked. You can rub it with a broken clove of garlic, if you really want. Touch it with salt or anything else, and you need to be thrown out of the kitchen. Salt is okay after the steak is cooked, but never before. It is okay to let the steak rest a couple of minutes before cutting it. There's never any need to slice the steak to see how well it is cooked. You can touch it with a finger. If it is a little mushy, it's great. If it feels hard like a hockey puck, it is probably because you have confused the grill with an incinerator, and you should be ashamed of yourself. Pray for the cow's forgiveness. It has more invested in the meal than you, and it deserves the respect of not annihilating the rib eye.

  "So maybe we'll have a nice evening,” I said.

  "You mean without somebody trying to blow us up?” Wyatt said.

  "Something like that."

  "You have to admit that we've had a kind of explosive relationship."

  The waitress brought out our salads and was setting them down on the table when the front window of the restaurant shattered. Our salads were suddenly up in the air, and lettuce was flying everywhere. It all seemed to be moving in slow motion.

  "Gun!” somebody across the restaurant yelled. “Somebody's shooting a gun."

  Wyatt jumped into the air from his seat as I heard a second shot. Everybody else was diving to the floor, and Wyatt did the exact opposite. He jumped over the table and tackled me. Wyatt flew into my chest, and we both went to the ground together. He flew across the goddamn table and hit me in the chest. We both went over just as another bullet came through the window. Was it something I said?

  Wyatt was hit. Oh God. Fuck! No! Wyatt was shot. My lover took a bullet that was meant for me. Wyatt was barely bleeding, but there was blood everywhere. Our waitress was in bad shape. She wasn't moving much. Our part of the restaurant was covered with blood and lettuce and blue cheese crumbles.

  An off-duty police officer had been eating with his wife near the front entrance, and he had his own gun. He screamed for everybody to stay on the floor. Hey, not a problem here! I was on the floor, pinned down by Wyatt. The officer crawled to the front of the restaurant and carefully peered out the door. The officer slowly opened the door and went out. Several people had cell phones, and they were calling 911. YouTube would have plenty of video. I thought we might need to contact Agent Iacocca, but nothing was going to take me away from Wyatt.

  "Fuck,” he said. “The asshole ruined my shirt.” He was awake and upset. Thank goodness.

  "You've been shot,” I told him.

  "Yeah, I know, but look at this shirt. I can't fix it."

  What a queen. He had been shot in the arm, and he was more worried about the shirt than he was about the wound. I looked at the arm, and it was more like he had been burned than shot.

  The off-duty police officer's wife crawled to the waitress. Her wound was more serious. The cop's wife must have been a paramedic, because she seemed to know what to do. The wife snapped into action like she did this kind of thing every day. When sirens started approaching the restaurant, the wife was still applying pressure to the wound on the waitress's back. She had a stack of fresh napkins that the restaurant staff had brought.

  "They just nicked my arm,” Wyatt said as he looked at his shredded shirtsleeve.

  "Ouch, fuck,” I said as I found that my chest really hurt when I breathed. I was covered in blood, but I didn't think any of it was mine.

  The officer's wife quickly went to each of us to see about our injuries and to ask questions. I thought she was being nosy, but she was filing all our answers away for the ambulance staff.

  "Hey, Marsha,” one of the paramedics said. “The boss has to approve overtime ahead of time, you know."

  "I carry my work home with me sometimes. First patient is a middle-aged female, GSW in the left shoulder, exiting out near the fourth thoracic vertebra. I'm guessing it's a nine mil, give or take. Possibly hemodynamically compromised."

  "I got this one,” one of the paramedics said as he got closer to the waitress who was still bleeding, even though the officer's wife had gotten one of the other diners to help keep pressure on the back wound.

  "Second patient,” the officer's wife said, “is a twenty-year-old male. STI upper arm."

  "How're you doing?” the second paramedic asked Wyatt, who was still grieving at the hole in his shirt.

  Wyatt just nodded.

  "Third patient,” the officer's wife said, “is a twenty-five-year-old male. Apparently had a flail chest a couple of months ago. He hit the floor hard here and says there's pain when he exhales, but it isn't as bad as a few months ago."

  "Sir, what's your pain level on a scale of one to ten?” the paramedic asked me.

  "Is morphine at play here?” I asked him.

  "No, probably not,” he said without any inflection.

  "He hates the extra paperwork,” the officer's wife said.

  "Pain is just a four or five then,” I said. There was no need to lie when I didn't get drugs either way.

  The paramedics were on the scene before the police, and they knew that the waitress was in the worst shape. They spent most of their energy treating her injuries. Wyatt and I didn't mind because we knew our wounds weren't as serious, even though my chest really hurt. Wyatt had tackled me so hard when he went airborne over the table that he had reinjured my chest.

  "I am so sorry that I hurt you, Sean,” he said.

  "You probably saved my life, honey.” And that was the truth.

  "I wonder if the Boy Scouts have a merit badge for getting shot,” he said.

  "You're queer, dear,” I whispered. “They don't give badges for anything when you sleep with another guy."

  "Doesn't seem fair,” he said as he pulled out his cell phone. He punched in some numbers, and I knew he was calling Iacocca.

  "Maybe you
need to put him on speed dial or something."

  "Been shot,” Wyatt said in the phone. “I hurt Sean when I tackled him to get him to the floor. Uh, tackle... no, tight end... okay, defensive back.... It was a good tackle, and goin’ over the table, I had really good hang-time.... Yeah, you pick it up on the scanner? That's us! Yeah, the steak house on the corner at the light. I thought you'd want to know. Okay, we'll wait."

  The police showed up after the paramedics were strapping the waitress onto a board. They had her neck in some kind of brace. I didn't think she hurt her neck, but I wasn't sure of that. Within a few minutes we had a restaurant full of uniforms and detectives with IDs on lanyards or badges on clips.

  "Agent Iacocca with the FBI said he's coming,” I told one of the police detectives. “He asked us to wait to talk to anybody, if that's okay with you."

  "Mario?” the detective said. “Absolutely, I haven't seen him in months. We worked out of the same station for years. Gotten all uppity with his new job, you know."

  * * * *

  Mario Iacocca arrived in a plain car with a blinking light on the hood. It was a Camaro, maybe his personal car or a car the Bureau had seized in a drug case.

  "Hey, guys,” he said in his boisterous and cheery voice. “Can't a guy get a night off without you being attacked?"

  "Hi, Mario,” one of the officers said. “You know the victims?"

  "Yeah, they're some of my regular customers."

  "You taking the case?” the police detective asked.

  "You don't want it?” Agent Iacocca said.

  "They're a cute couple, man,” the detective whispered, “so I figured you'd want in on the action."

  Mario Iacocca was gay? I did not see that coming.

  "Family?” I asked him, and he just raised an eyebrow. “They let gay people in...?"

  "Does this look like the Army to you?” Iacocca asked.

  "No,” Wyatt said. “But you have to admit they have sexy uniforms."

  "Whatever,” Iacocca said. “I brought some pictures from the garage. I was going to come around tomorrow, but you seem to have gotten me out of the house. You guys feel like looking at some grainy security printouts?"