"You know those guys were not reporters, correct?"
"I do now, of course," Gustavo answers. "It did not occur to me at the time they were anything but reporters. Can I insert a question now?"
"Are you going to ask me who those guys were?"
"Yes, why did the two of you instantly assume they were dangerous?"
"Because they were," Zachary answers. "There is history, plus the attack I mentioned to you in San Francisco."
"Dangerous as in being undercover cops?" Gustavo asks.
"No."
"Bail bondsmen?"
"Nope."
"Assassins? Kidnappers?"
Zachary chooses to shrug and stare into Gustavo's amber eyes rather than lie.
"So we both have questions we want to skip," Gustavo notes.
"We do," Zachary responds, nodding his head.
"What are we going to do about this?"
"The peril is real. Trust is hard with a friend, much less a stranger. But the barriers will have to be broken down. The sooner the better."
"Right now, I cannot leave, walk into the sunshine, and vanish, can I?" Gustavo asks.
"You can try," Zachary says. "Aleksey may or may not stop you. Unless you are a total fool, you would stop yourself. You seem to have no idea what you are up against out there."
"Mister Fellini, can I have a few minutes of silence to think this through."
"Call me Zachary, please. I have been calling you Gustavo. We need to drop formalities."
"Why is my reason for wanting to meet with Heather Wanda of importance to you?" Gustavo asks. "I know you are curious. But it has nothing to do with why those men showed up for you in the lobby."
"We are grasping at straws here. We don't know which ones though lead to real insights. Rest here, on the couch, and let your mind consider that it is possible that we may be able to help one another."
22
Reflections
In the back seat of a shared ride, Aleksey Nabokov scrolls through numerous text messages from Rafael pleading for a face-to-face visit to discuss what happened. The messages include apologies and an assertion that Aleksey's conclusions about Peter are conjecture and speculation.
Ending their relationship with dignity and peace is important to Aleksey. He does not want turmoil, anger, or cruel and regrettable words in a melodramatic confrontation to be what he remembers about the bond he built with Rafael. From past experience he knows that final confrontations are fraught with hazards, as partners unload their arsenal of accusations and suspicions. Oftentimes these fights overshadow and tarnish all of the good moments and treasured intimacy.
Embracing brevity, Aleksey texts Rafael a short message wishing him well and indicating that he has not yet decided on whether meeting him again can happen.
Aleksey is dropped off at a pavilion that shares a central plaza with a library, police station, and multigenerational center. The empty pavilion—an open air theatre covered with a three-pronged canopy-style roof—has stone benches under a cluster of sixteen palm trees near its entrance. Aleksey positions himself on a bench, leans his back against a tree, and leaves messages with numerous contacts. His vague inquiries do not address the morning's events, his location, or the incidents in San Francisco. With less than a handful of the contacts, the ones he considers genuine friends, Aleksey specifically refers to Cobra de Capello or Wanda Barrone and asks them if they have heard of any recent activity.
His next task is locating a backup rental in the event that Zachary decides to immediately change their location. Aleksey believes this is likely and meticulously hunts for something Zachary will be satisfied with and that fulfills his security requirements. He chooses a townhouse in a newly constructed hillside neighborhood above a Catholic church with views of the Las Vegas Strip. It is a neighborhood Aleksey previously researched before selecting the condominium in the mixed-use complex.
While waiting for responses, Aleksey pays for a day pass at the multigenerational center, changes into a swim racing suit, locks his belongings in a locker, and takes only a towel and goggles to the Olympic-sized outdoor swimming pool. He chooses an empty lane and dives in, exhilarated by the refreshing cool water and reflected lightwaves. A competitive swimmer throughout his youth, Aleksey knows he does his best thinking when merged with the pool, in a trance-like state, rolling through continuous laps with paced breathing. He believes there is nothing like it in all of sports, though long distance running can occasionally produce a similar and less intense effect.
Without having to shares his lane with other swimmers, Aleksey elects to swim the laps on his back. This stroke—the backstroke—was his greatest strength, compared to his peers, due in part to his dexterous shoulders which afforded him a long reach. Upon completing his first set of laps, while watching the clouds crawl and mutate in the sky, Aleksey's thoughts effortlessly stream around the day's concerns and mysteries.
He does not regret leaving Zachary alone with Gustavo. First, Zachary ordered it, likely for two primary goals—earning Gustavo's trust and giving Aleksey privacy to do his work. Second, Aleksey does not fear Gustavo's intentions. Gustavo did not have a weapon and all indications suggested his secret reason for being in the lobby did not involve any efforts against Zachary. Still, to be sure, Aleksey will continue studying Gustavo when he returns to the condominium.
Aleksey wonders why Wanda Barrone, one of the owners of Cobra De Capello, was enjoying a drink in the rooftop hotel lounge while an operation was active. Even if not the brains behind executing her order, wouldn't she want to be in a location more like an intelligence center—a situation room, at least—and getting live updates? Since she was not, does that suggest overconfidence or disinterest? Or perhaps her task in the lounge was paramount to whatever was occurring four stories below with Zachary? Her curious behavior needs much more reflection, Aleksey decides.
He next considers what would have happened in the lobby without Gustavo's warning. Would the men have taken only Zachary? Would his seizure be for ransom and intimidation or just outright revenge? Would they have wounded Zachary and destroyed his career?
Aleksey realizes he does not have the answers to the quandaries. Far too many pieces of the puzzle are missing. But he feels certain that if the fog could be cleared that one prominent man would be at the center of the reason for it all. Nathaniel Balder.
Aleksey finishes his final set of laps with this conclusion in his mind. Nathaniel is not directing the predicaments, but, ultimately, he is the reason for them. Zachary—Nathaniel's closest friend, and no easy target himself—is a much more accessible mark. It is danger by association. The cost of their friendship and the result of Nathaniel's often merciless behavior.
Aleksey returns to the locker room and rinses the chlorine off his body with a hot shower. As he puts on his clothes he reviews his messages, all of which hold little value, except for Zachary's text letting Aleksey know he needs more time alone to gain Gustavo's trust.
Wandering about two miles, past residential neighborhoods and to a small commercial district, Aleksey takes a booth in a locally-owned pizzeria with homemade dough. Starving from the exercise and day's challenges, he devours three glasses of iced tea and a large pizza covered with black olives, vegetables, and tangy tomato sauce. While waiting for the waitress to bring him change, he receives a text image from a friend.
"What the hell is this?" Aleksey mutters to himself, expanding the size of the image by spreading his thumb and forefinger on the screen.
The photo is from a security camera, full color and unblemished, apparently shot downwards from the height of the ceiling. The center of the image contains the facial features of a young man sitting on a sofa, looking upward, with an open magazine in his lap.
"Gustavo."
23
Trust
Zachary serves movie theater-style popcorn while he and Gustavo watch back-to-back episodes of "Laverne & Shirley" on a classics-themed television channel. They laugh together during
the first three episodes. Zachary shuts off the television set when the fourth episode—about a man conning Shirley into romance because he thinks she is rich—concludes with moments of despair, followed by renewed hope and fellowship.
"That helped," Gustavo says. "For a while there all my problems were forgotten."
"But it ended on a bummer," Zachary replies. "Don't go thinking I will try to dupe you with romance."
"It did not cross my mind."
"You are very good-looking, Gustavo, but not my type."
"Because I am a guy or because I am repugnant for some other reason?" Gustavo asks, looking down at his feet and trying to will away the blushing that has snuck into his cheeks.
"I am attracted to guys," Zachary says. "I apologize if you thought my comment was an insult."
"I don't like categorizing people as "types" at all," Gustavo responds. "Is that not dehumanizing? Reducing the complexity of a human being down to whether a person fits within a constricting framework?"
"I apologized, Gustavo. No offense was intended."
"You are into guys. But not into me. Is that harsh to hear? Kind of. You probably wish people would not suggest prejudicial ideas about fighters and what motivates them to violence. But maybe you play the same game of forming instant judgements about others. There is no need for you to apologize to me. I am just trying to make a point here."
"Ouch," Zachary replies, trying to return to a state of levity between them. "You certainly made your point. With a wicked tongue."
"My voice can be wicked," Gustavo says, "especially if you don't like hearing my forthright observations."
"Someone hurt you, didn't they? Was it recent?"
"I am pretty certain I have not ever fallen in love. There have been crushes, some of which were intense and emotional. But real, mature, adult love? Where you care for someone else more than yourself and build a life together? No, I have not had that yet. Nothing even close, actually."
"Don't worry about it," Zachary says. "You have all the time in the world to fall head over heels, again and again, in the years to come. There will be no shortage of guys lining up and hoping for your attention."
"Have you been married before?" Gustavo asks.
"No," Zachary answers.
"Is Aleksey your partner as well as your bodyguard?"
"No, that is a boundary he and I never cross. He keeps trying for romance with boyfriends and getting burned. I just want my freedom. Well, the truth is I need my freedom. That is a whole other matter I don't want to wade into right now."
"My most promiscuous friends say the same sort of thing," Gustavo says. "Freedom. Needs. Desires."
"So what?" Zachary asks, shifting in his chair. "I am promiscuous. I am not requesting your approval or congratulations. Everyone is different."
"I am not passing judgment. I don't think in terms of people being better than one another based on how many sex partners they have."
"A good friend, another fighter, jokes that I am like Marlon Brando, who supposedly banged everything and everyone. That is an unfair characterization of Brando. Nevertheless, my friend is wrong is about me too. The conquest—the hunt—is not what I am after. Or any glory from notches in a belt or whatnot."
"Do you have clarity on what you are after?" Gustavo asks, lowering the tone and slowing the speed of his words.
"Of course," Zachary answers. "But how are you and I in such a deep and personal conversation right now?"
"Maybe it is the stress we are under."
"I am always burdened with stress. Always."
"Zach, you don't have to answer my last question. I withdraw it, so to speak."
"Thank you. Maybe that is something I will answer another day. Or maybe not."
Zachary learns nothing of importance when he checks in with Aleksey, Nathaniel, and one of his previous lawyers. He lifts the remote control to turn on the flat screen television again, but drops his arm and instead reaches for his computer tablet. He asks Gustavo if they can find any of his paintings online. Gustavo scoots over to make room for Zachary beside him on the couch. With the tablet between them, Gustavo shares photographs of his artwork displayed on his own web site and the web sites of numerous galleries, mostly in Hawaii, California, and Nevada.
Rather than chronicling his career or explaining any inspirations for his pieces, Gustavo does what he is accustomed to doing when with a person viewing his works. He says nothing. He wants the canvases to speak for themselves. He makes no mention of artistic periods and mixes the order of the paintings, blending the nature pieces and portraits without any plan.
Importantly, Gustavo deliberately avoids looking at Zachary for any reactions. He does not want to invite the man's responses or suggest in any way that he wants his approval, shock, or a cliche comment.
Zachary languidly appraises Gustavo's art without asking any questions. He stares longest at a large painting displayed on the web site of a Honolulu art gallery. It features Diamond Head—the volcanic tuff cone in southeastern Oahu—radiant with color in the boldest hues. The green mountain ridge stretches upward and outward, toward the brilliant blue sky. To its right, turquoise and aqua waves stream in from the ocean. In the distant center, Honolulu skyscrapers fade and provide balance, yet they are overshadowed by the power and glory of nature.
"Phenomenal," Zachary declares, before turning off the tablet. "Especially that last one."
"Thank you, Zachary."
By early evening, with Aleksey still out on his mission, Zachary calls in a takeout dinner order for himself and Gustavo at one of the restaurants on the ground floor of the mixed-use complex that specializes in Asian cuisine. When half an hour has elapsed since placing the order, Zachary hands sixty dollars to Gustavo and describes the nearby location of the restaurant to Gustavo.
"I am going alone?" Gustavo asks.
"There is less risk that you will be identified," Zachary answers. "It's just below the condos in the building next to us. You will be gone only two or three minutes and I have a ball cap I hope you will wear to take an extra precaution."
"I have no problem going to get the food. I am not scared. No one will identify me here. I am not famous. But how do you know I will come back?"
"I think you will return."
"I could take your cash and be gone."
"Gustavo, you are not my captive," Zachary says, handing him the cap. "If you must flee, then go. Disappear. But we have unfinished business and need to help each other, so my wish and expectation is that you return."
Gustavo puts on the cap and leaves the condominium, shutting the door firmly behind him. The lanes around the buildings are crowded with people coming home from their jobs and arriving for the half-dozen restaurants in the complex. A taxi is queued to the front of a stand, awaiting a passenger. Gustavo texts his friend Makena Keahi to let her know he will update her soon on the day's events.
When Gustavo reenters the condo, Zachary is seated at the dining room table. Two plates are set with napkins, silverware, and glasses of chilled sparkling water with lime wedges. They briefly make eye contact, transfer the meals from the containers onto the plates, and then enjoy the hearty dinners in silence. Retiring back to the couch and recliner after cleaning up, Zachary flicks on a table lamp and turns off the unit's overhead lighting.
"You asked for the truth earlier," Zachary says. "I am ready to share, even though it risks unnecessarily scaring you even more. Frankly, I don't know much yet about what is specifically happening, but I can try to put it in some context for you."
"Please," Gustavo replies, pulling his feet onto the couch underneath his thighs.
"You may know of only one or two professional leagues for mixed martial arts fighters. However, there are many. They propel, they collapse. Like any industry, especially one tied to money and fame and entertainment, the best and worst of human nature is drawn in. The tides move so quickly, it is a battle in itself to keep score of who is worthy of being associated with and who is likely
to defraud you. The risks are great. The rewards can be too. I imagine the art world can be like this as well."
"Sure, but without sanctioned violence, generally speaking."
"True, but I hope you get my point."
"I do," Gustavo responds. "I understand so far."
"With sports, and perhaps maybe contact sports most of all, the playing field is remarkably level. Almost all of these men and women achieve exceptional conditioning, train with accomplished pros, study all the new moves and techniques easily viewable online, and can reach stardom and contend for championships. But imagine that it is not physicality or agility that determines who reaches the highest echelons of the sport. Imagine that the mental game is paramount. Not just concentration and dedication to goals. Higher stakes—like raw fear and mental balance. For some of us, many of us maybe, at the very top levels, the offspring of these higher stakes include threats, grudges, bluster, intimidation, hatred, obsession. Some take it too far. Way too far. Into criminality."
"The fighters only or the owners and operators too?"
"Good question," Zachary answers. "People get tied to one another. Guilt by association, retribution by association, and so forth. I once thought of it all as a whirlpool that swallows us up. We can fight the spinning, but eventually we are going to get sucked down into the vortex. I have been spun into it and sometimes behaved badly. Others, even people I know are basically good at heart, continue to do far worse. Is any of this making sense to you?"
"It is," Gustavo answers. "You are not indicting a sport or a particular league, but attesting to what human nature can contort into when under extreme stressors."
"Exactly. Well said."
"You have not physically taken a life or maimed someone outside of the ring, have you?"
"The cage, you mean. No, not physically. Am I an angel? Hell no. Am I associated with people who are dangerous? I am."
Guarding His Desires (Passionate Security Book 2) Page 8