Quicksand Pt. 03

Evan returned and handed me a very full glass of chilled white wine. "Veritas," he said.

I chuckled. "You pour a mean glass of truth."

He quipped. "If only the glasses were bigger."

We sipped and considered the quiet. My thoughts were frozen, though my eyes kept returning to the picture frame as rattling echoes of self-loathing clattered in the dankness of my psyche.

Evan tried to appease my silence. "You're not the first straight guy to be seduced, you know. In fact, for some gay men it's kind of a vain, cynical game. They flatter themselves by..."

"I told him I loved him."

Shock registered on Evan's face. "I wasn't expecting to hear that. Did you mean it?"

"No. But I said it and he said it back."

"When?"

"When we were going at it."

"Okay." Evan chewed on the implications. "Okay. So you're going at it, getting close..."

"About to..."

"So you are on the brink of orgasm and you said, "I love you?"

"Yeah."

"That doesn't count. That's like the standing ovation at a Broadway show. All that means is good job. Well done. Kudos."

"I know. But he said it back. I said it reflexively, but he meant it. I led him on."

"And when the moment passed did you tell him you didn't mean it? Did you make clear that it was just a one-time thing?"

"Yes. Several times. But he pursued me all the way to Tulsa and wrecked my marriage."

"You couldn't have known he was unhinged."

"I'm a money manager. I am trained to watch for moral hazard."

Evan's brow scrunched quizzically, "Moral what?"

"Moral hazard. Assuming imprudent risk thinking that you have hedged sufficiently to avoid any consequences. Quicksand. I risked my marriage thinking that I was shielded from consequences by distance and anonymity. But the consequences came looking for me."

"That's right, you're a money manager." Evan hammered the point home. 
"You're not a psychiatrist. You aren't trained to recognize an obsessive nutcase. All you did was succumb to human temptation because you are an actual human being."

I retaliated against his compassion. "That's why quicksand is a motherfucker. You have to assume it's always out there, somewhere, waiting to suck you down. I was arrogant and figured I could tiptoe around the consequences and I lost everything I ever wanted."

I drained my wine glass as I stood. "This is a good time to say goodnight.".

Evan followed me as I took my glass to the kitchen sink. "I'm sorry, Alan. I feel like I killed the buzz big time."

"No, Evan. You've provided the only buzz this house has had in years. Thanks for that. Goodnight.

________

In the morning, I punished myself in the clubhouse gym. It was Saturday and I got several offers to play a round of golf, all of which I declined.

Evan was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee as I dropped the newspaper in front of him. I attempted to smooth over the previous night's weirdness by mussing his hair. With a banana in hand, I made for the shower. When I returned refreshed and dressed, Evan was waiting for me. He pointed to a picture in the paper.

"That's my car," he said.

The photo showed the fire department dousing a half dozen vehicles in the long-term parking lot at the airport. At the center was a particularly blackened hulk with a gutted interior and smoke billowing from smoldering tires. I took Evan's word that it was his maroon Volvo.

"The article says that an incendiary device was placed under the fuel tank of my car." His voice quivered with panic. "The others were just collateral damage."

"Get your laptop. You need to check your email."

As I suspected, there was an email from Detective Hardesty containing a link to the newspaper story and the terse message: Call me. Evan became more panicked by the second. He asked to borrow my phone.

"No. Remember, you're somewhere in New York City."

"Well, how can I call Hardesty without using a phone?"

I thought for a minute. "WWSBD?"

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"What would Stringer Bell do?"

"Alan, don't toy with me. Who the fuck is Stringer Bell?"

"Didn't you watch The Wire? The HBO series The Wire. Didn't you see it?"

"You can be exasperating, do you know that?"

I instructed Evan to follow the rules. "Stay away from windows. Don't answer the door. Don't peek out the drapes. Most importantly, stay calm. You're safe. This proves the thugs are convinced you caught a plane."

I drove to my favorite breakfast cafe and forced myself to eat a leisurely brunch. Then I did my best impersonation of a spy making sure he wasn't being followed. Driving through parking lots. Doing U-turns. Watching my rearview mirror. When I was sure no one was on my tail, I went to a Dollar General store and bought a burner phone with pre-paid minutes. I paid with cash. I did everything right.

Evan was still at the table looking haggard with worry when I got back. "You took your fucking time," he bitched.

"I was being careful. Now calm down and call Hardesty on this thing. Remember, you're staying with a friend in New York City."

Evan put the phone on speaker so I could listen in. Hardesty was his usual zombie self. "You saw the article?"

"Yes. They're sending me a message I guess."

"Right. They're not going away."

Evan's head was in his hands and his voice was on the verge of despair. "Are they insane?"

"My assessment is that one is merely a sociopath. The other one is definitely psycho, though." He let that sink in. "What's left of your car was towed to the police lot. You're insured, right?"

"Yes. But this will send my rates through the roof."

Lucy hopped in Evan's lap and started her low-rider purring.

"You're getting off cheap," Hardesty shot back. "You took your cat with you?"

"My friend has cats. Three, actually." I gave Evan's improv a thumbs up. "This apartment smells like a litterbox."

"That's better than how your car smells right now."

Evan exploded. "Look, Detective, are you trying to upset me? 'Cause I don't even know why all of this is happening."

Hardesty snapped back. "It's happening because your demented bedfellow got himself murdered. Shot to shit, in professional parlance. Probably in the immediate aftermath of an argument. Whoever did it is scared and acting in the only way they know how. With brute stupidity. So I recommend you stay hidden until they fuck up in a way that we can take them off the street."

"Murder is not fucking up enough for you? Or arson? Or intimidating my neighbor Alan?"

"How did you know about the incident with your neighbor?"

Evan got a panicked look in his eyes. I hastily made a typing motion with my hands. "You're not the only one with my email address, Detective."

"Stay hidden, Mr. Wilcox, and let us do our job."

Evan hung up and gave me a flustered look. "It's okay," I reassured. "You covered nicely. Good call with that litterbox comment, by the way."

Evan just shook his head. "I'm not cut out for this," he said. "What now?"

"We watch golf," I said glibly in an effort to assuage Evan's mounting dread.

It was mid-afternoon when my phone rang.

"Mr. Eberson, this is Detective Hardesty, Tulsa P.D."

"What can I do for you, Detective?"

"I got a call at 11:43 from your neighbor, Evan Wilcox, using a burner phone."

"Okay. Why are you telling me this?"

"You're right, there's no need for me to tell you, is there? Because you purchased that phone at 11:17 at the Dollar General store on Peoria Avenue. Now would you please put me on speaker so Mr. Wilcox can hear me, too?"

Sheepishly, I did as I was instructed. "Okay, Detective. You're on speaker."

"Can you hear me, Mr. Wilcox?"

I nodded to Evan. "Yes, Detective, I can hear you."

"I just want you to know that it only took us two hours to track down the purchase of the phone and view the transaction on the security tape."

I gulped. I had been overly confident of my subterfuge. "I tried to be careful, Detective." Chastened, I admitted, "Obviously not careful enough."

Hardesty sounded uncommonly sympathetic. "It was a good effort, but a bribe can be as persuasive as my badge when it comes to under-paid store managers. I tracked it because I had the phone number from the call. Mr. Wilcox, do not use that phone for anything other than calling me or 9-1-1. Not even to call your buddy Eberson. Am I clear?"

We answered in a bad duet, "Yes, Sir."

Hardesty continued in a mollifying tone, "I know you're both frustrated and stressed but I assure you we are on the case. Mr. Wilcox, you stay hidden. And Mr. Eberson, you keep being careful. I promise we are doing our job."

After I hung up, we went back to watching the golf tournament. Watching is the wrong word. Staring blankly at the screen is more accurate.

"Alan, I'm scared." Evan's voice wavered with trepidation. "I thought this constant fear was over but I'm scared."

I tried to sound assured. "You heard the detective. We're safe as long as you stay hidden and I'm careful."

"Right. What am I worried about? Only one of them is a psychopath."

We laughed louder than the humor warranted.