The Second Rule of Ten

by Gay Hendricks

  We had started walking again; we were almost at the museum.

  “Look,” he said. “You seem like an okay guy. It’s like this. I work for some of the nastiest sons-a-bitches you’ll ever run across. They do business, very big business, out here,” his voice rose. “And they are very fucking committed to staying in that business for a long time.” He swallowed. “So when some slanty-eyed vaquero rides into their territory, they take note. Paranoia? You haven’t seen paranoia until you’ve met these pendejos. I’m on the fringe, but they still pay me a butt-load of money just to sit on my ass, unless and until they need me for something.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “Disappear. Lose your curiosity. Go be a detective somewhere else. You got no business with these guys.”

  “And if I don’t want to?”

  We had reached the museum. The beige, rough-hewn buildings of stone gleamed in the sunlight. Raul gazed at the sparkling surfaces, but he didn’t seem to see them.

  “I’m telling you, you don’t want to be on their radar.” He tried to keep his voice casual, but his forehead broke out in sweat. “You’re close to your ex-partner. Bill, right? His wife, Martha? His two little girls?”

  My jaw clenched. Hot anger, so recently tamed, spilled through my body again. My hand reached to my pocket for my knife, almost involuntarily. Not here. I took a deep breath. Exhaled, slowly, before responding.

  My voice was steel. “Are you threatening me? Are you threatening my friend, his family?”

  He met my eyes, and for the first time, I caught sight of the fear hunkering behind the bravado. “I have twins, too, amigo,” he said quietly. “Girls. They’re in high school now. I’m trying to do you a favor, okay? Think of this as a polite invitation to back off.”

  “Does it come with a stiletto? Like my visit from Pretty Boy yesterday?”

  He went white. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he said. “We’re done here.”

  He scurried back down the walkway, his braid swinging from side to side as he inspected the grassy borders, as if looking for rattlesnakes.

  The sweep and curl of a building to my right caught my eye, like stacked grand pianos formed from limestone bricks. Everywhere I turned, the central plaza offered a glimpse of one of Los Angeles’ myriad faces. Here, the pink and brown San Gabriel Mountains, there, the slate glow of the Pacific Ocean, and everywhere, a vast quilt of city- and landscapes. The hilltop site, with its magnificent complex of fossilized architectural structures, satisfied some longing in me for beauty. The exhibits themselves would have to wait—this was all the uplift I had time or tolerance for today.

  Gridlock, all the way home. I was in a foul mood by the time I pulled up my driveway. I stashed the garbage bags in the back of the carport, retrieved my gun from the glove box, and stomped into the kitchen. Tank’s bowl full of tuna chunks lay lukewarm and untouched, a silent reproach.

  “Tank?” I checked the windowsill and under the table. He wasn’t in the kitchen.

  “Tank? Where are you?”

  I heard a piteous meow from the living room, a call bordering on “I’m dying.”

  I hurried in, and found him crouched on the hardwood floor, frozen between the sofa and armchair.

  “What is it? Show me.”

  His green eyes widened, and he lowered his head. His tail swept back and forth.

  What was going on? I tuned in to him and shrank inside. Tank’s world, normally centered and inviting, had turned foreign and unsafe, like a hostile planet.

  I softened my voice, made it more inviting. “Show me?”

  Tank hopped onto the armchair, and stared at me, willing me to understand.

  Make me safe. Build me a safe space.

  He jumped off and waited. I got a spare blanket from the bedroom. I draped it carefully over the arms of the chair. The front edge trailed to the floor.

  No. I need to be able to escape.

  I repositioned the blanket, so only a small flap hung over the front of the chair. Tank gave a soft prrrttt and slipped under the flap. He curled up, eyes closed, nose to paws, protected by his makeshift fort and finally at ease.

  I retrieved my Wilson from the gun bag and checked the perimeter of the house. Everything seemed fine, but Raul’s threats hung in the air like a rancid smell, disturbing my normal sense of peace. Maybe Tank had picked up on that.

  Or maybe he was just mad at me for yelling at him.

  I came back inside.

  Over on my desk, my message light was blinking. It was Heather. I called her back, postponing the other, harder call awaiting me.

  “Hi! I was just thinking about you.” Her warmth actually pained me.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “What’s wrong?” How could she tell anything was wrong? We barely knew each other.

  “Nothing. I’m just tired,” I said. “I’ve had a couple of long days.”

  “Tell me?” Her voice was soft, inviting. Show me?

  But I gave her the shorthand, and it was very short indeed, as I edited out the Dodger Stadium stiletto encounter, the near-shooting of a trick-or-treater, the dumpster dive, and the fight with Bill, especially the fight with Bill. In other words, anything that mattered. The more I censored, the more separate I felt. One secret piled on top of another, until I was trapped inside my own kind of fort, only this one didn’t make me feel safe at all.

  Heather was silent.

  “Hey, so anyway, guess what? I signed up for the retreat,” I said. “I even drove by there, to check it out.”

  “That’s great,” she said, but her voice was subdued. “Listen, I have to go. Thanks for calling back.”

  After we hung up, I felt terrible. I realized I hadn’t asked her one thing about her day.

  I checked on Tank again. He was sound asleep.

  I grabbed his food bowl and dumped the uneaten contents into the trash. Then I washed and dried the dish with care, and refilled it with fresh-squeezed tuna water, and nothing else. I loved Tank. Why had I felt the need to disregard him, to impose my will?

  Because I, too, felt disregarded, by someone who I’d thought had loved me.

  I stepped onto the deck. A thick fog had obliterated any sunset, and the overcast sky bled into the dark gray water. The irony of my situation stung: I might lose Bill if I told him how hurt I was; I would lose him if I didn’t. I was afraid to call Bill back; I was more afraid of becoming the kind of man who never called anyone back, because he was so afraid.

  I pulled out my cell phone. “Call Bill Bohannon,” I commanded. “Mobile.” As my phone dialed automatically, I heard a beep indicating an incoming call. “Bill’s cell” appeared on my screen. We were calling each other at the same time.

  I answered first.

  “Bill, I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve been, I’m . . . “—for some reason the French phrase flashed through my mind first: je suis bete. “I’m an idiot.”

  “And I’m a horse’s ass,” he answered. “Can I come by first thing in the morning? I’m on bath-and-bed duty with the girls tonight. And I need to see your ugly mug to do this properly.”

  Relief wet my eyes.

  “Wherever and whenever you want.”

  “Good, because I’m pretty far up shit creek right now, and you may be my only paddle.”

  I called Heather back immediately.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi. I would like to acknowledge, fully, and without reservation, that I’m not great with phone conversations, especially when I’m starving and exhausted. I would like to invite you to dinner. I happen to know the perfect restaurant for people who don’t like restaurants.”

  She didn’t answer right away.

  “It doesn’t have to be an actual date. It can just be a friendly meal, okay? I’d really love to see you.”

  I sensed her smile. “Okay, but I’ll meet you there, big guy. I need my own wheels, in case you go AWOL, emotionally speaking, and I need to make a quick escape.”

>   “I know a cat you’d love,” I said.

  I told her the address, and to dress warmly. I called ahead for a reservation, took a long, hot shower, and changed into a long-sleeved flannel shirt, my favorite deep blue cashmere sweater and my best black jeans. I checked my reflection in the mirror for any obvious fashion faux pas.

  “Big guy.” I liked the sound of that, especially coming from Heather. I ran a damp hairbrush through my cranial hedge, gave Tank a handful of dry treats, and I was good to go.

  Ten minutes later, I was parking in a space right off the street, above the larger lot. The “creekside dining” arrow on the rustic carved wooden restaurant sign pointed me toward a wrought iron archway, announcing the name of the restaurant, Inn of the Seventh Ray, the metal scroll embroidered with small violet lights. A hearty chorus of creek frogs supplied a natural rhythm section to the gentle flute and violin duet piping away over the sound system.

  Heather must have broken a few speed limits getting here—she was already waiting at a little table next to the hostess, opposite a large stone Buddha cupping a flickering votive candle in one palm. The heady scent of jasmine permeated the air, though whether it emanated from Heather’s glowing skin or a squat purple candle by the hostess, I couldn’t tell. Heather, too, was in jeans; hers were dark blue and did something to her hips that was surely illegal. Thigh-high brown suede boots and a brown leather jacket completed the impression of casual elegance and sexy confidence. She met my eyes and smiled, her face cupped by shining curtains of blonde hair. My heart did a little flip in my chest.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Wow,” Heather answered, her arm including the whole setting.

  I had asked to be seated by the creek. Our hostess led us down rustic steps and past two more Buddhas. We crossed the central dining area where scattered tables of murmuring guests surrounded a large, bubbling stone fountain, thick with flowers. Branches danced with points of white light, and gauzy white canopies created cloistered pavilions. White tablecloths, violet napkins, white wrought iron chairs, wispy wildflowers, here a Ganesh, there a Mother Mary, and everywhere, invitations to be touched by natural beauty and open to timeless mysteries.

  I thought I’d chosen the inn with my stomach, but once here, I realized I had also chosen with my heart.

  The hostess sat us at an intimate table for two, overlooking the chuckling creek. Heat lamps blanketed us from the chilly air.

  “Enjoy your meal,” our hostess said.

  Heather fingered her violet napkin. “What’s the color supposed to represent?”

  “Celestial fire,” the hostess answered, her eyes shining. “Some say, new beginnings.” She filled our glasses with water.

  “Double-reverse-osmosis,” she said. “Filtered with alkali. Enjoy.”

  She left the table. ?”Whoa,” Heather said. “Should I drink it or worship it?”

  We dug into a basket of bread that was still warm from the oven

  “There’s a teeny tiny part of me that is tempted to leap on the table right now and juggle pom-poms,” Heather whispered to me, after a waiter had taken our wine and appetizer orders. “Spiritual settings do that to me sometimes.”

  “Pom-poms?”

  “Ah, yes. I’m a girl with secrets,” she replied. She touched my hand lightly. “Seriously, though, this is amazing, and you’re right, I love it.”

  “It started out as some sort of mountain retreat in the thirties,” I said. “Died and came back as a gospel church, then a garage, then a junkyard, until these guys took over. Now it’s a gourmet restaurant, dressed as a happy hippie bride. I live ten minutes away, so I do take-out when I want to treat myself. How’d you get here so fast, by the way? I thought you lived in Santa Monica?”

  “I do. But I’m staying at a motel in Malibu for two days, right off Topanga Canyon. I just had my condo painted, and I’m giving it a couple of days for the new paint smell to get cleared out.”

  That sounded promising.

  The waiter returned with our appetizers and a bottle of Adelaide cabernet. I sipped, nodded, and he filled our glasses.

  “I love the cabernets from Paso Robles,” I said to Heather. “Something about the soil there seems to give the reds a combination of lively zip and deep earthiness.”

  Heather gave me a curious look.

  “What?”

  “You’re an odd monk, that’s all.”

  “Ex-monk.”

  The waiter delivered our shared appetizers: raw flax seed crostini with some sort of olive, pesto, and macadamia nut spread, and a salad of organic baby lettuces, spiced walnuts, and figs.

  I spread a crostini thick and handed it to Heather. I made another, and crunched. My mouth exploded with crisp and creamy, soul and spice.

  “Oh. My. God,” I heard from across the table.

  For a few minutes, we communicated with low, appreciative moans. Heather was still an enthusiastic eater, I was again pleased to note.

  I took a sip of wine and studied the lovely woman sitting opposite me. She wasn’t wearing glasses tonight, and it made her face somehow more vulnerable. Her azure eyes sparkled in the flickering candlelight. She grinned at me, and then returned to her food with focused pleasure. I wanted to know more about her.

  “How did you find your way into pathology?” I asked. She looked up from her last bite of salad. Her expression made me want to say it differently. “Let me rephrase,” I said. “Why pick a career that deals with death? You seem like one of the most alive people I’ve ever met.” She smiled at that. Her smile faded as she considered her answer.

  “I loved my grandfather very much,” she said. “He was a widower, and he lived with us in Minnesota. He died when I was twelve, very suddenly, in his bed. No one would, or could, tell us why. ‘Natural causes’ is what our family doctor finally concluded, but it didn’t make any sense. Gramps was healthy as a horse; Doc Gordon said he had the heart and lungs of a much younger man. Anyway, he was only in his late sixties when he died, and it sucked my father into a tailspin, one he’s still riding.” Heather’s hands gripped each other. She put them in her lap. “Dad’s about the same age my grandfather was when he died. Every time we talk on the phone he acts as if it may be the last time. It breaks my heart.” She took a small sip of wine. I listened with every pore. “That experience shaped me. Some might say warped me, but I feel like this is my calling. Someone has to speak for the dead and maybe bring peace to the living, you know?”

  “I do,” I said. “I really do.”

  “Plus, I find it weirdly fascinating,” Heather added. “Especially the mysteries, like Marv.”

  I didn’t want to get into shoptalk. Not tonight.

  “So your father’s still alive?” I asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” she said. “He and my mom retired. They live out here now, in Manhattan Beach. I’m their middle child, the only girl. I see them once or twice a month. They’re really sweet. I think you’d like them.” She laughed. “My mother is obsessed with celebrities. She can’t believe I don’t run into Keith Connor or Angelina Jolie every day. Sadly, the only celebrity I’ve laid eyes on is Lindsay Lohan when I was emptying trash at the morgue, and Mom doesn’t think that counts.”

  Our main courses arrived. Heather had ordered a sweet pea risotto, with a medley of mushrooms mixed in. I had settled on an angel hair arrabiatta; I was craving the fierce bite of chili flakes. Again, we ate with shared concentration.

  “Whatever seventh ray-gun vibe they’re laying on this food, it’s working,” Heather said, after a bit. “I’m getting totally stoned, and it’s not just the wine.” She dipped another hunk of bread in olive oil and waved it at me. “Okay, your turn. From what Bill says, your childhood was pretty out there.”

  I was reeling a little, trying to keep up. I asked her what Bill had told her.

  “That you grew up in a Tibetan monastery, and your father works for the Dalai Lama.”

  “Close,” I said. “My father’s one of three head abbots at the Do
rje Yidam Monastery. That makes him part of a council of lamas who advise the Dalai Lama on theological matters.”

  “A spiritual version of the Joint Chiefs of Staff?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But aren’t monks supposed to be celibate?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said, “but there are exceptions. My father was married to a Tibetan woman when he was very young, long before he became a lama. She died in childbirth, along with the baby, and that’s when, and probably why, he became a monk.”

  “Poor man.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s also a brilliant man. He rose through the hierarchy fast. Then along came my mother . . . “ My tongue turned to felt. I sipped water.

  Heather touched my wrist lightly.

  My voice tightened. “My father was forty, living his dry, monkish life, when temptation arrived at his doorstep in the form of a dewy-eyed American less than half his age. Valerie was a free spirit, and she walked right into a huge irony. She came to India on fire with a desire for spiritual liberation, and ended up pregnant and yoked for the rest of her short life to the chilliest of men.” I pushed my plate away. All I could taste now was bitterness. “My father’s first wife was a cousin of the Dalai Lama’s birth family, so he got an official blessing to re-marry. Not that the marriage lasted. She fled to Paris to have and raise me, and he went on with his life as if nothing had happened.”

  “That’s quite a story.”

  “It gets better. I’m pretty sure my father regretted my existence from the moment he got wind of it. As for my mother, she did her best, but she was young, single, and totally overwhelmed. She sent me to Dharamshala for six months out of every year as soon as I could walk and talk, but she never found her own feet. Instead, she replaced her dream of spiritual transformation with chemical substances.” I rearranged my silverware on my plate. “Valerie was a daily drinker and pill-taker. She overdosed when I was thirteen. I moved to Dorje Yidam full time.”

  “Oh, oh, you poor thing.”

  I couldn’t meet Heather’s eyes. “Yeah, well, I took my vows, and made a formal commitment; it was the only way my father would have me—as a novice monk. I worked and studied for five more years. If it hadn’t been for my two best friends, Yeshe and Lobsang, and a nightly escape into my contraband copy of The Complete Works of Sherlock Holmes, I would have lost my mind.” A small twinge in my chest reminded me—I still hadn’t solved the communication issue with my friends. They didn’t even know about Heather . . .