The Second Rule of Ten

by Gay Hendricks

  “I take Miss Sadie for tea with her brother three times a week,” Señora Rodriguez said. “I know Mr. Rosen is not himself these days, but did he think Sadie was somehow missing?”

  “Well, yes,” I said, “that’s why he hired me. But he had me start the search in Germany. Sixty years ago.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said.

  “Oh, dear?” That was one way of putting it. A small tongue of anger flicked at the edges of my brain. I thought you were my friend.

  A phone rang in the hallway. Señora Rodriguez excused herself and soon was engaged in an emotional rapid-fire exchange in Spanish. Sadie blank-smiled at me. I forced a smile back.

  Señora Rodriguez hustled in with the phone. “It is Otilia,” she said. “I told her you were here. Can you talk to her?”

  “Otilia?”

  Her voice cracked. “Please, she’s very upset.”

  Sadie buckled over, stuck her fingers in her ears, and started to rock back and forth.

  “Please.”

  I took the phone and moved into the hallway. Señora Rodriguez crouched next to Sadie and stroked her back.

  “Otilia?”

  “They trying to kill him.” she said. “Venga, venga—they doing bad, bad things to him.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “Pero cuidado! Tienen armas.”

  No translation necessary.

  Well guess what? I was armed, too.

  CHAPTER 23

  The guard stepped out of the gatehouse. His dark scar glowed in the moonlight.

  “I’d like to see Mr. Rosen,” I said.

  “He’s busy right now.”

  “Can you at least call him? Tell him I’m here?”

  “Don’t need to. He’s busy.” He took a menacing step toward me. I backed my car out of the driveway to think things through. A hundred yards down Summitridge, I pulled my car onto the shoulder and called Bill. He was on his way to Point Dume. I filled him in; my sentences, like my thoughts, choppy and confused.

  “It definitely sounds like something strange is going on,” he said. “You want me to try to get someone out there with a warrant?”

  “No time.”

  He sighed. “I know, and anyway, what would I say? Hey there, judge, my private detective friend got a distress call from a cook. Can we please raid the home of one of the city’s richest philanthropists? I don’t think so.”

  “I’m going in there, Bill, one way or the other.”

  I could practically hear Bill’s teeth grinding. “Shit. Okay. How about this? I’ll try to send backup, but they can’t go onto the property, not unless there’s cause. You check out the situation, and I’ll tell them to stay just out of range unless and until you need them. But don’t move until they get there, Ten. Deal?”

  I said nothing. Bill sighed again.

  “Right. Have fun,” he said, code for “Don’t get your ass shot off.”

  I checked the action on my Wilson, and slipped it into the shoulder holster. I locked my car, tucked the keys in my back pocket, and trotted to the stucco boundary bordering the Rosen estate. I ran hard along the western face, hugging the wall, as I tried to picture the grounds within. The moon was a filled bowl, the milky light enough to guide my way. Just before I reached the farthest northwest point, my feet crunched on something. I reached down. My fingers found the brown, dried husks of fallen carob beans. I looked up, and saw the overhanging branch of a giant carob tree. Now I knew exactly where I was, and what to do next.

  I steadied my breath. Bending my knees, I launched upward and grasped the branch with one hand. My shoulder socket screamed at me and I dropped back to the ground, hard. I tried again. This time both hands grabbed, and I was somehow able to chin-lift close enough to hook my ankles around the branch. I clung upside-down like a giant sloth, catching my breath. Then I swung right side up, and pulled, scraped, and crawled across the bobbing branch, trying to avoid looking down.

  I reached the trunk, skin raw from traversing the rough bark. I shimmied and clambered my way through a thick tangle of branches, down to firm ground.

  I was in.

  I hunkered low and trotted through the grove of leafy sentinels; past the guesthouse, bathed in darkness; past the koi, feigning sleep; past Julius’s round, white Roomful of Wonders, probably wondering, like me, what the hell was going on. I pulled up short. Loud voices, more “drunk loud” than “arguing loud,” sounded from inside Julius’s rumination cottage. The tone was boisterous, the language Spanish. I dropped to the ground and crept around to the back window to take a look.

  The gauzy curtain softened a hard scene. Chaco Morales sprawled in Julius’s black and chrome easy chair, thick-bodied, broad-shouldered, a Corona in one hand, a lit Cohiba cigar in the other. Manuel the gardener squatted against the wall across from him, an older, grayer mirror image. Up close, the family resemblance was unmistakable between father and son, though the son, alone, emanated menace, as palpable as poison.

  I heard a low moan. I located the source of the sound. What I saw chilled me.

  Julius slumped on the white easy chair, now elongated into a chaise longue. His head lolled, and behind his glasses, his eyes were empty plates. Dr. Alvarado knelt next to him. She was checking his pulse, her medical sports bag of tricks opened next to her. Bronco Portreras stood guard. Pretty Boy wasn’t so pretty tonight—he had a fat lip and a pretty good shiner going. He also had a Sig Sauer P2xx tucked in his belt. No sign of Otilia or Señor Beefy.

  Doctor Alvarado lifted Julius’s arm and let go. It flopped like a wet towel. She said something, and everyone laughed, everyone except for Julius. The joke was on him, but he was too far gone to get it.

  I melted back into the shadows. Julius was out of it, sure, but as far as I could tell he was in no imminent danger. I trotted over to the main house, avoiding the gravel path, and headed for the kitchen. I checked the outside door. The knob turned. It was unlocked, a huge piece of luck. I moved to the kitchen window. Light poured out, giving me temporary cover. I peered inside. Otilia stood next to the stove, arms wrapped tightly around her chest. Her lips moved. Not alone, then. I couldn’t quite hear her, but I could read the twist of her mouth. She was disgusted by something. I ducked back into darkness to think. By all counts, there was one of me, and four to five of them, not counting Otilia and Julius, and counting Señor Beefy, wherever he was. Not a good ratio, and that’s disregarding the firearms.

  How close is help?

  I pulled out my cell phone to call Bill. No service. Not even half a bar. They must be using a cell-signal blocker.

  Get out of there, Ten. Be smart.

  I turned the knob and slipped in the door with barely a whisper of sound. Otilia’s voice was rattling nonstop in high-velocity Spanish. The undertone of desperate pleading tugged at my gut—and made up my mind. I fingered the safety off the Wilson and banged straight through the nook into the kitchen.

  “Cuidado, Señor Ten!” Otilia pointed. I spun right, sighting my Wilson. Sure enough, Señor Beefy was reaching for a shotgun, resting against one wall.

  I flicked my barrel at his chest. “Easy,” I said. “Move away from there.” I motioned with my chin, and he moved about ten feet away. I grabbed the rifle and laid it on the floor in the pantry area, out of reach.

  Keeping my gun sighted on Beefy’s broad chest, I returned to him, reached down, and removed a .22 popper out of his ankle holster. It must have looked like a toy in his massive hand. He crossed his arms and glowered, his equally massive biceps bulging.

  I set the .22 on the kitchen table. Otilia met my eyes. “These men, they bad,” she said. “They making Señor Julius sick. They making him do things that he no want to do.”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Beefy hissed.

  Otilia shot him a look of blind rage. “¡El puerco moron!” She snatched up a pair of kitchen shears and lunged across the room.

  “Otilia, no!” I said.

  Otilia stopped, her body trembling. But she didn’t let go of
the shears. The words tumbled out of her: “Ever since they come, Señor Julius, he get worse. And that doctor?” She bit off the words. “Bruja! Witch! She here for his money, like everyone else.”

  She raised the shears and edged closer to Beefy. “And always they coming in my kitchen telling me to make things. Telling. Señor Julius always asking!”

  Height-wise, the little woman barely reached Beefy’s chest. The brandished shears waved back and forth in the general vicinity of his crotch. One snip, and he was a soprano. But before that happened, he would snap her neck in two like a twig. I had to get her away from him.

  “Otilia, por favor,” I said. “I am asking nicely, see? Please put them down.” She glanced at me, taking her eyes off Beefy for a moment. That’s when he made his move.

  His arms shot out. He yanked Otilia into a bear hug that whooshed the wind right out of her. He transferred her to one arm, lifting her until her feet dangled. I sighted my gun at Beefy, but big as he was, he kept moving Otilia back and forth, using her writhing body as a shield. He grappled for her shears. Otilia let out a piercing shriek, twisted an arm loose, and rammed the shears point-first into his forearm. He bellowed like a wounded bull, swinging her to one side like a doll, but he didn’t drop her. So I dropped him.

  I shot him in the meat of his left thigh. He crumpled, howling. Between his roars and Otilia’s screeches, I didn’t hear anything else. Until I did.

  “Don’t move, asshole,” a familiar voice said.

  Bronco Portreras jabbed the cold shaft of his Sig Sauer into the small of my back.

  “Lose the gun,” he said.

  I set my Wilson down on the kitchen table, next to Beefy’s .22.

  Bronco pushed a kitchen chair against the wall.

  “Now sit.”

  I sat.

  “You move, you die,” he said.

  Bronco looked over the two guns. He passed over my .38, opting instead to snag the popgun. He crossed the kitchen and stood over Señor Beefy.

  “What we tell you?” he snapped. “Didn’t we tell you to watch the cook? Chaco give you the job because you too fucking stupid to do anything else around here. And this is how you do it? You watch so good you end up getting stabbed by the fucking cook and shot by the fucking Chink?”

  Tibetan, I thought, but for once didn’t say.

  Señor Beefy whined through gritted teeth, “Can’t you just get the fucking doctor in here?”

  “Don’t need no fucking doctor,” Bronco said. “You already dead.”

  He raised the .22. Pop! A small hole appeared in the middle of Señor Beefy’s forehead—a bloody bindi marking a cruel end to a sorry life. His body twitched twice and came to rest. Bronco smiled, setting the small gun back on the table. Otilia crossed herself.

  Now.

  I lunged across the room, but Bronco was waiting, as if he’d planned it that way. He dealt a blow to the side of my head with the butt of his gun. I fell to my knees, trying to shake the pain off.

  Bronco raised his Sig Sauer at Otilia. Her body contracted into a tiny ball.

  “Don’t shoot her,” I said. “Shoot me.”

  “Fuck you, pendejo. I don’t need nobody telling me who to shoot.” Then Bronco shrugged. “Relax. I ain’t gonna kill her, man. She make the best mole I ever put in my mouth!” He aimed the gun my way, aiming for my chest. He was enjoying playing cat-and-mouse. “You, though. Yeah. Maybe I shoot you.”

  I met his gaze, my own steady. May I be safe and protected. May I be . . .

  He jabbed his gun toward the door. “Move,” he said. “Chaco wants to meet you.”

  He pocketed the popgun and grabbed my Wilson, holding it in his left hand as he used the Sig Sauer to prod me toward the door leading outside. Turning back, he aimed it carefully. The explosion blew a splintered hole in the kitchen floor. Otilia backed further into the corner, tight with terror.

  “Don’t move,” Bronco said. From the icy clutch of her body, I assumed she’d obey. But just in case, I shot her a look, jigging my eyes between her frozen face and the shotgun Bronco had inexplicably overlooked.

  Bronco marched me out the back door and up the graveled path toward Julius’s cottage. Halfway there we met up with Manuel and Chaco, on their way to find us. Chaco stepped close, his dark eyes appraising. He was maybe two inches shorter than me, but a considerable amount wider, a solid block of muscle, smoldering with energy.

  “So, monje,” Chaco said. “We meet. Soy feliz. I am glad.”

  He gestured toward the cottage. “Come.” I paused at the doorway to take off my shoes. Bronco gave a quick jerk of his head. “No need.”

  Inside, Dr. Alvarado was leaning against one wall, leafing through a magazine. She barely glanced at me.

  Julius saw me. He struggled to sit upright.

  Chaco nudged me closer. “You two putas ready to kiss and make up?”

  “Hello, Julius,” I said.

  “What are you doing here?” Julius whispered. “Tenzing, I . . . “A cloud of pain floated across his features. He gestured around the room. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to bring you into all this,” he whispered.

  “I found Sadie,” I said.

  His face crumpled.

  “Hey, don’t blame the old man. The missing sister was my idea,” Chaco interrupted. “When you started nosing around here, I told him, you want to keep a snapping perro off your heels? Throw it fresh meat.” He shrugged. “You did pretty good, too. Better than most of us thought you would. Except the old man. He knew.” Chaco’s sudden smile was scarier than his scowl. “Who knows, monje? Maybe I can find something for you to do. I’m always looking for smart workers.” I listened hard for irony, but he was all business. I was being offered a job.

  “Think about it,” Chaco said.

  “I will,” I said. “I’m always looking for smart bosses, too.” I listened to Chaco’s breath as I watched his chest. The one quickened, and the other puffed slightly. He’s flattered. Good. I sensed a small opening, and pushed through. “So what are you up to, Chaco? What kind of game is this?”

  “Big game,” Chaco said. Again, everybody but Julius laughed. Chaco pointed to him. “That old man’s a fucking genius. You wouldn’t believe what he came up with.”

  My head started to throb. What does the hum of betrayal sound like, Julius? Julius winced, as if he could hear my thoughts.

  “Tell him, Viejo. Tell him what we been planning.”

  Julius said, “It was the only thing that helped with Dorothy’s pain, Ten. The only thing that sustained her.”

  “What was? What are you talking about?”

  “Manuel’s marijuana.”

  Chaco’s chest swelled again. “My papa grew the best mota in the village, before he moved up here.”

  Manuel rattled off a long sentence in Spanish. He clapped Chaco on the back.

  “Sorry. Didn’t catch that,” I said.

  “He says he is proud of me,” Chaco boasted. “He started with one small plant and now I control Sinaloa.”

  “Manuel grew it for her specially,” Julius said, his voice weak. “Only thing that helped.” Sweat beaded on his upper lip. “I don’t feel very well. I think I need my medicine. Dr. Alvarado? Can you give me my medicine?”

  She looked over at Chaco. He shook his head slightly.

  “Soon,” she said.

  Time to step things up.

  “That’s it? That’s your big idea? Selling Manuel’s marijuana to treat cancer?” I shrugged. “Sorry, already taken. In case you hadn’t noticed, Chaco, there’s a whole industry out here built around that notion.”

  Bam! Chaco’s fist split my lip, and I tasted metallic blood. “You think I’m stupid?” He said. “You think he is? No! That old man, he decide to buy up all the places that sell dope as medicine. Get a monopoly. Squeeze everybody else out of business.”

  That was a big idea. There were hundreds of medical marijuana dispensaries throughout the state. Somebody with a monopoly could make a bundle, assumin
g the crusading politicians didn’t declare a new prohibition first. And where better but California, where the current laws were as lax and confused as any state in the country?

  “I see,” I said. “And let me guess, to do that, he’d need a single supplier . . . “

  Chaco patted his chest. “One-stop shopping. Best shit around, too. I give him a great price, he buys only from me. Everybody wins.”

  Truth be told, it was kind of ingenious, setting aside the crawling into bed with cartel killers part. But clearly something must have gone wrong. What had happened? Again, Julius seemed to catch my thoughts midair. He roused himself. The effort to speak made him gasp a little.

  “Greedy,” Julius said. “These men are too greedy. They want to start sucking money out before we’ve set up a proper infrastructure. I keep telling them, the trick is patience. But no, they can’t wait. They can’t keep their word.”

  “Shut up, old man,” Chaco snapped. “Now you said enough.” He took a step toward Julius.

  Julius groaned.

  “So where is it, Chaco?” I said, hurriedly.

  “Where’s what?”

  “The patch,” I said. “I’m guessing the small of his back? Or did you stick it on his arm, like the one that killed Marv?”

  Dr. Alvarado’s intake of breath was more like a hiss. Bronco whistled. “Shit, man, the Chink’s smarter than he looks.”

  Chaco backhanded Bronco across the face, whip-fast. “Smarter than you, fuckhead. If you hadn’t been so stupido none of this would be happening!”

  Bronco rubbed his cheek, but he didn’t say another word.

  “I still don’t understand,” I said to Chaco. “Who came first? Julius or Marv?”

  “Chaco,” he boasted. “Chaco always comes first.”

  “You know what I mean. Why did Marv have to die? Did he find out about your scam?”

  “Nah. Nothing like that. Look,” Chaco said. “I got a big family to support. I’m always looking for opportunities, you know? And this city’s lousy with them.” He pointed to Julius. “Take him. Rosen. The man’s got nothing but money to piss away. When my father starts working for him, I keep an eye open and an ear close to the ground. Rosen’s wife getting sick, some might call that a tragedy, verdad? Me? I call it una opportunidad. So Papa and me, we make sure Señora Rosen gets the best pain medicine there is, legal or not. Right, Papa?”