The Second Rule of Ten

by Gay Hendricks

  Manuel bobbed his head from the corner of the room

  “And Marv?” I said. “That was ingenious, by the way, how you put Bronco and him together.”

  Chaco’s eyes widened. “You’re good. What a waste.” He returned to his favorite subject: Chaco Morales. “Like I said, family is everything. So when my brother tells me his muy guapo son Bronco doesn’t want to deal no more, wants to be in the movies, I think, who do I know that knows somebody in the movies? Rosen, that’s who. And the man already feels like he owes us. So my papa talks to Señor Julius. Didn’t you, Papa?”

  Manuel smiled and nodded.

  “And Julius helped you?”

  “Si. Rosen puts in a word with this big producer, Marv Rudolph. Bronco gets an audition. And Bronco almost gets the part. But after all that, my brother Pepé’s boy can’t be in the movie, on account of Pepé’s boy’s got a record.”

  Pepé Morales. Chaco’s Sinaloan killing partner.

  And now I knew absolutely. Chaco was bragging to me, because Chaco was planning on killing me. And if Julius didn’t change his mind, Chaco would kill him, too.

  I might still have a chance. Keep him talking.

  “But you still owe Pepé,” I said.

  “But I still owe Pepé. So I wait. And I watch. And I find out Julius Rosen and Marv Rudolph are getting into business together. On another movie.”

  “Loving Hagar.”

  “Si. And then? Just like that!” Chaco snaps his fingers. “Julius stiffs Marv. So Marv’s hungry. I like hungry, hungry means desperate. Hungry means he’ll do whatever it takes. And if all it takes is money? Even better. Land of opportunities, monje. One thing leading to another.”

  One death leading to another, you mean.

  He sighed. “Until it all went to shit. Fucking Marv.”

  I heard the tiniest crunch of stone outside.

  “Why kill him?” I said. “Why risk drawing attention to yourself like that?”

  “What attention? No one was supposed to know. But he had to die. That asshole made me invest a couple million dollars in his movie before he’d go near Bronco.”

  “So what, then?” I said. “Marv ripped you off?”

  “He blew a lot of money, sure. But if he’d just come to me, I wouldn’t have been so pissed.” Chaco leaned forward. “The fat fuck put my movie in turnaround. Nobody puts Chaco Morales in turnaround.”

  “¡Puta!” Bronco screamed, raising his Sig Sauer.

  Blam! The window shattered, spraying the room with fragmented glass. Bronco let out a hoarse cry. I dove behind the black chair as Bronco grabbed at the ragged hole in his chest. Otilia had hit him with the shotgun blast, dead center. The blood between his fingers spread until his shirtfront was drenched. His knees buckled. He fell face forward, staining the white carpet crimson.

  She stood outside, ramrod straight, shaking with rage. Señor Beefy’s shotgun was pressed to one shoulder. She took a small step forward and rested the heavy barrel on the windowsill. She swung it slowly from side to side, like the muzzle of a tank. She had everyone in her sights. Nobody moved.

  “You,” Otilia said to Dr. Alvarado. “Venga.” Dr. Alvarado edged toward her. “¡Mas rapido!” She reached the window. Otilia leaned inside, the shotgun inches from the doctor’s belly. “This is for putting drugs in Señor Julius.”

  Dr. Alvarado squeezed her eyes shut.

  “¡Abierta sus ojos!” Otilia shrieked. Alvarado’s eyes popped open. Otilia drew back and spat into the other woman’s face. Dr. Alvarado crumpled to her knees. As Otilia went to spit again, her gun muzzle canted to one side, Chaco lunged for the barrel and I lunged for Chaco. He twisted the gun away as I tackled him from the side. It was like hitting a brick wall, but at least I knocked him off his feet. He rolled sideways, barrel in his hands, butt pointing toward the ceiling. I grabbed the butt, and we started a deadly tugging match. I had the advantage. Unlike Chaco, I wasn’t looking into the wrong end of the shotgun.

  White-hot pain ripped through my shoulder. What the . . . ? Chaco reached back again and drove his palm hard on the muzzle, stiff-arming the butt into my shoulder, loosening my grip. Chaco wrested the shotgun from my hands. Gutsy move. If I get out of here alive, I’ll remember that one. Now I was looking down twin tunnels of death. I kicked the barrel sideways as he pulled the trigger. Blam!

  “¡Hijo de puta!” Manuel fell, howling. He was hit. His screams merged with the wail of sirens, growing close.

  Chaco and I gauged the distance between our bodies, the rifle, and the door. We came to different conclusions. I lunged for the shotgun. Chaco leapt for the door, flinging it open and disappearing into darkness. By the time I made it outside, he was already nearing the edge of the property. I’m pretty fast, but somehow that fireplug was faster. I was losing ground—the shotgun didn’t help—as Chaco streaked through the shadows. El Gato. He veered toward the grove of trees. I could only hope he was better at up than down, like another cat I knew.

  The sirens were deafening now. Then I heard loud shouts, doors slamming. I glanced back. A half dozen cops spilled down the path toward the cottage, illuminated by pulsing squad-lights. They’d be picking through that mess all night, what with the two corpses, and the bullet casings from . . .

  Idiot! I was carrying a double-barreled shotgun that had fired twice. I dropped it, and pumped into top speed. Up ahead, Chaco scrambled up the wall, using the hydrangea vines for purchase. Watery moonlight briefly illuminated his squat body, balanced on top of the wall. He jumped. I heard a sharp grunt. I shimmied up the carob tree, the bark sandpapering my skin raw, and pulled into a straddle atop the wall. Unlike Chaco, I used the overhanging branch to swing lower before letting go. I landed in a soft roll, and was up in time to see Chaco limping along the far end of the wall toward Summitridge Drive.

  I’m fast when I need to be. I caught up with Chaco scuttling across the road, favoring his left ankle. I tackled him from behind, and we tumbled onto the soft shoulder, my arms wrapped around his middle, our ribcages heaving in tandem.

  “Listen,” Chaco gasped. “You could make a lot of money working for me. Have some fun, retire in a couple years.”

  “I’m having too much fun doing this,” I panted. “Plus, the money isn’t all that bad.”

  “You got no fuckin’ idea what real money is,” he grunted.

  Probably true.

  I hauled Chaco further off the shoulder and propped him against the trunk of a Sycamore tree.

  I pulled out my phone. I checked to see if I finally had a signal. I did. I called Bill. The call went straight to voice mail.

  “Bill. I bagged El Gato,” I said.

  I turned back to Chaco. I couldn’t resist.

  “So I guess your big mistake was using Bronco,” I said. “Instead of doing it yourself.”

  “Fucking Bronco,” Chaco muttered. “Good-looking boy, but nothing between his ears, you know? Me and the doc—she’s my second cousin’s oldest and smart,” Chaco made a whipping motion. “Como un latigo, verdad? We worked out the perfect crime!”

  “Fentanyl overdose. Hard to detect. Looks like a heart attack.”

  “Si.”

  “So you sent Bronco to stick the patch on Marv’s arm . . . “

  “Big enough dose to kill even that puerco. All the kid had to do was wait a couple hours and peel it off. Guy that size, no one would think twice about it. Natural causes, no questions asked. But no, Bronco decides he should also peel off the fucking tattoo. Save it, like some kind of trophy.”

  “You can’t get good help these days.”

  “Fucking telling me.”

  I knew the answer, but I asked anyway. “I take it the knife next to Marv wasn’t yours?”

  “Knife?” Chaco shook his head. “No knives. Not for business, anyway. Knife is for personal.”

  “Right.”

  “Monje?”

  “Yes.”

  “You smart. But you not as smart as you think. Get you in trouble some day.”


  My phone buzzed.

  “Hola,” I said. The jet lag was starting to really hit.

  “Where the hell are you? I’m still ten minutes away. I’m dealing with a bunch of headless chickens up there.”

  I looked across the drive. Flashlights bobbed in the fields. Squad lights were flashing in front of the house. They drove right in. How did they . . .

  I shifted my eyes. The wrought iron gate stood open. The gatehouse?

  Empty. Where was the guard?

  You’re not as smart as you think.

  “Bill, I’m . . . “

  My head exploded into splintered shards of light. Then everything went black.

  CHAPTER 24

  “Okay, sir, you’re good to go. Just take it easy for a few days, okay?”

  The attendant walked back into Julius Rosen’s house, where two other EMTs were strapping Manuel onto a gurney. Julius was already headed for Cedars in the first ambulance. I stood up and winced.

  “Easy, cowboy,” Bill said, walking up.

  I had to ask. “Any luck?”

  “Not yet.”

  I groaned. Chaco was gone. So was the guard. They had just melted away, invisible as black cats in the dead of night.

  “I had him, Bill. And I lost him.” My head hurt, but my pride hurt worse. I’d refused painkillers. Some part of me wanted to hold on to the ache a little while longer.

  “The helicopter’s on its way,” Bill said. “I called in more uniforms. We’ll find him, Ten. They won’t get far on foot.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Please. You’re okay, which makes the rest of this okay.” Bill met my eyes. “When they told me there was a man down in the white room, I was scared it was you.” He laughed softly. “Jesus, this turned into a royal goat-fuck, didn’t it?” He took out his notebook. “I know you feel like shit, but . . . “

  “No. I understand.” We moved to the edge of the fountain and sat. “They find the other dead body, the one in the main house, yet?”

  “Yup. Any guesses?”

  “Another one of Chaco’s plants, disguised as help. I call him Señor Beefy.”

  “Wait. So who shot Beefy?”

  “Take your pick. I shot him in the thigh, to get him off Otilia—that’s the cook—and then Bronco, that’s the nephew, finished him off for being a fuckup.” I was starting to babble now. “In between, Otilia skewered Beefy in the forearm. So basically, you’ve got three shooters: Bronco, the cook, and me. Plus two bodies, Señor Beefy and Bronco. Oh, and the gardener, wounded by accident.”

  Bill shook his head. “Only you, my friend.”

  “Which brings us to Otilia and Bronco,” I said, ignoring him.

  “I got that one already. Don’t worry. The way I see it, the cook’s a hero. Bronco was armed and aiming at her. She stood her ground. Self-defense, all the way.”

  I could live with that.

  We both looked up as the whumpa-whumpa announced an approaching copter, sweeping the hillside with its powerful lights.

  “Here comes the cavalry,” Bill said. “Wa-hoo!”

  “Why are you in such a good mood?” I asked. “I screwed up, Bill. I just let a big fish slip the hook.”

  “Yeah, well, you hooked me a bigger one. I haven’t even had a chance to tell you yet. Your hunch paid off. Two hours ago the feds seized two tons of prime Sinaloan marijuana from a panga beached at Smuggler’s Cove, along with Chaco’s brother Pepé Morales and three more henchmen. That’ll set a cartel back. Caught them red-handed, just like we’ll catch Chaco.” Bill clapped my back. “Add to that Marv’s probable COD? You made me look good tonight, pal.”

  I yawned.

  “Ten?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Go home.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where’s your car?”

  “My Toyota?” I patted my back pocket for the car keys. “Summitridge, right below the gatehouse entrance.” Patted the other back pocket. Moved to the front pockets. Patted the back pockets again.

  “Bill?”

  He took one look at my face and he knew.

  “Fuck,” he said. “Don’t tell me.”

  “Yeah. Looks like they weren’t on foot.”

  CHAPTER 25

  I’d arrived early on purpose. After a quick reconnoiter, I entered the main auditorium of the Director’s Guild and claimed three seats in the back row of the empty theater. Now it was filling up nicely. If the number of paparazzi out front was any indication, this was an A-list event.

  I did a quick physical inventory. My lip was still swollen, the bump on the back of my head still knobby, but at least the spring in my step had returned. I straightened my tie and ran a hand over my black thatch. I was doing okay.

  By the time the squad car had dropped me off Tuesday night, it was 4 A.M. Wednesday morning, and every cell in my body was screaming. I’d found poor Tank lying in the dark, a tight curl of woe in the middle of my bed. I’d plopped next to him, and somehow found the courage to listen to Heather’s message, to see how big the trouble was. I’d had to listen three times, because even in my exhausted, prone-to-exaggerate state, I’d been unable to detect a speck of anger or resentment. “Hey, you,” she’d said. “Listen, I have an early morning, so I’ll just assume you got delayed. Sleep tight, and call me when you can. Can’t wait to see you. Bye.”

  This woman was setting the relationship bar pretty high.

  I’d sent her a brief text and taken her advice, “sleeping tight” on and off for the next day and a half, minus brief food and pee breaks. Tank’s idea of heaven.

  Bill’s call early this morning had woken me up. “We found your heap. Dumped downtown. Keys inside. I’ll have S & M drop it off later.”

  “Chaco?”

  “Still in the wind. Guys like Chaco, they’re really good at not getting caught.”

  “Sorry,” I’d muttered.

  “Don’t be. Right now, I’m flavor of the month. Marv’s killer’s dead, which saves the city a fortune, and we look like geniuses for figuring out the cause.”

  “Did you get the print off the cup?”

  “Yup. Right again, Norbu. It was a match.”

  I’d told him my theory, and what I wanted to do next.

  “Go get ‘em,” he’d said.

  “Thanks. And Bill?” I took a moment to breathe. “We good?”

  “Better than good, pal,” he’d said. “Family . . . “

  A hand tapped my shoulder.

  “Hey! If it isn’t The Monk. How you doing, dude?” Keith Connor’s famous mug beamed down at me, and my insides did a little jig. My hunch had been right.

  “Ten, right? Nice to see you here,” he said. “So, what? You stayed tight with Marv?”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “Congratulations on the film, by the way.”

  “Yeah, well, you saved my ass on that one. You ever need anything, bro, just let me know. Seriously.”

  “Funny you should say that.” I explained what I wanted, and he barked with laughter. “You got a twisted mind, my man,” he said. “Cool. Let’s do it.”

  He continued down the aisle, greeted as if he were the mayor of the world. I studied the stream of Hollywood’s best and brightest filing past. The ages and genders varied. Marv’s contemporaries wore expensive watches and clothes designed to flatter. Their skin was starched, any telltale sign of aging ironed out. The younger set seemed to be aiming more for an “I run a meth lab in Bakersfield” look. But they were all coated with the same veneer. Look at me! their strut seemed to bray. Look at how great I am! They were taking refuge in the sangha of self-promotion, obsessed with their own bright reflections.

  I knew better. I could see it in their eyes. Beneath the glittering confidence ran a hidden vein of fear. Fear of aging. Fear of failing. Fear of being found out. What had Julius said this morning? Never start anything fueled by fear . . .

  I’d stopped by the hospital on my way here. Apparently, there are benefits to being a major donor. His
room was more luxury hotel than medical infirmary. Even the monitoring equipment was super-shiny and expensive-looking. I’d found Julius propped up in bed, watching a golf match on a huge flat-screen. The colors were so vivid I’d half expected the greens to give off a grassy smell.

  “Can you believe this?” Julius had said. “I get over four hundred channels.”

  He was doing pretty well, for an octogenarian on an opiate detox program.

  “They tell me I’ll walk out of here clean in a week, ‘walk’ being a relative term,” he’d said. “Sadly, there’s no detox for Parkinson’s.”

  He’d met my eyes, and then looked away.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

  “I almost didn’t.”

  In truth, I’d gotten past the Sadie issue fairly quickly. Who was I to blame Julius, really? I knew early on something was off. Some things weren’t adding up. Julius was paying me a fortune to do something his own people could have easily done. Finding Sadie was a little too easy. And I’d made Julius’s betrayal even easier. My need to make money had stopped up my ears and blinded my eyes. So we were both complicit. In the end, all that mattered was that Sadie was alive and in good hands. I’d come here to make sure my path was clean.

  “So, do you want your money back?”

  “Hell, no! You confirmed that Zigo’s family was behind the orphanage scams in the first place. He’s agreed to turn over to the authorities whatever other records he has. For free. No, Ten, you more than earned your fee.”

  “In that case . . . “

  I’d handed him my get-well gift, lox and bagels from Nate ‘n’ Al’s, and his eyes had grown moist.

  “I’ve been doing some thinking,” he said, “now that I have my brain back. Ruminating on this whole meshugganah fiasco.”

  “Ruminating is good.”