The Third Rule of Ten

by Gay Hendricks

  Mike’s 6-foot 3-inch, 160-pound concept of himself as extra muscle made me realize how deluded we human beings can be. “Not yet.”

  I half-jogged, half-walked down the hill to my house, nursing my indigestion as I scrutinized the woods along both sides of the road for signs of things that shouldn’t be there. I saw nothing.

  I stepped onto the deck and studied the door jamb for signs of forced entry. The wood was untouched, but a small, poorly printed flyer had been half-slipped under the door. I pulled it out and read “Lawn work. Call Miguel Ortiz,” followed by a phone number. I scanned my property one more time, but Miguel was long gone.

  “Mike, you still there?”

  “Yeah. Everything okay?”

  “Seems to be. Looks like the guy just dropped off a flyer. Thanks for letting me know.”

  “No problem. I can set things up so the Guard-on will work on your cell phone. That way you can keep tabs anyplace you can get wireless.”

  “I don’t know. It sounds a bit paranoid.”

  “Hey, it ain’t paranoia if they really are—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I interrupted. Mike gets most of his life wisdom from T-shirts. “Let me think about it, okay? Anything more on the mystery cell number?”

  “Maybe. I’m not ready to commit yet.”

  “Join the club.”

  I carried the flyer inside. Tank was positioned just inside the door, a dour look in his eyes.

  “Soon,” I said. “Liver bits.”

  I moved to my computer and instigated a long, frustrating bout of fiddling with the patented Guard-on Image Retrieval System. I envy kids like Mike, who grew up with computers, remote controls, and other electronic wonders. While they were sitting around with their geek brethren playing video games and imprinting their DNA with computer skills, I was sitting around with the Tibetan Buddhist version of geek brethren, puzzling out what the Supreme Buddha was saying 2,600 years ago. Since nobody even bothered to write anything down for another 400 years, the Buddha’s teachings were rich territory for puzzlement, also known as making shit up. We could have used a few YouTubes of the man, that’s all I’m saying.

  Finally. I actually managed to coax the recorded event of my interloper from the Guard-on’s memory zone. I zeroed in on the image of Miguel Ortiz, or whoever he was. I ratcheted up to Level Orange immediately—Mike had neglected to tell me the kid had started out by looking in the window of my garage. As I watched, he rattled the side door, and I panicked briefly before remembering I had locked it. Talk about good timing.

  Next, the image switched, and he was climbing up my wooden steps and poking around on the deck. He raised his fist and knocked once or twice. His body obscured the moment when he slid the flyer under the sill, but I could plainly see him move across to the kitchen window and shade his eyes, peering in. Then he was gone as quickly and silently as he’d arrived.

  I hurried outside and found a pair of footprints in the soft soil below my deck. I placed my size 11 running shoe parallel to one of the prints. The outline was one or two shoe sizes smaller than mine. I followed the smudged imprints as they passed my favorite California oak and wove between the gnarled Manzanita trees lining the gravel driveway that connected me to Topanga Canyon Boulevard. Halfway along, I found a deep, clear print that revealed the distinctive waffle pattern of the brand. Adidas. So, now I was looking for a skinny kid in a hoodie who wore an Adidas running shoe, approximately size 9 or 10. As Mike would say, “Easy peasy.” I had narrowed my search to a million or so suspects between here and San Diego.

  On the other hand, maybe young Miguel really was looking to do lawn work. But I doubted it. I didn’t have a lawn.

  I moved onto parts two and three of my genius plan for identifying the intruder. I gave Tank a bowl of liver bits. Then I sat at my desk and punched in the number on the flyer. After three rings, the quavering voice of an elderly Hispanic male offered a shaky “Hola.”

  “Miguel Ortiz, por favor.” This innocent request ignited a burst of excited Spanish that ended with a question. My understanding of Spanish is pretty rudimentary, especially when the words are delivered at the speed of a Gatling. I said, “Que?” and added a “No comprende,” for good measure, as he went into a second rapid-fire barrage, even louder and faster than the first.

  I was losing this ground battle, so I resorted to underground subterfuge. As we spoke I punched the phone number into my reverse directory and identified the address connected to the voice. East L.A., the middle of gangland territory. Why was I not surprised?

  A younger male voice came on the line. “Who is this?” he asked in heavily accented English.

  I ignored his question. “Miguel Ortiz left a flyer on my door with this number on it. I’m looking for someone to care for my lawn. Can I talk to him?”

  “He don’ do that no more,” the voice said. Then he hung up on me.

  “Okay, then, if he don’ do that no more, how come he put an ad for it on my door?” I said into the dead phone. I looked over at my cat. “Tank, I’m beginning to doubt the sincerity of Miguel’s commitment to his business.”

  Tank lifted his head. “Excuse me, I got liver bits here,” he answered in cat talk, one language in which I do happen to be fluent.

  I checked the time and winced. Heather was about 20 minutes away from happy hour with the mysterious Dr. K., and I was about to possibly make things a whole lot worse between us. But my gut was whispering to me not to wait on this Miguel situation, and I had learned a while ago that ignoring such whispers never ended well.

  I called Heather and got her machine.

  “Heather, I am so, so sorry, but I can’t do tonight. Something’s come up, and it won’t wait. I’ll call you in the morning, okay?” I hesitated. “Love you. Sleep tight.”

  I retrieved the business card from my back jeans pocket and flipped it over for Carlos’s information. Hopefully, he wasn’t at work, in class, or taking Sofia’s bird for a walk.

  “Hi, Ten. Do you have news?” Carlos’s voice was eager. I felt terrible that I hadn’t considered that aspect of the call.

  “No, sorry. Nothing so far. This is about a different situation, though the two may be connected.” As I said this, I realized the truth of my words. I didn’t know how or why yet, but the timing of my hiding Sofia’s backpack and Miguel’s visit was too coincidental to be random.

  “How can I help?”

  “I’m headed to East L.A. to gather information, and I may need a translator. My Spanish is rusty to nonexistent.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  “Can you pick me up?”

  “Sure.”

  Just like that, I was good to go. I went to my closet and unlocked my safe. Out came the Wilson again, as well as several $100 bills from my envelope of tax-free motivation.

  The choice of car wasn’t even a choice. I was heading into the Land of Clunkers.

  Traffic wasn’t bad—the evening hour had dislodged the normal logjam of late afternoon drivers. I picked Carlos up outside his apartment, and he read directions to me off my phone, until my Corolla was safely parked on the 500 block of Whittier Boulevard, across from the house where I hoped Miguel Ortiz still lived. The neighborhood was similar to many others I’d visited as a patrol officer, and scarily like the one where I’d met my first bullet, three years ago—an event that led to my leaving the LAPD.

  A tumble of tiny, rundown houses, the faded colors of sherbet, made a jagged procession down either side of the boulevard. Some were boarded up, while others still attempted to appear homey with a coat of fresh paint here, a struggling but recognizable flower garden there. They wrestled for space with two fast-food franchises, a ramshackle bodega, and a corner bar. Every available surface, from walls to storefronts to telephone poles, served as a canvas for rival gangs to claim their turf with graffiti: even the trees were tagged. A few kids kicked a soccer ball around a small patch of dead grass, their shorts sagging to their ankles. Their older brothers o
ccupied the buckled wooden porch of one of the abandoned homes, baseball caps pulled low, empty cans of beer piled next to them, like scat.

  “Man,” Carlos said. “Depressing.”

  I looked at the once-vibrant homesteads, now warped and peeling and listing to one side like invalids. I could sense rage behind the bold, overlapping slashes of graffiti warfare. Drugs had caused this. Drugs—and drug lords.

  Like Chaco Morales.

  His stocky form rose before my eyes: Chaco Morales, the big loose end in my life. He’d taken possession of my brain like no other criminal in the early days and weeks after the Julius Rosen case closed. I checked in periodically with Bill and the gang squad. No one had heard of or seen Chaco since his escape, but I didn’t believe for a minute he was gone. His ruthlessness fed his ambition, and both were insatiable. Mexico was too small to satisfy such an appetite. No, Chaco Morales and I were not done with each other yet. I shivered. Even his name gave off the whiff of evil.

  “You okay, man?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Let’s get to work.” I handed Carlos two crisp $100 bills.

  “No, man. It’s cool.”

  “Please,” I said. “Otherwise, I’m leaving you in the car.”

  “Pay me after I’ve done something, then.”

  The soccer ball bounced onto the road in front of a low-slung Chevy Camaro. Horn blaring, the car swerved to avoid the two kids pounding after it.

  “So, what exactly are we doing here?” Carlos asked.

  I gave him a quick rundown on my “lawn-care” investigation. At the last minute, I decided not to mention Sofia’s backpack, but I forgot that Carlos was extremely intelligent.

  “Sorry, mi amigo, but you said this might be connected to Clara and Sofia. I’m not seeing the connection.”

  Busted.

  I filled in the blanks.

  Carlos whistled. “You sure the kid wasn’t confused? I’ve never seen Sofia with a black backpack. With any backpack, actually. And she’s not on drugs. I’d know.”

  “Melissa had no reason to lie,” I said. “Unless …” I pictured her older sister Maggie. But she’d been gone all month. “Either way, I still want to track down Miguel, if I can. Just to eliminate him as a suspect in my missing person’s case, if nothing else.”

  “Okay. So what’s the plan?”

  “I haven’t quite figured that out yet,” I admitted.

  Carlos smiled. “Fishing expedition, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Always did want to learn how to fish,” he said. “Is there anything you can tell me about the two people you talked to on the phone?”

  “Well, the first man I talked to, the one who didn’t speak English, sounded elderly. He also sounded upset, but he was talking too fast for me to find out why. The second guy was younger and basically hung up on me.”

  “Hey, Ten, isn’t that the house?”

  Sure enough, the front door across from us had opened, and an elderly Hispanic man stepped outside. He was short and lean, dressed in clean khaki work clothes and brown cowboy boots. He smoothed his sparse hair and stuck a raffia cowboy hat on his head.

  “Mi Abuelo, sorry, my grandfather has a straw hat just like that,” Carlos said. “Makes me a little homesick for Mexico.” Carlos was already getting into character. He pronounced Mexico Meh-hee-co. “Think maybe that’s the old guy you talked to?”

  “Let’s hope,” I said. The elderly man lit a thin, brown cigarillo, inhaled deeply and blew out a plume of smoke. He started walking briskly in our direction. We instinctively scooched lower in the Toyota’s front seat, but he ignored us. He was spry for his age, which I estimated to be somewhere around 80, and he was marching in his cowboy boots like a man on a mission. He reached the end of the block and disappeared through the swinging doors of a cantina by the name of Los Gatos.

  “Ah,” said Carlos. “Happy hour.”

  “That’s pretty local-looking,” I said. “Do you think it’s going to look weird if I go in there?”

  Carlos looked me over. “I don’t think it’ll be a problem. You look non-Anglo enough to pass. What are you, anyway?”

  “Tibetan father, American mother,” I said.

  He nodded. “Yeah, I can see that. Vaguely Asian.”

  That sounded about right. I’d inherited my father’s thick black hair, which I had to keep mowed pretty short to prevent it from sticking straight up like the tip of a Magic Marker. I had my mother’s nose, slightly thinner than the average Tibetan’s. Her pale skin had mixed with my father’s Tibetan ruddiness to give me a tannish tint, so I looked healthy even when I wasn’t feeling it. My eyes, too, were a mix—not quite round like Valerie’s and not quite slanted like my father’s. Somehow her blue eyes and his brown ones had come together to make mine hazel, muddy brown, or green, depending on your-guess-is-as-good-as-mine.

  “Ready?” I asked.

  “Ready.”

  We crossed the street and sauntered up the block and into the bar. We were greeted by the clack of colliding balls from a pool table installed somewhere in the dim depths of the room. The sound provided percussion to a lively Mexican melody playing from a jukebox, the tune a kissing cousin of a polka.

  A smattering of Hispanic men, all middle-aged or older, sprawled around a handful of round wooden tables. Their eyes were fixed on the two guys shooting pool. Señor Cowboy was sitting by himself at the bar. His eyes were glued on the bartender, who carefully poured a Dos Equis into a glass as if every drop was precious, which it is. I felt an instant connection: Dos Equis is one of my favorites.

  We sat down at the bar as well, a few stools away from our man. The bartender finished pouring and stepped away. My mouth watered as I watched a Beer Moment happen, that first sacred swig that brings such meaning and purpose to the beer-lover’s day. I was ready to encounter my own.

  “Are you over twenty-one?” I asked Carlos.

  “Twenty-three,” he answered.

  “Good. You order. I’ll pay. Dos Equis for me.”

  The bartender moseyed over to us. He was clearly his own best customer; his massive belly strained the buttons on a shirt that had probably been white, and had actually fit, a few years back.

  Carlos pointed down the bar to the old man’s Dos Equis and said the Spanish equivalent of “We’ll have what he’s having.” The bartender pulled two frosty bottles out of the cooler and set them on the bar, along with a couple of glasses. He carefully poured the amber beer into the glasses and stepped back, as he had with Señor Cowboy.

  East L.A. isn’t so bad, I thought.

  I sipped, I savored, and I let out a sigh of satisfaction. You don’t want to overwhelm the taste buds with too big a swallow at first. They prefer a nice, gentle stretch to a frontal assault.

  The bartender, who doubled as waiter, had just returned after delivering fresh beers to the pool table gang, swapping full glasses for empty ones. He stepped close to Carlos and said something under his breath. Carlos’s mouth thinned.

  “What?” I said.

  “Don’t ask me why, but he’s figured out you’re a cop. He says he doesn’t want any trouble.”

  I offered my best Buddhist smile.

  The bartender said to Carlos, “¿No habla español su amigo?” Carlos shook his head and rattled off an answer. The bartender said something back, and they both chuckled. Carlos was turning out to be a natural at this.

  “I told him you were cool. Asked him how we could make friends with the old man real quick,” Carlos reported. “He says the guy loves ceviche but never has enough money to order it. He says they have great ceviche here. Should I order some?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Get a double order, and we’ll ask him over to share.” I’d try to watch them eat it without regretting breakfast. Eating meat was one thing. Raw fish flesh? I don’t think so.

  The bartender disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared with a huge bowl of ceviche topped with slices of ripe avocado and wedges of fresh lime. He set it down i
n front of us. I slid $20 across the bar and waved him off making change. The bill disappeared into his pocket like magic. I glanced over at the old man. He was mesmerized by our bowl, a serious case of raw-fish lust if I’ve ever seen one. I made an exaggerated move of pushing the ceviche over to Carlos as I shook my head. Carlos turned to the old man, as if drawn by his longing, and gestured for him to come over and share. Moments later, we were seated three in a row—and ready for the next stage of interrogation.

  Carlos seemed to enjoy the fishy concoction at least as much as Señor Cowboy did, but I didn’t hold it against him. Meanwhile, I found that by defocusing my eyes slightly I could maintain a benign outer expression while watching them eat belly-white chunks of raw fish. Even a lifetime of rice and lentils was preferable.

  I sipped my beer and waited as they ate and chatted. Finally, the old man wiped his mouth with a faded but clean-looking bandanna and let out a satisfied belch. Carlos and he were quickly immersed in a longer, fairly animated exchange, a blur of Spanish that lasted for several minutes.

  The old man pushed away from the bar and headed for the men’s room.

  “I’m dying here,” I said to Carlos. “Talk to me.”

  “Okay, well, I got him going by complaining about my two jobs, but he’s outdoing me big-time: he’s complaining about his job, his kids, his grandkids.”

  “Focus on the grandson Miguel, if you can.”

  The old man staggered back to his stool, and they finished up their conversation. Señor Cowboy was now into his third beer and clearly getting maudlin in any language. We slid off our stools and left our man staring down his weather-beaten reflection in the well-polished wood of the bar. One eyelid was drooping: he was closing in on bedtime, and fast.

  Back in the Corolla, Carlos turned to fill me in. “Get this,” he started, his eyes gleaming.

  “Nah, ah, ah,” I said. I passed over the bills. “A deal is a deal.”

  “You don’t like to owe anyone, do you?” Carlos said, but he took the money. “Okay. So, his no-good daughter married a no-good man, and now their son, his no-good grandson Miguel, has dropped out of school and joined a gang. To make matters worse, his father, the son-in-law, has started running around with another woman, a puta, just as no-good as the rest of them. Miguel was the kid you were interested in, right?”