The First Rule of Ten

by Gay Hendricks

  “We’re talking some potent emissions, my friend,” I told Tank.

  My phone produced a cascade of syrupy harp arpeggios, Mike’s tongue-in-cheek choice of ringtone for a meditating ex-cop.

  It was Julie.

  “About dinner,” she said. “I forgot to ask, anything you don’t eat?”

  I didn’t hesitate.

  “Pork,” I said.

  CHAPTER 13

  My neck was killing me. I lowered my binoculars, rotated my shoulders and head, and steeled myself for stage two of my observation plan. It was already midafternoon. Except for a handful of raw almonds, I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I’d already spent several hours standing on a hill, studying from afar the outfit that caused such olfactory distress for the Children of Paradise. Fortunately, the wind was blowing east, so I was spared the full effect of nastiness.

  Here’s what I’d learned so far. This wasn’t much of an operation. By my count, there were about 20 employees, mostly Hispanic, mostly just hanging around. Occasionally, someone would be doing the things you’d expect workers on a hog farm to be doing: feeding hogs; dealing with the inevitable aftermath of feeding hogs; waiting around to feed them again. Some of the men wore surgical masks. Others, mostly the older workers, went without. Maybe you got used to the smell after a few years. I found that a scary thought.

  The moment had come. I had to drive closer to glean anything further.

  Even safely sealed inside my car, it was bad. When I reached the entrance, I braced myself and rolled down the window. I instantly experienced two things—a burning sensation in my eyes, and a gust of empathy for the neighboring cult. The powerful blend of foul-smelling excrement and pungent garbage, topped by a nostril-stinging high-note of urine, was almost unbearable.

  I caught myself: Here I was complaining about a strong smell, without giving any thought to the suffering of the poor animals inside. Their rebirth into the animal realm was already a form of slavery, and their present living conditions were horrific. I tried to balance my revulsion with an equal amount of compassion for these highly intelligent animals.

  Window raised again, I took shallow, acrid gulps of oxygen through my mouth as I steered the Toyota up the entry road to the farm. The main building was set well apart from the actual operation. No surprise there. The far side of a parking lot held a dozen or so cars and pickup trucks. One car stood out—a shiny black Mercedes, an E550, top of the line. A classic midlife-crisis car. The sexy two-door convertible hardtop still sported dealer plates—a Pasadena dealership.

  At least one person here was bringing home a lot of bacon.

  I parked. I stretched. I strolled to the front door, as if I hadn’t a care in the world, which is hard to do when your gullet is spasming in protest at the stench. I entered, and was hit by a blast of cold air. They must keep the air purification and cooling system cranked up high to keep the pig smells out. Everybody in the office was wearing a sweater.

  I took a tentative sniff. Not bad.

  A dazzling bottle-blond young woman in a tight, low-cut pullover manned the front desk, so to speak. Her head was lowered as she tapped away at her computer keyboard. Behind her, a couple of young men and women sat at their own desks, staring at screens, talking quietly into headsets. At the far end of the room was the only closed door.

  Low-Cut flashed a bright smile at me. “May I help you?”

  I decided to aim for humble and disarming. “I sincerely hope so, ma’am. I’m a private investigator, looking into the Children of Paradise community next door.”

  A sour little look rippled across her face. She caught herself, and quickly snapped the smile back into place.

  “Yes? And?”

  “And, I know that your company had some problems with them a while back. I was wondering if I could talk to your boss about it.”

  She shook her head. “Mr. Barsotti is unavailable right now.”

  Good. A name.

  “I’m guessing Mr. Barsotti will want to know about this,” I said. “When do you think he’ll be available?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “It could be a while.”

  “No worries. I can wait.” I looked around in vain for a place to sit down.

  “We don’t get a lot of visitors.” Her voice was clipped.

  “I can’t imagine why,” I said, testing for signs of humor.

  No response, except that immovable smile.

  I moved to the corner. Just stood there, waiting. She eyed me for a minute or two, nibbling on a hot-pink finger-talon, then went back to clacking away on the computer.

  I turned my back to her and stepped close to some old framed photographs of what looked like prize-winning hogs on the wall, as if I were admiring their girth and blue ribbons. Actually, I was adopting the time-honored but effective secret-agent trick of using the reflection off the glass to spy on her. She glanced at my turned back, picked up her phone and had a short, whispered conversation punctuated by a couple of more quick peeks in my direction.

  Fortunately, I was also half-facing the window into the parking lot. Within moments, a man exited the back of the building and hustled toward the new Mercedes, shrugging a sport coat over his dark lavender shirt and matching tie as he trotted. He looked to be in his mid-40s. His longish hair was uniformly dark, except for suspiciously perfect little flags of silver at the temples. Prominent nose. Fairly fit body, though his somewhat loose jowls hinted at a recent weight loss. I was too far away to see, but I was betting on manicured fingernails. All in all he wasn’t bad-looking, in that “I’m determined to look younger than I am” way.

  It had to be Barsotti, in a rush to get out of there. I wondered why he was so anxious to leave.

  My gut twanged. A man in a hurry is a man with a secret. Follow him.

  I turned to Low-Cut. “Sorry. Just remembered something I should take care of. I’ll have to come back another time.”

  “Okay,” she chirped, without looking up from her work.

  I decided to double-check I had the right guy, just in case. “By the way, how does Mr. Barsotti like his Mercedes?”

  “Oh, he just got it, and he loves it.” She wasn’t too bright. I suspected Barsotti hired her for what was below her neck, not above it.

  I popped out of the door just as Barsotti was smoothly reversing out of his parking place. Engine purring, the sleek machine glided toward the exit.

  I sprinted across the lot and jumped into my jalopy. I reached the main road just as he was accelerating, maybe a quarter-mile ahead. I goosed my hard-working engine, willing it to catch up. I felt like a mutt chasing a greyhound. Soon Barsotti reached the freeway entrance.

  He turned onto the ramp heading south on the 14 toward Los Angeles. Thank goodness. I didn’t want to restart things with Julie by canceling our dinner.

  For once, heavy traffic was my friend. If both the 14 and the 5 hadn’t been jammed with stop-and-go traffic, his wheels would have left mine in the dust. As it was, we surged and slowed our parallel ways back into town.

  Just north of where the 5 and the 170 meet, the lanes inexplicably cleared, and I almost lost him. I floored my Toyota, pushing the tachometer to redline as I merged onto the 170. Every nut, bolt, and belt in the car rattled and howled in protest, but I managed to just keep him in sight as he suddenly zipped off the freeway at Roscoe. I felt a niggle of recognition. I’d been in this part of North Hollywood before, but I couldn’t say why. Then Barsotti again turned, this time onto Coldwater Canyon Boulevard.

  I was confused. Coldwater Canyon serves as a back way into Beverly Hills, that famous playground of the rich, where shiny new luxury sports coupes feel most at home. But if that was his destination, he should have taken the later Coldwater exit, made a left at the bottom of the ramp, and climbed over the hill to the high-rent side of town. We were a far cry from there.

  As I turned onto Coldwater myself, I realized why this area seemed so familiar. I was a stone’s throw away from Wat Thai, the ornate Theravada Bud
dhist temple located, incongruously, right off the freeway. Two turns and you think you’re in Bangkok.

  A pair of looming demons guarded the gates of this classic Thai temple, with its red roof and ornamental eaves outside, and a plump, gilded Buddha watching over the chanting monks within. I’d love to say I went there to join their meditation practice. In fact, it was the lure of mango and sticky rice, purchased from temple food stalls using funny plastic temple money, that drew me. That and the Thai Iced Tea, a divine beverage if ever there was one.

  Barsotti had a different elixir in mind. I almost ran up his tailpipe when he braked suddenly and turned into a strip mall. I took a deep breath to slow my pulse, and sent a prayer of gratitude to the chubby Buddha next door. That would have been one pricey fender bender. Barsotti hurried into a Starbucks—or Fourbucks, as Bill likes to call it—phone glued to his ear. He emerged moments later with two 20-ounce Ventis nestled in a cardboard box.

  Unless his car drank coffee, he was on his way to meet someone.

  I sincerely hoped my gut wasn’t leading me on a crazy chase for nothing.

  Traffic again formed a thick clot, and I had no trouble keeping the sports car in sight as he turned right, toward the jumble of apartment complexes and houses that sprawl for miles out there, forming separate branches of the seemingly infinite grid known collectively as “The Valley.” I found this part of town monotonous, flat, and downright depressing, but to each his own. I gave myself a mental attaboy for choosing to drive the Toyota today. A saffron Shelby Mustang would have made this part of the pursuit problematic. Happily, older Toyotas were a dime a dozen.

  Coldwater quickly became Sheldon, condos became houses again, and I dropped back another two cars. His destination turned out to be a small but beautifully appointed cluster of stables and paddocks surrounding a riding ring, a jewel of a place in the East Valley. Several riders mounted on thoroughbreds trotted around the ring. A discreet sign revealed this to be the East Valley Equine Center. I knew about the enormous equestrian center in Griffith Park, but this was obviously the well-kept-secret alternative for wealthy horse-owners craving privacy. I parked across the street and watched as Barsotti maneuvered into a tight space between a Beemer and a Lexus. He carried both coffees to the riding ring, set them down, and leaned against the fence to watch the riders.

  I now knew where we were, but I still hadn’t a clue what either of us was doing there.

  I left my car across the street, retrieving only my binoculars—they were getting quite a workout today. I found a secure vantage point and peered at the ring, trying to guess which rider, or horse for that matter, Barsotti was visiting. I swept my field glasses past an older man with a patrician nose and a young, fresh-faced teenage girl posting up and down in spotless jodhpurs, her braces glinting as she grinned.

  Then my binoculars filled with the smooth, glowing face of a beautiful young woman in her 20s. Blond curls spilled out from under her black helmet. With mental apologies to my Tibetan teachers, I lowered the glasses slightly. Yup, the rest of her equipment was equally to Barsotti’s taste, and I’m not talking about stirrups. She cantered past him, thighs gripping the sleek, chocolate-brown flanks of her horse. Barsotti’s head followed her around the ring as if magnetically connected.

  As Julie would say: All righty, then.

  A freckled kid on a two-wheeler screeched to a halt near me.

  “Whatcha doing?” he asked.

  I wasn’t going to lie. First of all, way back when, as a novice monk, I had vowed not to. Second of all, children get enough of that every day from the people they know; they don’t need strangers running cons on them, too.

  “I’m watching a man watching a woman ride a horse.”

  “Cool,” he said, and pedaled off. Would that all human communication were so simple.

  I decided to give the binoculars a rest before I drew less agreeable attention. I let them dangle and took a slow stroll around the perimeter of the equestrian center, keeping watch on Barsotti out of the corner of my eye. As I completed one full lap around the place, staying well out of Barsotti’s line of vision, the blonde dismounted. She passed off her reins to a handler. He walked the horse toward the stables. She sashayed over to the fence and gave Barsotti a quick kiss. The giant rock on her left hand flashed and bounced light like a laser. Trophy wife, I thought. Explains the weight loss. Barsotti passed her a coffee and they shared a short conversation. As she left the riding ring, he escorted her over to, wonder of wonders, another brand-spanking-new Mercedes, this one a gleaming silver SUV. Same new plates. Same dealer. I took note of the name. One, or maybe both, of them went on a shopping spree recently, purchasing two new sets of wheels. I was betting on Barsotti, myself.

  She got in her car and drove off. He got in his car and followed her. I got in my car and followed him following her. This is the exciting reality of detective work. A lot of waiting. A lot of watching. A lot of following.

  They wound up parking several miles south, in an upscale condominium complex. I immediately deduced that the place had just opened—it had the freshly painted, newly planted exterior of a recently constructed building.

  I heard Bill’s voice: “Right, detective. And that huge banner hanging from the roof proclaiming ‘Grand Opening, Now Leasing!’ has nothing to do with your conclusion.”

  This is why my head will never get too swelled.

  The two lovebirds, hand in hand, disappeared into one of the condos. I readjusted my thinking. Trophy mistress, maybe? They would be occupied for a while. I couldn’t think of anything more I could learn from the lovers, not pertaining to my case, anyway.

  Assuming any of this pertained to my case.

  I pulled out my iPhone, fumbled around until I opened the little pad-icon, and typed in the dealer name, as well as the unit number and address of the complex. After a few false starts, I also located Bill in my cell phone’s address book.

  “Hey, partner,” he answered.

  “Oh, hooray. I’m still ‘partner,’” I said.

  “You must be about to ask me for a favor.”

  “Dang, you’re good. Yes, I need you to run a couple of plates for me. Dealer plates. Can you do that?”

  “Sure, unless they’re brand-new, as in a day or two old.”

  I read him off the numbers.

  “You’re in luck,” Bill said. “I’m at the office in front of the computer. Stay on the phone.”

  Bill hummed a tuneless song while the keyboard clacked in the background. I already missed that habit of his, that endearing, tone-deaf drone.

  “Okay,” he said. “Got something to write with?”

  ”I can use my phone.”

  “Well, aren’t you the fancy one,” Bill said. “So, the E550 belongs to the dealership, Golden State Mercedes-Benz over in Pasadena. The SUV is registered … let’s see, uh, as of three weeks ago, to one Ramona C. Cunningham. Same dealership, though I’m guessing you already knew that.”

  “Got an address for Cunningham?”

  He read off a Newport Beach address, a long way from a condo on Coldwater Canyon. My mind quickly revised the front-page lede: Prosperous middle-aged lothario lures someone else’s trophy wife from her unhappy home in Newport Beach for trysts at a love nest in The Valley, with the help of a horse, a car, and a cappuccino. Catchy.

  “Hey, Ten?”

  “Yes, Bill?”

  “Any money fall out of any tree yet?”

  “Funny. Really funny.” I hung up on the sound of his laughter.

  Next stop, Pasadena. Golden State Mercedes-Benz, to be exact. Three freeways later I parked at the far end of their visitor’s lot and started walking, praying to slip inside unnoticed. No such luck. Out of nowhere, a trim, eager young man in a suit and tie intercepted me. His eyes darted over my shoulder to my long-suffering Toyota, looking clunkier than ever. It slowed him down, but not for long.

  “Good day, sir,” he said, offering me his hand. “Chad Willoughby, sales consultant.”

/>   “Tom Smith,” I said. I’m nothing if not original at times like these.

  “Do you have an appointment, Mr. Smith? All showings are by appointment only.”

  What would Sherlock do?

  “No,” I said. “No appointment, but I spent some time with Mr. Barsotti this morning, and I really liked his new E550.” This is called lying and telling the truth at the same time, a skill all detectives, Holmes included, learn early in their careers. It was the closest I could come to observing one of the five root vows, while still being remotely effective in my job.

  His demeanor changed instantly after I dropped the Barsotti bomb.

  “Of course,” he said. “Please! Right this way.”

  He led me to a row of brand-new SLK and E-class coupes, laid out like metallic jewels on the tarmac.

  “Beautiful, aren’t they? Lease or purchase?”

  “I haven’t decided,” I said.

  “There are advantages to each,” Chad said. “I can go over them with you.”

  I circled each car, squatting down to look at the tires and making other traditional auto-shopper-type moves.

  Peering in a window, I kept my voice casual. “How long have you known Mr. Barsotti?”

  “My boss? I’ve been working for him about a year over here. Before that I was at his Ferrari dealership on Pasadena Boulevard. When he sold it and moved here, so did I.”

  So he owned a car dealership as well as a hog farm. Busy little bee, this Barsotti.

  “Ferrari to Mercedes? Bummer,” I said. I was just making conversation, but Chad jumped on my comment with the intensity of the recently converted.

  “Are you kidding me?” he said. “Ever know anybody with a Ferrari?”

  I didn’t.

  “Well, here’s everything you need to know about them: They suck. They’re great to look at and fun to drive, but they’re basically expensive pieces of c-r-a-p, crap. Buying a Ferrari is like finding out the blue blood you married is actually a stripper.”