The First Rule of Ten

by Gay Hendricks

  Once inside, Tank executed a high-wire leap from my arms to his food dish. He buried his face in the awaiting feast of sautéed liver and tuna, compliments of Chef Julie.

  I watched him eat, my own throat suspiciously thick.

  “Ten?”

  I turned. Julie walked up to me. She touched my split lip, and traced the bruises on my throat.

  “Bill told me everything. I’m so glad you’re okay.”

  “Julie.” I started to take her in my arms, but she pressed her finger on my lips. She moved away a few steps.

  “Let me finish. I thought I wanted a fling, Ten. Turns out I’m not so good at flings.” Her eyes brimmed over, and she swiped at the tears with the back of one hand. “Anyway, I quit my job. It just wasn’t for me, you know? I’m going back home to regroup. I just … I wanted to thank you. Because after the last guy, I didn’t know if I could ever open up my heart again. But I could. I mean, I did. Spending this time with you reminded me I have this huge heart, and the willingness to give it to someone else absolutely. I just picked a guy who wasn’t ready.”

  She gave me a quavering smile. “I’m sorry.”

  I stared at her. A rush of hot panic flooded my body. Old. Familiar. How can you do this to me? After everything I’ve done for you, how can you leave me? Please don’t leave me.

  “Anyway, I baked you some almond cookies,” Julie said. “Nontoxic, I promise.”

  “Is that supposed to be funny? A cute little joke?” I shot back, my voice still hoarse, only this time with feeling. “Is that supposed to make everything okay?”

  I couldn’t look at her.

  Julie’s reply was calm.

  “No, not funny, Ten. True. Bitter almonds can kill you if you don’t process them properly.”

  She touched my shoulder. I met her eyes. “As pissed off as you’ve made me, I don’t wish you dead.”

  She kissed me once, lightly on the lips.

  “’Bye.”

  And then she left.

  I moved to the window and watched her drive away. Tank lifted his head from his dish and gave maybe the second meow of his life.

  The agitation slowly drained out of me, leaving bone-deep exhaustion in its place. I staggered to the kitchen and sat for some time, flattened by the sudden, total absence of her.

  Finally, I ate one cookie, washing it down with hot tea.

  It was delicious, and it made me very sad.

  I crawled into bed.

  Warm sun, bathing my eyelids, woke me up. It was just after one o’clock in the afternoon. I stretched my sore limbs, testing my muscles here and there. For a moment, I felt pretty good. Then the loss-of-Julie pain hit. I felt it start to drag me into its undertow, too deep and familiar to only be about Julie.

  Valerie.

  I took several deep breaths. In, out. In, out.

  I had felt this before. Survived it before. I would survive it again. I had to. I had a lot left to do.

  My phone chirped. Julie.

  Mike’s skewed face grinned at me from the cracked screen.

  I answered.

  “Ten, I found the mother lode. I had to hack into thirty-eight different systems, but I finally found all the policies. What a nightmare. Forty-two cult members insured by dozens of companies. Plus that other guy, Norman Murphy—there’s a policy on him, too.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “And guess who’s the beneficiary of every policy?”

  “TFJ & Associates,” I said.

  “Elementary, my dear Watson. I’m talking about the silent partner. The one no one else will ever find, because I’m just that good.”

  The King.

  “Thomas Florio Senior.”

  The line went very quiet.

  “Boss, you really know how to take the wind out of a person’s sails, you know that?”

  The kaleidoscope re-formed into a picture, a spider web of sorts.

  A father knows, you see. This time, I have taken a vow not to protect him.

  I made a big pot of coffee while I ran through what I knew. There were still some pieces missing. I took a steaming mug over to my office area and sat down. My eyes lit on the little makeshift Zen garden.

  I started rearranging the stones. I set down a round stone representing Florio Sr., first. To his right, I aligned Barsotti, Tommy Jr., and O’Flaherty, with Tommy centered next to his father. Norman, the land surveyor, was centered on their other side. What connected them all? I went in the kitchen and returned with a few whole beans of coffee.

  In went José, between Barsotti and O’Flaherty. In went Roach, between O’Flaherty and Florio Sr. In went Zimmy, between Florio Sr. and O’Flaherty. And in went me, between Florio Sr. and Tommy Jr. I stared.

  I was looking at a shamrock … or maybe a prison structure.

  Well, somebody else’s luck was running out.

  I went back to the kitchen and poured myself a second mug of coffee. I had the motives. I still needed the means.

  I reached for an almond cookie to dunk.

  Nontoxic.

  I ran back to my computer and spent another 45 minutes writing up and printing out my report, based on what I knew. I slid it into my canvas carryall and put in a call to Florio Sr.

  I got his voice mail, as I knew I would. No cell phone use in the Jonathan Club. I told him I had some things to report, but I was feeling old-fashioned and preferred to do it in person. This afternoon, in fact. Then I left Barsotti and Tommy Jr. their own messages, each one tailor-made to suit my plans.

  I pulled on my going-to-the-Club outfit, still flung over the back of a chair in the bedroom. The striped shirt was a little wrinkled, but I wore it anyway. It still smelled faintly of Julie. Finally, I called Bill and told him to meet me in his office.

  I fired up the Mustang and pushed it hard all the way downtown. I could have used the valet parking at the Jonathan Club and walked the mile between Figueroa and North Los Angeles Street, but the 4-minute drive takes 20 to walk, given the lack of sidewalks in this fine city.

  I parked at the Five Star and jogged to the Death Star, forgoing the slow elevator to take the stairs two at a time to the ninth floor.

  Bill was ready and waiting. We gave each other everything we needed, and I was handing my keys to the Jonathan Club parking lot attendant at 4:00 on the button.

  I did one last gut-check. My gut said Go. Either I’d be right, or I’d be done.

  A different concierge led me inside and upstairs. As we crossed the hallway to the Library, he reminded me cell phone usage was not allowed.

  He didn’t say a thing about Wilson Combat .38 Supergrades.

  Inside the Library, he motioned me left again, past the urns. This time, however, he closed the tall sliding wooden doors that separated the stacks from the main Library behind me. I stood for a moment, scanning the empty room.

  “Hello, Tenzing,” Florio said from my left. “I got your message.”

  He was seated in one of four red brocade chairs, set around an antique table of polished oak. His leather briefcase lay at his feet. He was studying a beautifully appointed chessboard of dark and light wood. The heavy chess pieces were of carved marble, black and white, some of them as tall as eight inches. The two armies were locked in battle. Thomas Florio, Sr., appeared to be at war with himself.

  “Do you play?” Florio asked, gesturing at the game.

  “No.”

  “Pity,” he said. “I find chess a wonderful way to focus my mind. Perhaps a bit like your meditation. Do you mind if I continue to play while we talk? I’m almost done.”

  “Please. Go ahead.”

  He picked up a white piece and used it to replace a taller black one.

  “Check,” he said.

  He turned to me. “You’ve been a busy young man since we last spoke, haven’t you?”

  I acknowledged that I had.

  “I want to thank you,” he said. “You did me a big favor, albeit inadvertently.”

  “Which was?”


  He picked up the biggest black piece on the board, and knocked over the white piece.

  “Checkmate,” he said, smiling to himself. “You eliminated a business partner with whom I no longer wished to be in business. I refer of course to Mr. O’Flaherty. In my life I’ve found it necessary to work with the occasional unsavory associate. I wish that all of them could be disposed of so efficiently.”

  “Glad I could be of help,” I said. I placed my carryall on the table and sat in the chair across from Florio. “Before I give you my report, I have a quick question, Mr. Florio. Why did you hire me, me in particular, to investigate Tommy?”

  “I would have thought that was obvious,” he said. “I take it you haven’t read any Machiavelli?”

  I had, but I played dumb for the time being.

  “He is much maligned these days.” Florio sighed. “The Prince is possibly the best book on business tactics ever written. Machiavelli is most famous for a brilliant piece of advice: Keep your friends close, and your enemies even closer.” Florio’s smile was utterly smug.

  “Most attribute that quotation to Sun Tzu,” I said. “But I believe the honor actually belongs to Mario Puzo. The Godfather, Part Two.”

  Florio’s smile hardened.

  I kept going. “I prefer Kautilya’s Arthashastra for my strategies,” I said. “Kautilya was the chief adviser to Chandragupta Maurya, the king who united the Indian subcontinent around 300 B.C. Kautilya had a lot to say about power. Powerful fathers, and how they should handle their sons. Powerful princes, and how they should handle their kings. What a corrupting influence power can be. Quite the political realist, Kautilya.”

  Florio watched me, wary as a cobra.

  “I’m curious about something, Mr. Florio. You’re a very wealthy man. Yet the drive to accumulate, I might even say compulsion, remains. At what point do you realize you have enough?”

  His mouth twisted. “It’s obvious you’ve never been exposed to privilege.”

  “Please. Enlighten me.”

  He brought a finger to his lips. A secret. He was enjoying himself. “The great truth of money and influence, Ten, of power, is that there’s no such thing as enough.”

  I heard low voices from the main Library. “Right on time,” I said.

  The wooden doors slid open. Tommy Jr. and Barsotti stepped inside the stacks. The doors slid closed behind them.

  Tommy was empty-handed. I felt my stomach clench. Had I read him wrong after all? If so, I was screwed.

  “Hi, Dad,” Tommy said. “Fancy meeting you here. And with the monk, no less.”

  Florio hid his surprise well.

  “Hello, son. Vince.” His voice was smooth. “Your timing is impeccable. Ten and I were just discussing how to deal with one’s enemies.”

  Florio picked up a large carved stone turret from the chessboard and rolled the heavy piece between his hands. He smiled pleasantly. “Vincent, would you mind putting your foot up on this chair?”

  Barsotti said, “What?”

  I thought: What?

  “Just put the sole of your shoe up on the edge of the seat, so your knee is bent like this.” Florio demonstrated.

  The mystified Barsotti did as he was told. Florio raised the stone chess piece above his head with both hands and lowered it sharply, like an ax, onto Barsotti’s kneecap. The bone cracked audibly.

  Barsotti howled and dropped to the floor, rolling in pain. Florio stood over him. Behind the mask of the gentleman patriarch was a brute.

  “You dishonored my daughter,” he spat. “You’re lucky I didn’t kill you.”

  Barsotti opened and closed his mouth a few times, like a gaffed fish, before he thought better of responding. Anesthetic shock must have set in, because he was able to push himself upright and hobble back to the table.

  Florio composed himself. He shrugged. “How many times have I said it? Betrayal begets pain.”

  He motioned to me. “Now, Tenzing. Shall we conclude our business?” His turned to his son with a wintry smile. “Tenzing’s prepared a report for me, though I doubt there’s anything in it I don’t already know.”

  The wooden doors slid open.

  A waiter came in with a tray. Four short snifters on it, and a cut-glass decanter glowing with amber liquid.

  Yes.

  The waiter placed the tray on the table and left.

  Tommy’s voice was jovial. “I ordered up a little surprise for you, Dad. With O’Flaherty and that other deadbeat gone, I thought we should toast to our future.”

  Thomas Sr. opened the decanter and sniffed.

  “Why, Tommy. Amaretto. How thoughtful.”

  He doesn’t know.

  Tommy filled all four glasses.

  “To the future,” Tommy said.

  “To the future,” we repeated, and tapped our glasses together.

  Thomas Sr. drained his glass. I pretended to drink. Barsotti was in too much shock to do much of anything—broken kneecaps can have that effect. Tommy Jr. just watched his father. His expression was that of a hungry coyote, finally about to get his fill.

  There’s no such thing as enough.

  Thomas Sr. held out his snifter for a refill. Tommy Jr. removed the glass from his father’s hand.

  “No more for you, Pops,” he said.

  Florio’s mouth knotted tightly at the insolence.

  Tommy swiftly collected the other three glasses and set them on the tray. Barsotti gimped over to the doors and slid them open. Tommy picked up the tray.

  “You coming, Ten?”

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “Fine. I’ll let them know you’re not to be disturbed.”

  Florio rose to his feet.

  “Tommy!” Florio’s imperious tone filled the space, brooking no disobedience.

  The doors closed behind them.

  Thomas Sr. wheeled on me. “Do you mind explaining what that was about?”

  “That was about a prince betraying his king,” I answered, and pulled out my gun.

  CHAPTER 30

  I trained my Wilson on Florio.

  “You paid for a report,” I said. “You’re going to get one. Sit.”

  Florio sat.

  I sat across from him.

  “Let me run a little scenario by you,” I said. “About four years ago an old man asks his son to find out why his almond trees are dying. The son finds something in the water, something bad. So he tests the aquifer on an adjacent piece of property just to be sure. A pig farm. The water there is also bad.

  “This guy, let’s call him Norman, knows how the government works; he knows whoever owns this contaminated land can make a lot of money. There’s even a precedent, and judges love precedents. But Norman’s thinking small, he’s not a natural-born criminal like your son Tommy and his brother-in-law, Vince. It took them to figure out there’s another 400 toxic acres to be had for the taking. A piece of Paradise, right next door.”

  Florio’s skin was beading with sweat. “I don’t know why you’re telling me this,” he said. He started to rise in his chair, but I waved him back down.

  “You know, when we met, you told me Tommy always came crawling back to you, begging for a job. Not this time. This time he came strutting, with a five-hundred-million-dollar tiger by the tail. And that’s when you took over.”

  “I’m not feeling very well,” Florio said. “I think I need a doctor.”

  “Don’t worry. It will get worse.”

  Florio let out a low groan.

  “So a plan is hatched. Your plan. Tommy didn’t like being elbowed to the side, mind you. Who would? But that wasn’t your problem. Barsotti’s pig farm was already in the family. So far, so good. And keeping Norman’s father, John D, in the dark was easy. Norman could handle that, or so everyone assumed. The Children of Paradise were the real challenge. Thanks to Brother Paul, they had an iron-clad deed of ownership, each and every one of them. Equal shares. Communism, your worst nightmare, I’d imagine. What to do? How to get those people off your four h
undred acres. Enter Liam O’Flaherty, con man, felon, sociopath. How did you put it? Unsavory associate.”

  Florio’s breathing was becoming a little more labored.

  “And that was the first murder, wasn’t it? O’Flaherty poisoned Brother Paul and took his place. Everything was proceeding like clockwork. But when are humans ever as reliable as clocks, Thomas? John D got stubborn. Tommy got greedy. Barbara got nosy. O’Flaherty got ugly. And me? I got paid money—by you, in fact—to figure it all out.”

  “What is happening to me?” Florio was drenched with sweat.

  “You know, it’s a shame you left all the hands-on work to your minions. Your three—stooges, is it?” I said. “Otherwise you would have known not to go near Amaretto, at least Amaretto served by your son.”

  “Tenzing, for the love of God …”

  “At first, I thought the poison must have been a solution of neptunium-237. But it didn’t make sense, because no one in their right mind would try to handle it, much less get anyone to swallow it.”

  I reached into my pocket and retrieved the faded photograph of John D and his two smiling sons, surrounded by almond trees bursting with frothy pink and white blossoms.

  “Amaretto. There is already that hint of bitter almond, properly processed, of course, to remove the toxin. It’s genius, really. So easy to add more of what’s already there, enough to ensure that the level of cyanide is fatal.”

  Florio was shaking his head back and forth slowly.

  “By the way, you were right about Tommy. He did get greedy. He started a little side business, skimming a few thousand here and there from the company pot to lure struggling artists into thinking he could make them rich. You sowed the notion of Dead Peasant policies in him, and he decided to reap his own extra benefits, so to speak. He delivered contracts and false hope and gift baskets with bottles of poisoned liqueur tucked among the other goodies like deadly scorpions. Especially deadly to an elderly man with heart problems, a chronic smoker suffering from the flu, and a gentleman actor with laetrile, another form of cyanide, already in his system.”

  I slid the photograph toward him, face up.

  “Bitter almonds. Such pretty pink blooms. So toxic when ingested in concentrated form, unlike the sweet variety. And normally so hard to come by, unless there is a private supply growing right next door.”