The Fifth Rule of Ten

by Gay Hendricks

  Once again, I regretted my promise to Kim. But a deal was a deal. I described the situation to Julie. “I think I have to go see this guy. If I leave right now, I can get there before dark. Hopefully wrap things up tonight.”

  Julie hesitated. So far, neither of us was getting exactly what we wanted. “Okay, I guess. We’ll move it to tomorrow.” Then, as she did so well, she rallied. “Hey, so Yeshe’s been showing me how to make khapsay for the puja ceremony.”

  “Khapsay? I love khapsay.” The traditional fried-dough recipe had traveled, along with the slow-moving stream of fleeing monks, across the mountainous border into India from Lhasa and was always a huge hit with the younger monks at Dorje Yidam.

  “Yeah, we’ve fried, like, a ton. I’m covered in grease, but Yeshe’s still worried there won’t be enough. He’s like a Buddhist Jewish mother.”

  I know that, I thought. He’s my best friend.

  I said, “Can you put him on the phone, please?”

  “Tashi deley, Tenzing. It is beautiful day today, yes? How you doing? You fine?”

  “I’m so sorry I’m not there.”

  “Julie explain. Is good you help find your friend’s brother. Is good to keep promise! We having fun!”

  Clearly.

  “What do you think of Julie?”

  Like Bill, Yeshe loved to keep me hanging. But Yeshe used gaps in time to make me aware of my attachment to outcomes. I released the breath I’d been holding.

  “Yeshe?”

  “I am thinking,” he said. And then, “I see why you want grow old with her. Julie is your . . . what is word? Same?”

  “Equal?”

  “Just so. Equal.”

  A part of me regretted asking.

  CHAPTER 10

  The squat structure of grayish wood was slapped onto a narrower building of brick and glass like a mistake. The sidewalk in front was punctured with skinny half-dead trees and bordered with sparse grass struggling to stay alive. I parked my beater car, a dusty Dodge Neon, in front. We fit right in.

  I retrieved the Smith & Wesson AirLite from the glove box and slipped it into my Windbreaker pocket. I had brought it along, just in case. Ex-vets could be a jumpy lot.

  It had been a while since I’d carried. I’d forgotten how right it felt to be armed and on the hunt.

  Outside, the air smelled slightly moldy. I stretched numb muscles and thought longingly of the ocean, only a few miles away. The sun lay low in the sky, but even a bath of late gold light couldn’t raise the spirits of this housing project.

  The front door was jammed open with a cinder block. I stepped inside. The entryway reeked of stale vomit, fresh urine, and chronic hopelessness. As I waited for the elevator, I scanned the community board, papered with 3" by 5" handwritten cards offering dubious housecleaning services or inquiring after cheap rooms.

  Someone had tacked up an incongruous flier promoting “realized teacher, enlightened wallah, and perfect embodiment of compassion, Maha Mudra.” Another siren of spirituality—California was full of them.

  The female figure was indistinct, as if standing behind a drop cloth of gauze. She gazed downward, long black tresses obscuring much of her face, scarlet lips and dark eyes mysterious behind a curtain of hair and filtered light. A red bindi marked her third eye with a confetti-size disc just above the brows. I was pretty sure maha mudra was a term used by Buddhists as well as Hindus. Either way, it had a nice ring to it.

  Still no elevator, so I took the stairs to the second floor. Apartment 216 was on the right-hand side, facing away from the street. The doorbell was an open wound plastered over with torn-off pieces of masking tape. I took the hint and knocked, but not before stepping to one side of the door—an ex-cop’s instinct when confronting an ex-soldier.

  No one answered. Given what I already knew about David Smith’s social skills, I wasn’t deterred. I upgraded from knocking to pounding.

  “Shut the fuck up!” someone yelled from behind a door farther along the corridor.

  I took a short break and then resumed my hammering.

  A dead bolt scraped and the door opened a crack, a thick chain still in place. I sidled partially into view.

  “Who th’hell are you? Go away.” Bad breath wafted in sulfurous fumes from a mouth full of untended teeth.

  “I’m the one who’s been calling. I’m not here to sell,” I said. “I’m here to buy.”

  The door closed.

  Inhale. Exhale. Inhale . . .

  He released the safety chain and opened the door, revealing a gloomy cave within. I stepped inside.

  Dave Smith was a rheumy-eyed wreck of a man. His cheeks and chin were covered with patchy gray stubble and his mouth leaked at the corners. A piece of twine held up stained khakis. His sleeveless undershirt was the dull color that Julie insists comes with cheap laundry soap and the refusal to wash whites separately. I glanced down. You can tell a lot about a person from his shoes. His were black leather, thick and clunky, like cop shoes. His left foot was at least one size larger than his right.

  I switched to breathing through my mouth, trying to be unobtrusive, though a part of me felt repelled.

  At the police academy, we were taught to sympathize with our less-fortunate fellows, but never to empathize. Empathy could get into your bones. Empathy could break you.

  But empathy is also a close relative of compassion, and both are central tenets of Buddhism. And at the monastery, we were taught to cultivate empathy, not avoid it. Sympathy might be a safe response, but empathy was a powerful spiritual tool.

  I felt past my resistance toward the collection of smells and disappointments before me, the mass of unhealed sores and unaddressed rage. I allowed this fallen soldier’s pain to be a reflection of my own. I wore his wounded skin, for just a moment.

  Tashi deley, I thought: I honor the greatness within you.

  He straightened his shoulders and hitched his pants, as if he sensed the change in my attitude.

  “Corporal Smith,” I said. “I appreciate you letting me come inside.”

  He waved at a couple of worn wingback chairs, their upholstered arms shiny and frayed with age. The blinds were drawn and the room murky, although a thin slot of light underlined the windowsills, hinting at a brighter world outside. I sank into one dank armchair. Hopefully the stuffing wasn’t colonized by carpet beetles or worse.

  My eyes adjusted.

  The entire apartment was no bigger than a few hundred square feet. Brown wall-to-wall carpeting turned into yellowish linoleum floor tiles in the kitchen area and bathroom. I couldn’t see into the bedroom, nor did I wish to.

  “Want water or something? I’m outta beer.”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  Dave walked to the other chair, his gait rolling, as if crossing a ship’s pitching deck. He lowered himself into a sitting position. One pant leg hitched up, and I saw a metal pylon where an ankle should be. That explained the bigger shoe. I had found his disability, at least the most visible one.

  He caught me looking. “Didn’t lose the leg in ’Nam. Lost it over here. Type 2 diabetes. Goddamn Agent Orange, the gift that keeps on giving.” He tugged his pant cuff over the prosthesis. “Why are you here?” he asked.

  “My name is Tenzing Norbu. I’m a private detective, and I’m hoping you can connect me with your son Robert, or Bobby.”

  He stared at the brown carpet.

  This wasn’t an interrogation, but I let the silence build between us anyway. He’d talk when it got to be too much. People almost always did.

  “Haven’t spoken to him in years,” he finally said. “Not since the day he turned eighteen. Outta here like a bat outta hell and that was that.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, it’s my own fucking fault. I wouldn’t want me for a father either. Why’re you looking for him?”

  I didn’t feel comfortable bringing Kim into this discussion.

  “It’s a work matter,” I said. “I’ve been hired to
locate his whereabouts. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

  “Not a clue,” he said. “But if you do run across him, tell him his old man’s still a loser, and proud of it.”

  “And he hasn’t been in touch since?”

  “You callin’ me a liar?”

  “No. I was just hoping that you might . . .”

  “You sure you don’t want some water or something?”

  “No, that’s not . . .”

  He limped into the kitchen. He returned with an AR-15 pointed straight at my heart.

  “Easy,” I said.

  “My ex sent you, didn’t she?” Dave may have had one gimpy leg, but both gun hands seemed to work just fine. “She turned our two kids against me. And now she’s after my money? Well fuck that bitch. And fuck you.”

  His left hand slid back the charging handle and freed it with a snick. He’d chambered a deadly round. How ironic—a deadbeat dad I wasn’t even looking for was about to shoot me for finding him.

  My outsides froze, but my inner ironist kept right on going.

  At least this is California. At least he only has 10 rounds at point-blank range to hit the bull’s-eye.

  Speaking of eyes, his were rheumy, but also, I now saw, clouded, offering a possible reprieve. I was counting on cataracts. If I was wrong, I was dead. My right hand inched into my right pocket. My fingers found wood. I clasped the walnut grip. The feel of the snub nose calmed me. I could shoot him through my pocket, if it came to that.

  “Corporal Smith, your ex-wife passed away three years ago,” I said. “But you’re right about one thing. I wasn’t telling you the full truth.”

  His eyes narrowed. He licked his lips.

  “I’m doing this for your daughter, for Kim.”

  “Kim?” He seemed confused. “Why?”

  “Because Kim works for me, and I’ve come to care deeply about her. Because she asked me for help. Because she deserves to see her big brother again.”

  His grip wavered.

  “I made a commitment to her to find him, a commitment I plan on keeping. Don’t do something you’ll regret, Corporal. I’m not your enemy.”

  “Well, shit.” He lowered his weapon and sat heavily. He stood the rifle next to his chair.

  “Sure you don’t want to engage the safety?”

  “No need,” he said. “Empty”

  I let go of the AirLite’s trigger.

  “Story of my life,” he added, to no one in particular.

  Near-death experiences, even those based on false assumptions, take their toll on the body. Sweat beaded my upper lip and my throat was parched, but no way was I asking for water. The airless room was suddenly intolerable. I stood. “Well, if there isn’t anything else.” I held out my hand. “Thanks anyway, Corporal Smith.” After a moment, he shook it.

  As he limped me to the door, a thought hit me.

  “You say your son left on his birthday? So that would mean June . . . ?”

  “Thirteenth. Bobby was born under a bad sign—Friday the thirteenth, 1986. June, like you said. Both my childr—” he said, shut the thought down, and ushered me out. He was done.

  The carpet in the dark corridor was sticky underfoot. Behind me, the dead bolt engaged with a click of finality.

  Or not.

  Before I reached the stairwell I heard Dave’s door open again.

  “Try the navy.”

  “The navy?”

  “Yeah. After he ran off, I found a computer printout in his bedroom about that naval air station up there at Lemoore. Bobby always did like playing soldiers.” Dave shrugged. “Of course, once he figured out his old man was army, he switched to navy. Kid was obsessed with fighter planes in high school, ‘Rough Raiders,’ shit like that. All he wanted was to see them Super Hornets in action. He begged me to take him to one of their air shows.”

  “And did you?”

  “Nah. I was much too busy messing up my life. That air show was the last damn thing he threw in my face.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Could it be that easy?

  With over a decade to reinvent his life, Bobby Smith had a big head start. Statistics were not on my side. He could be anywhere, doing just about anything. He could be dead. But I now had a date of birth, a strong hunch, and Green Tara as part of my arsenal. I knew something about reinvention as a young man, about pursuing a lifelong dream once you were free to do so.

  Ask your heart. What does it truly long for?

  All it took was one Yoda. Hopefully Bobby had encountered his own. But either way, if I were the 18-year-old Bobby sick to death of my chaotic life and self-destructive, self-pitying father, I knew what I’d have done. I’d have taken a direct route to a sanctuary of order, one that also held the key to my hoped-for future.

  I’d have enlisted in the navy, with the goal of becoming a fighter pilot. Chosen the way of commitment.

  Back in the car, I grabbed my phone and fired up my digital Dr. Watson, also known as Dr. Google. I scouted and researched, letting intuition take the lead, and soon entered the previously unknown, at least to me, world of the Lemoore Naval Air Station. Training facility of elite military aviators. Home of numerous strike fighter squadrons. If I was right, Bobby would be familiar to these men and women. If I was lucky, he might even have become a member of a squadron, a pilot of his own Super Hornet, and commander of his destiny.

  If not, I could always drive home and begin the search anew, using his birth date as a starting point.

  It was too late in the day to drive to Lemoore and apply my Tibetan charm in person. In any case, this quest of mine was more a matter of sentiment than protocol. I needed to find a way to circumvent the front office of the Naval Station if I was going to get anywhere.

  My thumbs wheeled and tapped the phone screen, pulled by an invisible magnet deeper and deeper into the world of FA-18s, of fleet air defense and fighter escorts.

  I tapped and read, tapped and read, scrolling through aviation history, skimming chains of command, until my eye snagged on the words family members. My thumbs paused.

  The title OMBUDSMAN dominated the page. I had no idea what an ombudsman was. It sounded like some sort of meditative garden gnome. But if the ombudsman’s domain included family members, he or she was for me.

  Lemoore Naval Station’s ombudsman had a name—Mpingo Draper—and a telephone number with a 559 area code. I didn’t hesitate—this was definitely the kind of call a person could make after hours.

  “Hell-lo!” Warm, female, almost certainly African-American.

  “Ms. Draper?”

  “Honey, it’s Mpingo, and just so you know, I’m too old, too black, and too set in my ways to answer to Mizz. How can I help you? And make it snappy, I got marinara sauce cooking.”

  “My name is Tenzing Norbu. I’m a private detective, and I’ve been on a crazy chase all day trying to find a missing sibling. Eventually, it’s led me to you.”

  “Well shoot, now you got my attention.”

  “How long have you been ombudsman, err, woman for the naval station?”

  “Man suits me fine. Since 1998. Why?”

  “That’s great. So, I’m guessing you’ve probably gotten to know quite a few pilots over the years . . . ?”

  “Son, you need to spit it out. I could die at any moment.”

  “Have you ever run across a navy pilot by the name of Bobby Smith? He’s in his late twenties—he’ll be thirty come June thirteenth, to be specific.”

  The long pause caused my heart to speed up.

  “Why?”

  “My client Kim Nordquist is his younger sister. She wants very much to find him.”

  “Kim Nordquist, you say?”

  “That’s correct.”

  Another silence, a brief one. “Well, what do you know? Cheeto’s got a baby sister.”

  “Sorry, Cheeto?”

  “That’s what his squadron calls him. That man eats so many Cheetos he bleeds bright orange.”

  I had to make su
re I wasn’t misunderstanding.

  “Are you saying Bobby Smith is actually stationed in Lemoore?”

  “That’s what I’m saying. And so we’re clear, it’s Lieutenant Robert Smith of the Fighting-14 Tophatters. He’s an instructor—part of the training program—not to mention slot pilot for the F/A-18 air shows. The boy can flat-out fly. This is Cheeto’s second fleet tour, but first time here. He and his family live on post.”

  “He’s married?”

  “Oh, yes. To Ramona. Their daughter Kimmy’s in Kindergarten. She’s sharp as a tack. Already speaks two languages.”

  “Kimmy . . .”

  “Long for Kim. He told me once she was named for his little sister. That’s how I knew you weren’t blowing smoke.”

  I fist-pumped the air. I had found Kim’s brother. He was alive, and he was well.

  “You want me to tell him, have him surprise his baby sister with a call?”

  “I think I’d better talk to him first,” I said. “Kim, too.”

  “How about I have him call you. This number good?”

  “Please.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “Just tell him it’s a family matter to do with his sister.”

  “You got it. And son, just so you know, I’m keeping you on file.”

  “Is that bad?”

  She chuckled. “We’re dealing with a chronic runaway right now. Captain’s daughter. Brittany’s back home at the moment. As of today. But her poor daddy’s blood pressure didn’t get the memo. I might need your help down the road.”

  Her breathing grew quiet, over the line.

  “You know,” Mpingo said, “usually the calls I get are full of woe. This one’s son is selling painkillers in Fresno. That one’s daughter wants to drop out of high school. Someone’s husband got caught messing with someone else’s wife. But this call . . .”

  “I know,” I said. “This is one of the good calls.”

  “I’ll let Bobby know,” Mpingo said. “You take care now.”

  The San Diego sky had grown dark, streetlamps blinking on without my noticing. I couldn’t see Dave Smith’s windows from here, but I imagined him sitting in his shadowed cave, too weighed down with disappointment to get up and switch on the lights.