Julie’s car pulled up at 7:30 on the dot. Good girl, a time-Nazi just like me. I added a mental check to the “Pro” column. As the bell sounded, Tank arched his back and ambled to the door.
“You behave,” I said as I opened it, and he ran off.
Julie was wearing tight black leggings, black leather boots, and a soft angora tunic the color of cream. She was carrying a cardboard box containing a blue enamel casserole, out of which wafted the rich scents of rosemary and stewed tomatoes. My saliva glands reminded me I had skipped lunch.
She set the box on the kitchen counter and held out her hand.
“Keys,” she said. For a horrifying moment I thought she wanted her own set of keys to my place. But then, “You still owe me a spin in your Mustang.”
She looked past me, and her eyes widened. Tank had deigned to poke his head around my bedroom door and check out the new visitor.
“Who’s this handsome fellow?” she crooned. She hunkered down on the floor and made a come-hither motion with her right hand. To my shock, Tank hithered right over. She scratched behind his ears. “Oh, yes, you are quite the Romeo, aren’t you?”
Tank rolled over and put all four limbs in the air.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Julie said. And then she did the same thing. I never knew a cat could actually look gobsmacked. He and I were both in big trouble.
Here’s what I learned about Julie on our second date: Her minestrone was undeniable proof that divinity can exist in edible form; creme brulee tasted even better when served by a curvaceous chef clad only in an apron; and holy shit, this woman was gifted handling a close-ratio, four-speed racing stick.
CHAPTER 20
I woke up calm and clear-headed. Any residual anger had been loved right out of me, and I savored the sense of spaciousness, the clarity of intent. Somehow, a plan had formed in my mind. I knew what I wanted to do, and I knew how I wanted to do it.
I glanced to my right. Julie faced away from me, asleep on her side. The dip from shoulder to hip was breathtaking, like the curved lines of a cello. I ran my palm along the slope and rise of her.
She rolled to face me. Her eyes were warm and direct, and clear as a bell I heard her thinking, “Who are you? Where did you come from?”-only from her, the questions were tinged with wonder. She snuggled closer, arranging my arm so it draped around her neck. She pressed her ear against my chest, and I could feel my heartbeat against her cheek.
“How did you end up in Los Angeles, Ten? It’s so unlikely.”
“A Lama sent me,” I said.
She raised her head. “I’m serious.”
“So am I,” I said. “Lama Serje Rinpoche Neysrung. Rinpoche’s a highly regarded spiritual leader, scholar, and teacher in my order. He traveled all over the United States in the 1980s, setting up dharma centers for His Holiness.”
I explained how I was 17 and in a high state of rebellion when Serje Rinpoche paid a surprise visit to our monastery.
Julie’s head rose and fell on my chest, as I breathed quietly, my heart remembering that day, the one that changed everything.
“I was a typical teenager, I guess, getting into one conflict after another with the three ruling lamas of the monastery.” I felt my voice tighten, along with my jaw. “One of them was my father.”
Julie shifted away, so she could see my eyes. I pulled her close again.
“Apa only ever had one goal for me: that I be the greatest Gelugpa scholar in all Tibetan monkdom. Just his luck, his only child seemed to have been born without the studious gene. He’d always tell me I was gifted with intelligence far beyond his, that if I only applied it I could be a great lama. That I was squandering my gifts with my childish rebellions. But I didn’t know how else to be. The truth is, I just hated it. I hated being a monk.”
I sat up, my stomach and chest tensing as long-buried resentments poked their heads out of my past.
“Tibetan monasteries are oppressive institutions, little fiefdoms, did you know that? Nothing is ever done by logic or reason or any kind of democratic process. It’s all about following the rules. In my monastery alone, there were more than two hundred we were supposed to remember, and obey. Rules that had been made over a thousand years ago. Only a handful of them even make sense anymore. ‘Extinguish candles before going to bed.’ Okay, that one makes sense. ‘Monks may only read sacred literature.’ I broke that one every night, and got busted for it at least once a month. Oh, and how about ‘A Monk must not jump, or swing his arms when walking’? Do you know how hard that is for a rambunctious eleven-year-old? My best friends, Yeshe and Lobsang, embraced their monastic life: the rules, the shaved heads, the red robes. I struggled at every turn.”
Julie laughed softly. I stiffened. Was she mocking me?
“What?”
“Nothing,” she said. “It’s just … people never think that, do they? That a monk might hate being a monk? We just assume it’s all bliss and enlightenment and peaceful navel-gazing. Poor thing. You were only a kid. It’s not like you could just quit your job.”
I felt my heart give a little flip.
She understood.
Then, just as quickly, it flipped the other way, into a defensive stance.
“It wasn’t that bad. I mean, I had two great friends, and all my needs were taken care of there. I had a roof over my head. Two meals a day.”
Julie put her hand over my mouth.
“Stop, Ten. It was that bad. Let me feel for you a moment, will you?”
I tried to appreciate her empathy, but I was relieved when she said, “Okay, so this … Rinpoche?
I nodded.
“This Rinpoche came for a visit and …”
“… and I think he spotted the tug-of-war going on inside me that day. In fact, I’m sure of it, because after he finished a long lecture on the importance of maintaining a disciplined practice, he pulled me aside. He told me he and my father had entered the Litang monastery in Tibet the same year. That they had been friends a long time. Then he asked if I had any questions for him. All I could think to ask was … was … whether he thought my father would ever be proud of me.” I swallowed.
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘Your father is the way he is. Do not ask for mangoes in a shoe store.’”
“I like that.”
“Well, at the time, it infuriated me. I thought it was just another glib aphorism, and I’d had my fill of them from my father. Rinpoche left soon after to spend time with His Holiness. But later that week, he came back. The whole monastery was abuzz with this second visit, coming as it did so close to the first. That night, my father sent for me. He told me Rinpoche had proposed a radical solution to the Tenzing Norbu dilemma: send me to the West to share the Dharma teachings with American teenagers. He’d contacted the Tibetan center he’d founded in Los Angeles, and they’d agreed to sponsor me-they had a special outreach program to introduce meditation to young people. I was to be a novice member of their team. I could continue my studies there, and postpone the decision to take my final vows. My father was quick to agree with this plan.” My voice hardened. “Of course he was. I was nothing more than an embarrassment to him by that point.”
Julie touched my cheek. I covered her hand with mine, and gently removed it. I didn’t want her touching my face, for some reason.
“It all happened very quickly. With an American mother, I could bypass all the immigration issues. Within six months I was living in a small back room in the Dharma center, earning my room and board as a teacher, wondering if I’d ever belong anywhere again.”
I fell silent, remembering how hard I tried to be a good teacher of the Dharma, and how hypocritical I felt. Young Los Angeles seekers took one look at my robe and shaved head and set me on a spiritual pedestal that bore no relation to my actual inner world.
I may have felt rebellious at the monastery, but here, I felt like a sham.
“I was adequate as a meditation teacher,” I said. “But inside, I was dying. Still
, I thought I was hiding it well, until one day one of the team leaders, a psychologist, took me aside and asked me an important question, one I had never dared to ask myself: what did my heart truly long to do?”
“Another guardian angel.”
I smiled. “I guess you could say that. Anyway, the instant he asked, the answer flew out of my mouth: ‘A detective. I want to be a police detective.’”
Julie nuzzled my neck. “I’m loving this, but can we take it into the kitchen? I’m starving.”
“Almost done,” I said. “I kept teaching meditation, but at the same time, I got my GED, and somehow landed a part-time summer job as an administrative aide at the Parker Center-that’s the old police headquarters downtown. It was a revelation, you know?”
Julie pushed up on her elbow to watch my face.
“In the monastery, elders would regularly throw major tantrums if we didn’t wear our robes just so. At the Parker Center, I watched uniformed cops meet terrible, sometimes even life-threatening, situations on a daily basis with grace, patience, and gritty humor. I learned more about practical spirituality in the real world during one summer in law enforcement than I ever had in the monastery. The week I turned twenty-one, I turned in my robe and entered the police academy.”
“And here you are,” Julie smiled.
“And here I am.” I felt a little tug of discomfort.
“What are you thinking?” she said, picking up on it.
“I was just wondering if Rinpoche knew I’d end up here.” I took in her naked curves. “Well, not here, here, but you know, that I’d end up in law enforcement.”
“You never asked him?’
“Not really. A few years ago I found out he was coming to Los Angeles to give a public lecture in a big church in Pasadena on ‘Buddhism and Democracy.’ I worked up the courage to go. The church was packed, but he spotted me in the audience, I know he did. Whether he recognized me is another thing. I was six years older, in uniform, and my hair was grown out.”
I smiled, remembering Rinpoche’s quick, knowing grin before he continued with his lecture.
“So, what about your father?”
My smile died. “What about him?”
“What does he have to say about your new life?” Her words lanced my good feeling with shocking speed. I felt betrayed by the question. My voice hardened into flint.
“My new life is none of his business. And my father is none of yours.”
Julie’s cheeks reddened. She got out of bed and started pulling on her clothes, avoiding my eyes. I reached for my own jeans and shirt.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “Sore subject.”
“That’s okay,” she said, but I could hear in her voice that it wasn’t.
“Do you want some coffee?”
“No, thank you,” she said. “I need to get home. I’m working again tonight.”
I followed her to the front door.
“I’ll call you, okay?” I said.
“Okay,” she said.
I hugged her. Her body was rigid. She left without another word. As she drove off, Tank stiff-walked past me, into the kitchen. Even his tail was indignant.
“I messed up,” I told him, but he’d already ascertained that. It wasn’t the first time, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.
CHAPTER 21
I had invested in a new pair of binoculars, Barska Gladiators with a built-in zoom, and I could see individual droplets of sweat dripping off the forehead of the farmworker I had in my sights. I’d taken up position on a hilltop across from both the pig farm and the cult. For the past 20 minutes, the worker had been engaged in the highly challenging task of washing Barsotti’s car.
His green one-piece coveralls were tucked into steel-toed rubber boots the color of caramel, or brown muck. The tips were pale yellow, like they’d been dunked in clotted cream. I took out my digital camera and clicked as the worker scrubbed at the globules of mud under the wheels.
It must have rained here last night, and the road up to the farm was full of muddy potholes. Under today’s blazing sun, steam rose visibly off the ground. I didn’t want to think about how bad that steam must smell-the only thing worse than working on a pig farm on a hot day must be working on a pig farm on a hot, humid day.
I closed my eyes, willing my mind to stop dancing around the subject I so wanted to avoid. I had hurt Julie’s feelings this morning, and if I wanted to see her again, I probably needed to figure out why.
But, but, but she had no business …
No, Tenzing. No buts. This is an old pattern, my friend, and you need to take responsibility for it.
I snapped off a few more shots of the farm from different angles. Then I turned and did the same with the Children of Paradise yurts.
I swapped back to the binoculars. The Mercedes gleamed like polished onyx, once again spotless. It must be nice to have people wash your cars for you. I watched as the worker dumped his cleaning materials into the back of a dusty green Chevy pickup. Back to the camera: Click. Click. Click.
I should cook for Julie next time. Maybe dumplings are the way back into her heart.
Vince Barsotti bustled out of the building and circled his car, inspecting it. He must have liked what he saw, because he handed over several bills. The worker bowed and scraped, so I was guessing they were tens, maybe even twenties. Then Barsotti started talking, windmilling his arms for emphasis. He wagged his jaw for several minutes, and his employee kept nodding, mouthing Si, si, si. Finally, like a Roman emperor deciding a gladiator’s fate, Barsotti bestowed a definitive thumbs-up gesture on his employee, and climbed into his gleaming chariot.
Barsotti kept it pretty slow leaving the parking lot, carefully avoiding the muddy potholes on the pitted lane that led to the main road. I expected him to turn left, toward the freeway. He turned right, taking the narrow dirt road up the hill to the Children of Paradise.
Well, well, well.
Barsotti parked at the fence and tapped his horn a couple of times. Brother Eldon came out of his yurt and lumbered down the hill to the car, only today’s Brother Eldon had ditched the robe. His T-shirt was tight across the chest and loose over his jeans. I focused my sights on his exposed linebacker neck, with its distinctive tat. There was an old ex-con who lived in a shoe. Thanks to Mike, I’d been brushing up on my nursery rhymes. I moved to the ink on Brother Eldon’s arm, the crude sword with its swirling, leafy scrollwork.
Barsotti suddenly opened the car door and got nose to nose with Brother Eldon. Both appeared spitting mad. I tried to read their lips, but they were too far away. After a few moments, things cooled down. Barsotti got back in the car, leaned across the seat, and opened the passenger door. Brother Eldon climbed in next to him.
This was not good. I stuffed my gear in my backpack, ready to make a mad dash to my car. But they didn’t go anywhere. My expensive new binoculars were useless. I cursed the hot sun, tinted windows, and Barsotti’s airconditioning.
After ten minutes, it was over. Brother Eldon jumped out and stomped up the hill. Barsotti drove back to the pig farm. I stayed where I was, squinting under the hot sun, completely in the dark.
So they knew each other. Big deal. For all I knew, Barsotti was just relaying my own interest in the cult, like any good neighbor might. Beyond nothing, I now had zip.
I pulled into the hospital’s patient pickup area just as a large male nurse wheeled John D down the walkway to the curb. The attendant eased him into the front seat. He grunted a thank you to the nurse and a good morning to me.
“No muscle car today?” he commented.
“Not today.” I flashed on Julie’s glowing face last night as she shifted gears smoothly in the empty beach parking lot. It was her idea to practice driving the Mustang there first, before taking it into traffic.
She might just be one in a million.
“Well, I appreciate you coming all the way out here,” John D said.
“No problem. I stopped off on the way and spied on your neighbo
rs for a little while.”
I described the heated conversation between Barsotti and Brother Eldon.
“Any idea what those two might be fighting about?”
He shook his head.
“How about yesterday? Any idea who might be behind that?”
He shook his head again, and yawned.
“So what actually happened?”
He sat back and closed his eyes.
“John D,” I warned, “if you don’t tell me exactly what happened, I’m making you hitchhike home.”
He chuckled, and opened his eyes.
“I’m just messing with you, Ten,” he said. “I’ll tell you what I can. I was out of cash, so I stopped to get some from my bank’s ATM, across the street from Dot’s Double Good Diner-that’s where I always get breakfast. I was about to cross the street when these two guys ran out of the alley and jumped me so quick I didn’t know what hit me. Or who. One of ’em grabbed my money right out of my hand, and the other one knocked me down and started boot-kicking me in the ribs. I heard someone yell from across the street. Good thing. I think the plan was to finish me off. I guess I passed out. Next thing I know, some paramedic is strapping an oxygen mask over my face.”
I asked him a few more questions, but he had nothing more to add, and I could see he really was getting sleepy. When we got to his house, I helped him into his bedroom and got him stretched out on the bed. He was sound asleep before I got his work boots unlaced.
As I left his house, something snagged the corner of my vision. I crossed the yard to his little patch of medicinal weed. The marijuana plants had all been uprooted, the earth around them trampled. At first I thought maybe it was raccoons, but if so they were fairly selective. They had left the flowerbeds and nearby tomato plants untouched. Unless there was a gang of dope-smoking voles around here, this was caused by a human. A human filled with spite or greed, who neither knew nor cared about John D’s pain.
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