“Jesus,” Bill said, “you sound just like Martha. You know what? I need this like a fucking hole in the head.” He shoved upright and his weight tipped the kitchen table, knocking over his mug. A brown river of lukewarm coffee snaked across the wooden top and dripped onto my just-mopped floor.
“Ah, shit,” he said, “I’m sorry.” His face reddened. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for my entire fucking existence, okay?!”
Who was the asshole, now? He came to you for relief, not more grief.
I moved to Bill’s side and took him by the shoulders.
“I’m the one who should apologize,” I said. “I’m not being much of a friend.”
He twisted from my grip, his face wan. “Let me stretch out on your deck for a little while. I can’t think straight.”
I followed him onto the deck, dragged the chaise lounge over to a shady spot on the far side, and left to find a pillow. By the time I got back, Bill was already snoring, Tank curled at his feet, keeping careful watch.
CHAPTER 6
I was way too riled up to take the rest I so desperately needed.
I changed into swimming trunks, running shoes, and a T-shirt; grabbed a beach towel; fed the four-legged family member; and soon was slaloming the Shelby down Topanga Canyon to the coast. Once I hit the PCH, I aimed north for Zuma. I used the remaining 20 minutes of driving to alternate deep breathing with visualizing an empty parking space, just one please, and just for me. As I pulled into the jammed lot, a slightly rusted open-air Wrangler, teal blue, crammed with lean-muscled young men and bristling with boogie boards, reversed out of a slot. I pounced. After appeasing the uniformed parking attendant god with the peak season offering of $10, I crossed shimmering asphalt to the curved expanse of south-facing beach.
The midday sun fell on the Pacific, shattering into small shards of light. I stepped onto a flat scimitar of sand littered with fragrant bodies, some fully sprawled on towels, others poking tentative limbs out from under striped umbrellas. A headless baby wailed, trapped within the too-tight onesie his or her mother was trying to tug over his or her body. Farther up the beach a group of teenagers—taut, flawless, and four to a side—leapt and punched a seamed white ball over a net as they traded grunts and cheers.
I plotted my course. Zuma is a two-mile curve end to end, an ideal running distance. I started with a leisurely jog. As I traversed the damp, packed sand that lies close, but not too close, to the water, I gradually accelerated my pace, dodging boogie-boarders and castle-building tots when necessary. To my right, a series of light-blue lifeguard stations, like sentinels on wooden stilts, marked my route.
I left any thought of Bosnia, or Bill, far, far behind. Which was the whole point.
By the time I reached the far end of the crescent, I had warmed up nicely. I wheeled around and proceeded to execute a series of 50-yard wind sprints all the way back to the first lifeguard station. I stripped to my swimming trunks. As I waded into the waves, my skin seemed to shrink-wrap around my bones, and I estimated the water temperature to be just north of 60 degrees. For 15 minutes I churned through the chilly water, trying to stay out in front of my coagulating blood cells. Back on shore, I labored through 40 push-ups and 40 lunges as best I could, given the soft surface.
I returned to the Mustang for a beach towel and finally claimed my own personal patch of sand for a well-earned rest before heading home. I closed my eyes. Sun-sculpted flames painted the inside of my lids red-orange. My muscles soaked in warmth. Merciful sleep beckoned with multiple outstretched arms, like the goddess Kali.
My cell phone rang.
Shit.
I rolled onto my stomach and squinted at the screen. The area code was 213, no one I knew.
“Hello?”
“Yo, G-Force here. This my bro Ten?”
My brain flipped through its database of names and came up blank. Still, I was sure I’d heard this voice before.
“I’m sorry, who did you say this was?”
“‘Who did you say this was?’” he mimicked with a high voice. Then, “Told you. G-Force.”
“Okay. Well. Do I know you?”
“Ought to,” he said. “You busted my mofo ass enough.”
I sat up, recognition dawning. “Godfrey. Godfrey Chambers.”
Loud laughter crackled over my phone. He said, “Heh-heh-heh. Who I was, but not who I am.”
“Ah.”
“G-Force, now. Dropped the old handle up at Pelican; name was holding me back. Two gangstas come at you—one name Godfrey and the other G-Force—who you gonna respect?”
“Point taken,” I said. I’ve faced my own challenges with the name Tenzing Norbu, especially at the Police Academy. Add Lama to the front of it and you might as well be wearing a neon sign saying “Bust My Balls.” “What’s up?”
“So, I been down from Pelican Bay close to a year now. Doing good, too. Sober, piss tests clean, seeing my PO every month, even got a straight job if you can believe that shit.”
“Good for you,” I said, and meant it. Any stint of rehabilitation, no matter how brief, was cause for congratulations. I shook beach grit out of my towel, shoved my feet into my shoes, and headed for the car. I paused, midstep.
“How in the world did you find me?”
“Caught your new act on TV a while back. Damn, Ten, you really smoke them two dudes? I didn’t know you had it in you! Anyway, saw you was retired from the po-lice, took it from there.”
“Okay, and … ?”
“Yeah, so, I got some money comin’ to me from my uncle, see, but the insurance company’s holdin’ it tighter than a church lady clutch her purse.”
“How much money are we talking about, Godf—G-Force?”
“Thirty-three grand.”
I didn’t believe him. Why would Godfrey Chambers even be bothering about $33,000? He read my silence correctly.
“You thinkin’ ain’t much, not for G-Force, ain’t you?”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
“It’s a shitload to me these days.”
“I find that hard to believe. You must have put some away when you were slinging dope. Fifty wasn’t even a good week’s take for you back then.” “I know, man, but that was then. My number two guy flat cleaned me out while I was pumpin’ iron. He off in Costa Fuckin’ Rica now, spending my millions.”
“That’s too bad,” I said.
“’Preciate that.”
I climbed into my car and a silver Mercedes-Benz immediately pulled alongside and hovered, like a hungry shark.
“So, what you gettin’ paid these days, Ten?”
“Five grand a day, three-day minimum.”
He whistled. “Who’s the playa now? You doin’ okay! Too rich for my sorry ass, for damn sure.”
“I’m not complaining.”
The driver of the Mercedes honked his horn.
“Hang on. I’m putting you on speaker now.” I placed the phone on my lap, backed out of the space, and pulled away. The Benz slid in right behind me, and the driver gave me the finger. I wondered what gods he prayed to and hoped they believed in dispensing karma.
The phone sat silent. Maybe G-Force won’t ask.
I sure as hell wasn’t going to offer.
“So what do you say, Ten? Help a brother out?”
I made a petulant face at the phone. But something stopped me from an automatic no. On the one hand, if I was going to do pro bono work, an ex-con wasn’t my first choice. On the other hand, if he was, in fact, staying clean and sober, he deserved a helping hand. Jean, my favorite waitress at Langer’s and a member of the recovery tribe, was big on the importance of being of service to struggling addicts. She’d never forgive me for booting G-Force to the curb.
“Okay.”
“Whoa. You sayin’ yes?”
“Yes.”
“’Preciate that,” he repeated. Someone in his life, maybe his AA sponsor if he had one, was teaching G-Force healthier habits, such as expressing gratitude.
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“What would you like me to do with the insurance company?”
“Whatever it is private detectives do, man. Get me my money. Shake ’em down!”
Somewhere out there in the ether I pictured an anonymous agent red-flagging this conversation: Tenzing Norbu. July 5th. Requested by ex-con, Crips member, and known dealer of drugs to “shake ’em down.” In my few short years as a private detective I’d already rattled several different branches of law enforcement—city, county, state, and federal. I was a wiretapping dream come true.
“Isn’t this a job for a lawyer?”
“Me an’ lawyers don’ get along. They take more than they do, feel me? Ten, I need that thirty-three K to finance my new operation. I got an investor who’ll match my scratch once I get hold of my money. Then G-Force back in business.”
More red flags, these ones mine. The G-Force I knew had been employed exclusively in the dope trade since he was in the sixth grade. “Exactly what kind of business are we talking about, G?” My voice was tight with disapproval.
He erupted with laughter. “Heh-heh. Listen to the man. Talkin’ about a gym, bro! I’m goin’ into the personal trainin’ business. I even got a tagline I went and got registered! Check it out: The G-Force Workout: Pump Iron Like You in Pelican Bay!”
Well … yeah! Grammar aside, I could definitely see the approach catching on with gang wannabes stretching from Compton to Beverly Hills. They all dream of doing time, or at least of having done it; it’s the height of gangster chic. Of course for those unlucky or unskilled enough to actually end up incarcerated, the romance wears off quickly, but culturally G-Force might be onto something.
“I coulda financed my gym the first month I was out if I’d gotten back in the game, but I took myself a vow: I ain’t never doin’ that shit again. Never.”
“So what are you doing?”
“Don’ laugh. I been workin’ at a car wash.”
I laughed, but under my breath. Before we sent him up to Pelican, G had a private fleet of black Escalades.
“So you’ve been washing cars for a year?”
“Naw, I mostly dry ’em. Machine do the washin’.”
“Minimum wage?”
“Yeah, but they’s money in tips. You do a good job, man slip you a five if he’s feelin’ generous, a dollar if he ain’t. Shit adds up. On a good day I take home a Benjamin, sometimes more. Enough to eat on. But it ain’t gonna open no gym.”
G-Force was not only rehabilitating himself—he was trying to make the shift from employee to entrepreneur, only legally this time. To start fresh. Be his own boss.
Just like me.
“Anyway, this ain’t charity, Ten. I know you too rich for me, but this a real opportunity for you, too.”
“How’s that?”
“May be straight, but I’m still the G-Force. Got information to trade, y’feel me? I still got homies connected to just about every decent-sized crew in town. You get me my uncle’s money, and I give you a year of high-class informant shit ab-so-lutely free!”
In his previous incarnation, Godfrey Chambers, or G-Force, or whatever he wanted to call himself, was an unusually reliable criminal informant for Bill and me, even as a low-level courier. He’d never steered us wrong on a piece of intelligence and helped us bust up a couple of crews before acquiring an insatiable taste for the deadly product he was helping get off the streets. Soon, his habit trumped every other concern. He clammed up, disappeared, and eventually resurfaced as a mid- to high-level dealer with his own crew and a bad drug habit that led to seriously sloppy mistakes. Next stop, Pelican Bay.
I considered his offer to inform again briefly—who knows, he might be even more useful now. A few years in state prison can up a man’s street credibility big time.
Good sense prevailed.
“Not a good idea, G-Force. The day I find myself needing that kind of information and you find yourself providing it is the day we’re both not where we should be.”
He grunted, though I couldn’t tell if that meant he agreed.
“Look, I can give you a day or two tops on this, okay? Free of charge. That should be sufficient. If I don’t get anywhere, I’ll hook you up with my friend Clancy—he’s just getting started and charges a lot less.”
“Okay. But I don’t like owing.”
“Think of it as payback for your help in the past.”
I was almost home by now, and my stomach tightened at the thought of Bill, asleep on my deck, surrounded by his own world of trouble.
“Okay, man,” G-Force said. “I can’t seem to get no traction with these people. I’m thinkin’ it has to do with the particular color of my skin, but what do I know?”
“Text me the details, and I’ll see what I can do.” I waited for it, counting inside, smiling … three … four …
“’Preciate that.”
CHAPTER 7
The note was stuck under the coffee carafe, and vintage Bill:
Off to a meeting with the Usual Assholes.
Thanks for not kicking my butt more than necessary.
I’ll call you once I’ve figured out what the fuck I’m doing and where the fuck I’m sleeping tonight.
B
I was betting he’d be back at home this evening—maybe not in his own bed, but at least somewhere on the premises. Looking after a couple of amped-up redheads by herself all day would hopefully put Martha in a forgiving mood.
Tank wandered out from under the kitchen table, his demeanor casual, as in, “Oh, you’re home? When did you get back?”
I wasn’t fooled. The tip of his tail was swishing up a storm and his whiskers lay flat against his face.
“Sorry. I’m on it, buddy.”
As I emptied a can of beef-and-chicken into his bowl, Tank’s nose repeatedly bumped against my ankle, encouraging me not to lose my train of thought. I set the dish on the floor.
“Lunch is served.”
I toasted myself two pieces of sourdough rye and constructed a layered sandwich of sliced avocado, Big Beef tomato, and Persian cucumber. In a flash of inspiration, I used some leftover cream cheese and dill spread as a kind of mortar, to keep the cucumber slices from shooting out both sides with every bite, like organic shrapnel. I washed lunch down with the last of the coffee, and then I washed myself down in the shower. I dressed for the workday in my official summer uniform: jeans, black T-shirt, and sandals.
One last task. I returned to the bathroom and ran a brush over my damp hair. Uh-oh. Rubbing at the steamy mirror, I created a small, streaked circle of visibility to double-check, and confirmed. My hair was starting to do that “hedge” thing, the one that led directly to the “felt-tipped pen” thing if I didn’t watch out. Time to give my lady with the clippers a call.
The purple shadows under my eyes reminded me that I’d been up for hours, but before my brain started in on why, I again set the whole Bohannon drama aside. There was nothing I could, or should, do until Bill knew his own mind, and who knew when that would be? Anyway, pro bono or not, a job was calling.
I checked my iPhone. G-Force had texted me a name—Roland Conway, Jr.—plus the name of an insurance brokerage company, Conway Associates Insurance, Inc. I’d never heard of either of them, which meant precisely nothing.
I crossed the living room to my desk, which was angled oddly in order to face the front windows. This was highly feng shui according to my first ex-girlfriend, Charlotte, aka She-Who-Hates-Cats. Or was it Mike who made me do it? I forgot, but either way I’d come to love the off-kilter arrangement. I fired up my computer. My office was now officially open, my work underway.
I goosed my research assistant, Mr. Google, into action. He quickly located a website, and with two more clicks offered up a thumbnail picture of Roland Conway, Jr., Senior Adjuster, Life Insurance Claims Department, at the Westlake Village office. He looked to be about 40 years old and had been an employee of Conway Associates Insurance, Inc. (CAII) for 16 years. I used my mouse to enlarge his image. Sandy-blond hair
fell in wisps over a high, domed forehead. The eyes were pale blue, somewhat watery. The wide smile, displaying teeth as straight and whitewashed as fence pickets, almost compensated for a weak chin. The Buddha says the human mind automatically responds to external stimuli in one of three ways: attraction, aversion, or neutrality. I tend to lean toward aversion, if I’m honest, and true to form, I disliked Conway on sight. Or maybe I was just triggered by the American flag pinned to his lapel. In my experience, such public exhibits of patriotism more often than not camouflage a private distrust of almost everything else.
I returned to the main site and called the office number displayed.
“Conway Associates. How may I help you?” a female voice chirped.
“I’d like to speak to Roland Conway, please.”
“Senior or Junior?”
“Junior.”
“Whom shall I say is calling?”
How refreshing. Someone at CAII actually insisted on correct grammar.
“Tenzing Norbu.”
“May I ask to what this call refers, Mr. Norbu?”
Unheard of. No dangling participles, and not a single stumble over my name. The language stickler in me, inherited from my Tibetan Buddhist father—monks can debate a single phrase of the Buddha’s for months—and nurtured over the years by my own singular passion for clarity of speech cheered, even as the constantly corrected child in me balked.
“I’m a private investigator. I have been hired to investigate a claim. I’d prefer to leave it at that.”
“May I put you on hold for a moment?”
I counted long, slow breaths, and had completed a third exhale when a deep voice, incongruous if paired with the weak chin and pale eyes, came on the line.
“This is Roland Conway.”
“Thanks for taking my call, Mr. Conway. I’ll come right to the point. A customer of yours retained me to look into a problem he’s having getting a claim paid.”
“All right. What is the claimant’s name?”
The Fourth Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (A Tenzing Norbu Mystery series Book 4) Page 4