The same summer Bill and Mila conceived their ill-conceived son.
When have you felt this before?
Slap, slap, slap. My memory dealt out situations like playing cards, one after another. All the times I’d overridden my intuition, let myself be conned by a woman into doing something I didn’t want to do. And whoopee, what a payoff—a kiss on the forehead or cheek, first from my mother, and later, from whomever the girlfriend du jour happened to be. Maybe not much of a reward, but enough to apply a tiny drop of lubricant to that spot, deep inside the machinery, where the guilt was grinding away. The trouble is, a drop’s never enough to smooth the gears. That’s how guilt works.
My phone beeped again, reminding me I’d never checked the actual text.
WILL STOP BY TO INSTALL THE ONION ROUTER (TOR) AT SIX P.M. MIKE.
For a second, my mind flailed, until the case came back to me: Sasha, Agvan Supplies, and the website, complete with mystery currency and impossible fruit.
OK, SEE YOU THERE.
I left the church, and its promise of ease, and pulled onto the 101 North, conflict pummeling my brain. Part of me wanted to go straight back to Martha’s and yell “I’m not going. You have no right to ask,” an impulse promptly muscled aside by, “You can’t do that, Ten—a deal’s a deal.” The fracas grew even more complicated: Was the agreement I’d made with Martha even valid if I consented while in the trance of an old pattern called “overriding myself to please a woman”?
The dull throb of an emerging headache formed, back where my neck muscles joined my head.
Not again.
I rolled my shoulders up and back, trying to shrug off the kinks. I’d be home soon.
My tires crunched on the gravel leading to my house, as yet another possibility waved for attention from below the surface arguments, the part that was bored with work, that longed, like Bill, for some real action. There exists a rogue inside me, a rebel. He’d set off the car alarm this morning. He wanted to do something beyond chasing down someone’s pedigreed Chihuahua. “Say what you like,” this rebel now whispered, “but if the universe, in the form of Bill and Martha Bohannon, is offering Bosnia, who are you to argue?”
But was his whisper “Cosmic Insight,” or “Bullshit Justification”?
This was useless, and I was growing more and more confused.
Decisions don’t come easily to me. They never have. My tutor at Dorje Yidam, Lama Sonam, would be the first to admit that I tested his patience like no other novice. My problem seems to be one of hyper-perception—for every reason to swing in one direction, my brain will always, instantly, suggest an equally strong reason to swing back the other way. One day Lama Sonam, probably out of desperation, blurted out, “Lama Tenzing! The mind is not reliable! But the heart? The heart knows not how to cause harm. Let the heart decide.”
“How?” I remember asking.
And he’d introduced me to my first-ever conversation with my heart.
Now I went straight out to the deck, and sat facing the canyon. The sky was overcast, the ocean just a distant promise.
I closed my eyes, and felt into my heart area. I entertained both decisions, making each one separately, and fully.
I am not going to Bosnia. I will stay where I am.
Interesting. My heart fluttered for a second, then clamped shut.
As I sat and kept breathing, the scared and confused faces of a pair of little girls, Lola and Maude, floated before me. If Bill left Martha, would they be consigned to a disconnected fate like my own, shuttled from household to household, never knowing where they really belonged?
I am going to Bosnia. I will find Bill there, and see if I can be of service to this situation.
My heart swung wide, like windows opening onto a spacious vista.
The first decision brought up fear and contraction. The second brought up a sense of clarity and expansion, and not just for Bill, or Martha, or even myself. For Lola and Maude.
The entire process took three minutes.
Tank leapt onto my lap.
“Looks like I’m going to Sarajevo,” I said.
CHAPTER 14
I got to work. My first call was to my odd but efficient assistant.
“Hello.”
“Kim, I’m glad you answered. It’s Ten. Something’s come up. Can you stop by?”
“Oh. Oh. Today is Sunday, Mr. Norbu. I work for you on Mondays.”
Only I would hire someone more regulated than a Buddhist monastery. “Please, Kim? It’s important.”
Next call, Stephanie. She, too, answered after one ring.
“Stephanie. Tenzing Norbu. I met you yesterday morning at Yvonne’s, remember?”
“You’re kidding, right? My son hasn’t been that infatuated since he saw Spiderman cruising the sidewalk in front of the Nokia.”
“Very funny. Listen, I’m going out of town, but I wanted to run a few questions by you before I take off.”
“Sure. When?”
“Umm. Today?”
“Wow. Okay, well, Connor’s napping, but he’ll be up any minute. I’ve promised him surfboard time at the South Beach Park on Barnard Way. Why don’t you meet me there in an hour or so?”
I concocted an egg scramble with sautéed onions, mushrooms, and peppers, and piled the creation onto two slices of toasted sourdough, layered with Haas avocado I’d smushed with a fork right onto the bread. It took fifteen minutes to prepare, and five to inhale. Mindful, I was not.
I made a fresh pot of coffee, and was opening a can of God-knows-what for Tank when Kim plus metal accoutrements manifested at my kitchen window, like a hardware ghost in a helmet. She clutched a small backpack. Kim travels by bicycle whenever possible, which makes early detection difficult.
I motioned her inside. She went straight for Tank, who rubbed up against her ankle.
This was going to work out just fine.
“Thanks for coming. I’ve got some big favors to ask. First, can you book me on a flight to Sarajevo, a red-eye tonight if possible? And can you also get me a room at the Holiday Inn?” I handed her the name, scribbled on the Post-it.
Kim stared at me. “Tonight? That is unlikely.”
“Try, please. Use the Rosen card.” So much for not dipping into my Julius Rosen emergency savings fund. Still, I knew my ex-client would have approved of this mission. He may have been a crook, but he was also a big believer in the institution of marriage.
“You said favors, Mr. Norbu,” Kim’s voice broke in. “Plural. What else?”
“How about not calling me Mr. Norbu, for starters?”
“Oh. Oh,” she said. A long pause ensued.
“Kim?”
“I was trying to think of how to address you.”
“How about Ten? Or if you prefer, Tenzing.”
“How would that designate the difference in social status between us?”
“The … I’m sorry?”
“You are the employer and I am the employee. You are of a higher status and should be addressed as a superior.”
Clearly Kim was still determining how social relationships worked on planet Earth, or at least on planet Ten. A tiny sense of connection flared; I often found myself trying to figure out such things as well.
“There is no difference in status, Kim. We’re equals. I make a list and you execute the list. You give me some of your time and I give you some of my money. We’re in it together, just playing different roles.”
She said, “With respect, sir, past employers have seemed pleased when I addressed them formally.” She ruminated briefly. “How about Chief? Or Boss?”
There was no such thing as a routine conversation with Kim. They were either three words long, or an endless, crazy zoom into the unpredictable.
“Uh, no, those don’t quite do it for me, either,” I said. Time to admit defeat. “I have a better idea. How about if you go ahead and call me Mr. Norbu, and I just stop minding it?”
Kim blinked.
“It’s probably time
for me to accept that I’m an adult,” I added. A memory flickered, something Bill had told me right before I left the force. We were eating Chinese, arguing over a new department regulation. Bill pointed a chopstick at me. “There’s a saying, smartass—if you’re not a rebel when you’re twenty you don’t have any heart, but if you haven’t joined the establishment by the time you’re thirty you don’t have any brains. You, my friend, are the establishment now. Quit acting like Che fucking Guevara.”
Kim’s voice interrupted. “I would like to clarify. Are you saying that you would change your behavior on my behalf? So that I would experience less discomfort?”
I hadn’t thought of it quite that way, but I could see how Kim got there. “Yes, I guess I am.”
“You are a very unusual person.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Coming from you, that’s a compliment.”
Did her mouth actually twitch? “I believe you are joking. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I felt an urge to laugh, although I would also be laughing at myself.”
“The one sure sign of sanity.”
“What else?”
“Sorry?”
“You referred to some favors. That would indicate several. More than two,” she explained, her voice patient.
Right. I tried not to look at my watch. Now I knew why Kim usually chose brevity. Having an actual conversation was an endurance exercise, on both our parts.
“I’ve noticed how much Tank enjoys your company, Kim. I would love for you to care for him while I’m gone.”
Her features froze, as her eyes locked in on mine. Now what?
“I’d pay you extra, of course.”
Nothing.
“Kim? Are you okay?”
“I don’t know what to do right now,” she said.
“Okay. Um. So, is that a no?”
Kim dropped her backpack on the floor and burst into tears.
Now two of us didn’t know what to do. In my head I heard the long-ago voice of Lama Sonam: “When confused by others, breathe. Find the compassion within you.” I took a deep breath and tried to hold Kim in a space of loving-kindness while she blubbered.
Moments later, the weather cleared, and she rewarded me with a wide and unexpected smile. “I’m through crying. Would you like an explanation, Mr. Norbu?” Back to her usual brisk cheer.
“Uh.”
She straightened, as if reporting for roll call. The words marched out, the pace precise and nonstop. “I have a problem they call autism spectrum disorder, in my case acute although high functioning—it is not yet known if autism spectrum disorder is due to abnormalities of the brain or the exigencies of familial and cultural conditioning—some pharmaceuticals show promise for alleviating ASD but as yet there is no standard treatment and I am not at present on psychiatric medications.”
“Wow. Okay.”
She ploughed on, her staccato-like delivery abrupt. “The hallmark of this diagnosis is awkwardness in social situations and failure to notice the unsettling effect my behavior is having on people I’m talking to. I am working with a new therapist who is teaching me a new way to handle awkward social situations such as stop and ask from time to time if the person I’m talking to would like to hear more detail. Would you like to hear more detail, Mr. Norbu?”
She watched my eyes carefully.
“Yes.” Do not look at watch. Do not look at watch. “Please, tell me more.”
She nodded. “When the awkward feeling comes over me I am learning to do two new things. First I say something true—so true that nobody can argue with it. That is why I said ‘I don’t know what to do.’”
Okay, that made sense. I’d recently added that very tool to my own toolkit, or a version of it. My third rule of behavior: tell the truth. To which I now silently added, “Or at least say something true enough that nobody is able to argue about it.”
“And the second thing?”
“After I tell the truth, I stop and feel what happens to my body. People with Asperger’s have a problem with feelings. What you said about Tank made me feel sad. A good sad, but sad. Therefore I cried. Did it upset you when I cried, Mr. Norbu?”
“I would say I felt more confused than upset.”
“Yes. Friends and family members of people with autism spectrum disorder often report confusion in dealing with them.”
“No problem, Kim. I spend half my waking hours confused, and that’s on a good day.”
She blinked several times, as one hand reached for the metal stud piercing her eyebrow. She twisted the stud, as if adjusting the volume. “You were making another joke, weren’t you, Mr. Norbu?”
“Good catch,” I said. She twisted the stud harder. “Yes,” I added hurriedly.
“Would you like an explanation of why I felt sad?”
Breathe. “Definitely.”
“I had a big brother once. He said nice things to me like that.” She waited.
“Ah, well, thanks for explaining. So, uh, where’s your brother now?”
She flung her arm out, as in, somewhere in the great unknown. “Gone. Would you like to hear more detail?”
My entire life was passing before my eyes. “No, thank you. Maybe some other time.”
She stood, her body expectant.
“Kim?”
“Yes, Mr. Norbu.”
“Airplane ticket?”
I escaped for the playground with a sense of having once again been granted a reprieve. It crossed my mind I might need to add a few nonverbal, uncommunicative men to my life, for the sake of time, if not sanity.
Kim called while I was still en route to the park. She’d booked me on the earliest flight available, leaving around 10 A.M. tomorrow morning, with two plane changes. I was facing prolonged intimacy with my fellow man, but sleep masks were invented for just such emergencies. She also agreed to take care of Tank, for as long as I was gone. She would be far more reliable with his feeding times than I had been this past week, if nothing else.
I spotted Connor balancing his sturdy legs on a bright-orange, bouncy, toddler-sized surfboard. One fist was airborne, like a Roman emperor declaiming to the crowds. The other clutched the hand of a new, improved version of Stephanie, her long, equally bouncy curls glossy and sun-kissed.
Connor caught sight of me and crowed, “Mine! Papa!”
Stephanie laughed. “His words. Promise.”
“Mine! Mine!” Connor was consistent, I gave him that.
Stephanie moved him off the toy surfboard and over to the large wooden boat that made up the bulk of the park. He scampered up the ramp, and we sat to one side on a low wall, watching him.
“Cute kid.”
“He’s my life,” Stephanie said. She glanced at me, before swinging her gaze back to her son. “So. Except for my eagle eyes, I’m all yours.”
I pulled out my notebook and pen. “What do you know about overseas traffickers who may have relocated in Van Nuys?”
Stephanie considered the question before shaking her head. “Not much. A lot of my clients are domestic, like I said at Yvonne’s. Either lured here from somewhere else in the States, or simply homegrown. Why?”
“I may have stumbled onto an international trafficking operation based a few blocks from Van Nuys Airport.”
“Oh, well, I wouldn’t be surprised. Even the airlines are starting to get in on the act. A couple of years ago some angel disguised as a flight attendant brought down a small child trafficking operation almost single-handedly. She’d noticed something off about a woman traveling from Central America with two young children. A little boy and girl, neither of them much older than Connor.” Stephanie waved at Connor, and blew him a kiss.
“The boy was visibly scared, and the girl was sobbing inconsolably, but their mother completely ignored them both, couldn’t be bothered. Maybe just a lousy mother, right? But when the flight attendant asked for the little girl’s name, you know, so she could offer her some juice, the older woman didn’t s
eem to know what it was. As luck would have it, our friend had just taken a workshop on human trafficking. Once they landed, she reported the passengers to a hotline and notified the authorities.” Stephanie’s eyes were fixed on the kids climbing and squealing up and down the wooden ship. “That one tip exposed a child trafficking ring in Boston, and led to the rescue of over eighty children who’d been brought illegally from Central America to the United States. One woman, paying attention.”
Another Eskimo. “What an amazing story.”
Stephanie wiped at her cheeks, which were damp with tears. “Sorry. This stuff really gets to me. Anyway, Homeland Security started calling flight attendants the first line of defense in human trafficking.”
“I get it. Boots in the air,” I said.
She smiled at me. “Boots in the air. I like that. And now there are wristbands with the hotline number, and both a bulletin and a brochure listing red flags to look for, and ways to determine if there’s something wrong.”
I was scribbling everything down, just in case. “I’m curious. What are they? The red flags?”
“Oh, you know. Some of it’s pretty obvious, when you think about it. The adult they’re with doesn’t act like a normal parent—is either overly shielding, or under-responsive. The kid appears drugged, or fearful of talking or making eye contact, or suspicious of anyone in authority, or all of the above. Maybe the children are shabby and malnourished, or show signs of physical abuse, while their ‘parents’ appear fat and happy. Like that.”
Stephanie’s voice grew harder. “Not so different from any trafficking victims, actually. Tenzing, do you know that over twelve million adults and children are enslaved around the world? And less than two percent of them are rescued.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “So few. They’re the lucky ones.”
Yvonne’s words about Stephanie rang in my ears: She’s had a hard life. Was even working the streets for a while, if you can believe that.
Stephanie stood, brushing sand off the seat of her jeans. “Well. My son needs a snack, and I need to stop working on a beautiful Sunday afternoon.”
I stood as well. “I can’t thank you enough,” I said. “One last question?”
Stephanie’s voice rose. “Connor? Time to go!” She turned to me. “It’ll take about five minutes and at least two more shouts to get my son off of that pirate ship. Ask away.”
The Fourth Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (A Tenzing Norbu Mystery series Book 4) Page 12