The Fourth Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (A Tenzing Norbu Mystery series Book 4)

by Gay Hendricks

  The rest of the structure plodded its way to the corner of 106th and Vermont. The windows were mesh grilles, all but one striped with metal bars. The middle window frame accommodated a very old air-conditioning unit, which was coughing and humming. A single white cross was tacked to the far edge of the flat roof, like an afterthought. I spotted another sign, this one enclosed in glass, on a strip of grass by the front sidewalk. The lettering was faded but legible: Grace Missionary Baptist Church.

  Okay, maybe Tory Wiggins had given up the high life after all. Returned to his roots, so to speak. Maybe the “delegation” was in fact his “congregation.”

  I parked in the empty lot, my bright-yellow Mustang as conspicuous as a giraffe. I strolled up the sidewalk to the front entrance, a heavy metal double-door, like you’d find at an indoor gymnasium or pool. The packet of cash felt bulky and uncomfortable in my pocket.

  A hulking man with ebony skin sat alone in the front pew of the plainest, oddest place of worship I’d ever visited, the decor more Home Depot than anything else. The ceiling tiles were pebbled, the ceiling itself very low. The flooring was dull-gray industrial carpeting. No sign of crosses or statues anywhere. Instead, what looked like a pilfered segment of wooden banister provided railing for the two makeshift steps leading up to a raised dais. A plywood lectern faced the room, a microphone clipped to the front lip.

  “Mr. Wiggins?”

  He stood and turned, a towering refrigerator of a man. “You must be Tenzing. Thanks for coming.” The deep rumble of voice reached me by way of undulation, like a bowling ball traveling its wooden alley. “Come on up. Take a seat.”

  I moved up the center aisle, flanked by maybe 20 rows of pew. My feet scuffed the carpet. At the front, I slid across curved wood until I was maybe a foot away. Tory’s neck was as thick as my thigh. His black hair was close-cropped, and well-salted with gray. His eyes were so dark they swallowed up the pupils, but they shone with intelligence. Only a fool would underestimate this man’s physical or mental prowess.

  “Is this your church?”

  “Used to be.” He shot me a look, as if daring me to make fun. “I like to come back here now and then. Helps calm me down.”

  “I like it,” I said. “Simple. No nonsense.”

  He gave my forearm a light cuff. Well, light for Tory. To me, it felt like an anvil landing. He could have snapped the humerus bone in two like a twig, if he’d so chosen. G-Force was lucky he’d wound up with nothing more than a fat lip.

  “I know some about you, Ten. G-Force told me a little, and I’ve done more digging on my own.” Tory’s words rolled from his mouth like polished marbles, each one distinct and refined. Either he’d worked hard to drop the ghetto slang, or he’d never embraced that way of talking to begin with.

  I could well imagine a voice like his filling this space with a godly thunder.

  “I know you like to solve problems for people,” he continued. “I know you can run hot at times. I also know that you’re chasing some bad men right now. The worst kind of men.” He tipped his head, studying me. “But now that you’re here, up close and personal, I sense something else.”

  More silence from me. I wasn’t going to help with this instant psychoanalysis.

  “You like to clean up your little piece of the world. You’re after justice above all, even if it means bending the rules. Even if it’s the kind of justice they don’t necessarily dispense,” Tory waved vaguely toward downtown, “over there at the courthouse.” His smile seemed tired. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  I couldn’t. He wasn’t wrong, not completely.

  “Though maybe that’s just you on a good day. On a bad day, who knows? If you’re like me, on a bad day maybe you’re a self-righteous prick.”

  I had to smile. Tory rewarded me with his own gold-toothed grin.

  “Thought so,” he said.

  “Okay, Mr. Wiggins,” I said. “Enough mapping out of my deficiencies. What are we doing here?” I pulled out the bundle of money. “Besides you trying to talk me into taking a job I don’t want to take.”

  “Relax,” Tory said. “How about we just take a couple of deep breaths first? Before we get into all that. Isn’t breathing what you monks are supposed to be good at?”

  Reformed drug dealer or not, Tory gave good advice, and I complied. I inhaled, testing the atmosphere. The air inside the empty church, while warm and slightly stale, was still flavored with the unmistakable purity and weight of a space that has received a steady diet of prayer and praise, directed to a higher power. Its spirit-infused density reminded me of the old prayer hall at Dorje Yidam. I inhaled and exhaled again. Around me, the empty, whispering pews seemed to settle as well, as if accepting an invitation to experience a deeper peace and silence.

  “Tell me about Yolanda,” I said.

  Tory closed his eyes. His voice was like a low growl. “I don’t know how that girl got such a claim on my heart, but she did. Child was shattered by her mother’s death, and I felt responsible.” He corrected himself. “I was responsible. Not directly, but still. I tried to help her, raise her like my own, but nothing worked. Yolanda was broken. A perfect target for a man like Bone.” On his lap, his hands curled into fists. They looked like big hams. He glanced over. “That’s what kills me, you know? I could always spot the broken ones, too, back in the day. When I was on the lookout for easy marks.” He seemed to drift off for a moment. “He inked his name on her, you know. Over her heart. Branded that child, like she was his cow.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “I truly am. But I don’t think I can help. My investigation into trafficking has nothing to do with local gangs.”

  “I understand, I do.” His voice grew urgent. “But I’ve been hearing some things. Things about Crips getting together. Pimps joining forces, not just with each other, but with big-time traffickers from other countries. Bad men. No, more than bad. Evil.”

  My antennae pricked. “What other countries?”

  “Thailand. China. Russia. All over.” Tory scrubbed at his head with his meaty palms. “I hate this shit! Can’t wrap my head around the wrong of it, you know?”

  “I feel the same way,” I said.

  “I know I made my own mistakes,” he said. “I justified my actions because it was mostly weed. Told myself it was just business, that nobody ever took another’s life under the influence of bud, no matter how high the grade. But I was still breaking the law. And Yolanda’s mother, she was a victim of that lawless life, a life I helped perpetuate.” Tory bowed his head for a moment, as if weighed down by remorse. “I accept that. But I can’t accept what’s going on now. The way we are enslaving our own flesh and blood, in the name of commerce.” He turned, his eyes genuinely full of pain. “The way I see it, any girl—white, black, yellow, born here or somewhere else—if she’s selling her body to line someone else’s pocket, she’s a slave. She’s hurting. She’s in pain. And even if she isn’t mine, she’s somebody’s Yolanda.”

  He nudged the stack of money back across the pew. “Please, Tenzing. Please take the money.”

  I took it, if for no other reason than to ease the tidal waves of agony emanating from the big man.

  “And if you need help, tell G-Force to give me a shout. I’ve still got muscle I can call on, people that owe me.”

  I snorted. “Your delegation?”

  His look was amused. “So you spotted that trick. Those two guys? They’re church deacons. And the Escalade’s from another life. Still, it got you here, didn’t it? Takes a hothead to know a hothead.” He stood and offered his hand. “The offer stands. Call if you need anything.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I will.”

  As I pushed open the heavy door to the outside world, Tory’s parting words reached me, low and laced with regret.

  “I just want to know she’s okay,” he said.

  Slowly winding east along the residential boulevards so I could hook back onto the freeway, I opened my phone to call Julie. I wanted to make sure last night had
happened. That she was real, that we were real. As I scrolled for her number, my phone vibrated in my palm.

  She was calling me. I put her on speaker.

  “Hey!” I said. “Are you still at the house?”

  “I wish.” Her voice sounded tinny, her stress evident. “I’m at Martha and Bill’s. Can you come over? The shit may be about to seriously hit the fan.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Mila and Sasha just landed at LAX. They’re headed to the house. And they’re asking for you.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  I realized I’d never checked my messages from last night, so I pulled over right before the Harbor Freeway on-ramp. First, my favorite ex-paparazzo, Clancy: “Yo, Ten, it’s been like a graveyard over here. Nobody in or out for two full days. No people. No vehicles. Certainly no vans or school buses. Either I got the address wrong, or everybody’s taking their summer vacation. I’m telling you, this is not a going concern. Let me know if you want me to stay put.”

  I called Clancy right back.

  “Yo.”

  “It’s me, Ten. Take a break, okay?”

  “Sorry I couldn’t help.”

  “No, this does help. Nothing happening may mean something else did.”

  The second message was from Mike, and landed like a lead ball in my belly: “Boss. When you get this, call me. Some serious, serious shit going down.”

  Mike rarely showed emotion, but his voice was stitched tight with something close to fear. I checked the time. He’d be dead asleep. I called anyway. His voice mail picked up. I disconnected and called again. He answered the third round of rings.

  “Yeah. I’m here.”

  “Mike, Ten. Sorry, I …”

  “No, s’good you called. Hang on.”

  I waited as face-washing, toilet-flushing noises happened.

  “Okay. I’m officially functioning.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m not really sure.” These words rarely came out of Mike’s mouth. “So, when was the last time you checked that Agvan site online?”

  “Night before last. Why?”

  “Because it’s shut down.”

  “What do you mean? Like, undergoing repairs?”

  “I mean gone. Vamoosed. Like the dark web went even darker. Not only that, the NDRSNT directory’s coming up as an error page for the time being.”

  “How could this happen?”

  “Could be a raid. That’ll make sites go underground faster than a fuckin’ prairie dog, to prevent the feds from planting malware that could expose buyers and sellers. Or maybe these guys just got spooked for some reason.”

  “But you think the FBI’s involved?”

  “Actually, I don’t. I think somebody wants this business to disappear, jump off the radar screen for the moment.”

  “Agvan Supply?”

  “Probably, or whoever owns them.”

  I put Clancy and Mike’s messages side by side. There was only one conclusion—Zarko Stasic had also put two and two together, and was either shutting things down, or, more likely, regrouping so he could take his business elsewhere.

  Why had I set off the car alarm, almost certainly landing myself on Agvan Supply’s security camera feed? Why hadn’t I told Deputy Sergeant Gaines exactly where to find the old man’s killer? Why had I sent Zarko Stasic that macho message, via Ponytail, a taunt he’d answered with a much deadlier message of his own?

  What had I expected him to do, invite me over for a duel?

  Yes. I had expected Stasic to fight instead of flee. And my expectations had probably doomed those two little boys, not to mention countless others, to lives of degradation and terror.

  “I’m sorry, boss,” Mike now said. “I hope my hacking didn’t somehow poke the sleeping bear.”

  So Mike, too, felt responsible.

  “This is all on me, Mike. All on me. Listen, you’ve been a huge help, and I appreciate the heads-up,” I said. “Let me know if anything changes.”

  I took the Gower exit off of the 101, headed south, and soon pulled up outside the Bohannon house. The curtains were drawn. Another cheap white rental car blocked the driveway. I unbuckled my seat belt. Closing my eyes, I rotated my shoulders backward and forward, loosening up my rotator cuffs. Next, I flexed and stretched my neck muscles, shifting my head side-to-side and front-to-back.

  I rested one hand on my belly, inhaled until my lungs were beyond full, and let out two loud HAHs while feeling the deep contraction in my diaphragm. As a gust of fresh air clears away the smoke, the expulsion of carbon dioxide freed up space in my belly and purified my head of expectations.

  I was ready to face whatever lay inside the house.

  The white hood of the rental was still warm, and the engine was making a small, tick-ticking sound of disapproval. Mila and Sasha hadn’t beaten me here by much.

  Dread wrestled with acute curiosity. More than a small part of me wanted to find out—no, make that was insanely curious to find out—how this situation would finally play out.

  Yeshe’s voice chided from afar: “Tenzing, do not expect, or control. Offer yourself as a channel of ease. Bring loving-kindness, and the balm of compassion.”

  I’ll try.

  Everyone had assembled in the living room. Martha sat in the rocking chair. Her arms were crossed, but her eyes were more troubled than angry, and her chin had lost yesterday’s rigid, stubborn set. Bill stood next to Martha, his hand resting on her shoulder, I was happy to see. Sasha and Mila also stood, their backs to the French doors that overlooked the yard, staring at the carpet. And Julie, my Julie, sat cross-legged on the floor, both hands buried in Homer’s wrinkled neck.

  Bill shot me a look. “Good. You made it,” he said.

  “Where are the girls?”

  “Stashed upstairs for the time being,” Martha said. “Thank God for Dora.”

  For once, I was in the loop.

  “I’m sorry we come here without asking,” Mila said. “But there is no time.”

  Sasha put his hand on Mila’s arm. “No, let me.” His eyes found Martha’s. “Mrs. Bohannon, I apologize for intruding into your life this way.”

  Martha’s eyes softened at his forthright words. It was hard not to like the kid. I checked on Bill and almost laughed. He’d gone from not knowing he had a son to being ashamed that he had a son to being proud of his son, all within a few weeks. Now he was staring at Sasha with something that bordered on awe.

  Martha said, “Thank you. I’m sorry it happened this way as well.” She stepped forward and shook Sasha’s hand. He held onto it.

  “There’s something else.” Sasha’s smile was rueful. “All my life I wanted a sister. I used to beg my mother to get me one.”

  “Is true,” Mila said.

  “And now I learn that I have two, two actual sisters.”

  “Half-sisters,” Mila said. Sasha shot her an affectionate look, and I realized that her tendency to nitpick might not be personal so much as her personality.

  “I want more than anything to meet them. And I’m very afraid you won’t allow this.” Had Sasha, too, been taking communication lessons from Kim?

  Martha went very still.

  “I know my existence causes you pain.” Sasha’s voice was devoid of self-pity. “But I didn’t choose the parents I was born to.”

  His point was well taken, if debatable, at least in my tradition. Some Buddhist teachings claim that after many lifetimes of retiring karma, certain sentient beings can consciously choose their parents for their next span of life lessons. Given my tussles with my father, I quite liked the idea, although like a lot of metaphysical theories, its accuracy was difficult to prove.

  Either way, Sasha’s observation did the trick.

  Martha shook her head. “You know what’s so weird about this? Maude and Lola have been bugging me since they could talk about getting them a big brother. Lola even asked Santa Claus for one last Christmas. Remember, Bill?”

  “I’d to
tally forgotten that,” Bill said.

  “I told Lola life doesn’t exactly work that way, but now?” Martha covered Bill’s hand with her own, “Who knows? Maybe it does.”

  For just a moment, we all smiled at this unexpected answer to a four-year-old’s request.

  Then Sasha cleared his throat, crossing his arms as if for protection, his anxiety suddenly palpable.

  Our lighthearted reprieve was over. Martha sensed the change immediately, and her reaction was instant.

  “What is it, Sasha? What’s wrong?”

  Sasha seemed frozen in place. Mila touched his back, as if to let him know she was right there.

  Something compelled me to speak. “I think we’d better sit down for this,” I said. Mila shot me a grateful look. Soon we had rearranged ourselves, forming a circle, as if by silent agreement. Homer’s thick body draped across Julie’s legs, like a piebald lap rug. We were an odd assembly of characters, to be sure. A blended family, although some were more reluctant than others to be in the mix. But the desire to alleviate Sasha’s obvious agony, and to understand his mother’s grim, unmistakable resolve, bound us as surely as blood.

  Bill spoke first. “Mila? You want to start? Because I’m completely clueless.”

  “Better Sasha talk first,” she said.

  Sasha nodded. Seemed to gather himself. “I know my mother told you guys that I’d started an investigation into human trafficking a few months ago. But what she didn’t tell you was why.”

  I remembered that side-flick of Mila’s eyes, when I’d asked her just this question.

  “I suspect,” Mila now said. “But I did not know why for sure.”

  “The why has to do with my grandfather,” Sasha said. “And my step-grandfather, I guess.”

  Irena’s two husbands.

  “I loved my grandfather. Deda, I called him. Deda was a good man, gentle and very kind. He was the fairest person I ever met, fair to a fault, I sometimes thought. I only knew him after he was released from Omarska, after his time in the prison camp. But even as a child, I could sense how that trauma clung to him, draining him of energy and light. He never talked about it. But the darkness was always there. Deda would listen to his classical records for hours, staring out the window in his study. But he never saw the trees, or the sun, not really.”