John D shook his head. “Nobody. I mean, one of their lawyers is helping me set up the trust, but nobody else …” An odd look crossed his face.
“What?”
“Well, the Conservancy sent out a young man, one of them notaries, a few weeks ago, with some preliminary papers for me to sign. He told me I needed a witness, and could I think of anybody to ask, a neighbor or someone. Only one handy was Brother Nehemiah.”
“God will provide.”
John D put his head in his hands.
So now we had a ticking clock, and a hog farm and cult looking to expand their operations at the expense of the Conservancy. Not to mention John D’s sole surviving heir, though I had a hard time believing that Norman would resort to violence against his father. He struck me as just a basic run-of-the-mill loser: more grown-up brat than criminal mastermind. Still, I couldn’t completely rule him out.
“Well, at least we know the how of it,” I said. “And maybe some of the who.”
John D’s face had gone a little gray. He protested, but I sent him to bed. I’m sure watching those two men beat the living daylights out of him in slow motion didn’t help his mood much.
As for me, I needed to review my options. I sat on the porch and rocked and thought, and rocked some more. The obvious move was to hand over the surveillance DVD to Dardon, along with my suspicions as regards the perps. But I didn’t want to do that, for two reasons. One: this was my case, and two: this was my case.
My eyes drifted to the torn-up pot patch. I walked over and squatted to inspect the ruins. One corner of roiled earth offered up the clear impression of a partial soleprint, a distinctive series of diagonal chevrons. I snapped a picture of it. Then, researching rubber work boots, I quickly matched the print to that of a neoprene Servus steel-toe—the same muck-brown color, same toes dipped in cream, as the boots Barsotti’s lackey was wearing in the hog yard.
I felt a prickle across the nape of my neck. I urged my Toyota to the top of the hill where I’d begun this long day. First I scanned my photographs and zoomed in on the car washer’s pickup. I pulled up my little notepad and added the license plate number to my growing laundry list of clues.
I felt like a modern gunslinger, camera in one hand, phone in the other. I stashed the camera, and picked up my binoculars, sweeping them from one corner of the lot to the other. No pickup. No Mercedes either.
Barsotti was probably back in Condo Heaven, happy as a pig in slop. Given his place of work, he would know.
As for Neoprene Boot Man, my immediate guess was he’d successfully completed his extracurricular activities—rolling John D, then ripping off his weed—and been given the rest of the week off. I suspected he was lying low and enjoying the plunder.
I caught Bill on his way out the door, leaving work a little early. He grumbled, but he ran the plates for me anyway. I sweetened the deal with the promise of a six-pack when I got back into the city. He was back with an answer quickly.
“José Gutierrez, ex-felon, and don’t say I never did anything for you.”
“I never have and I never will.”
“I suppose you want the address as well.”
A minute later, José Gutierrez’s name, address, and phone number were in my digital directory.
Maybe I should friend him, as well.
With the aid of my phone’s GPS, I was at his street in under ten minutes. I had a brief flash of guilt over trumping Sherlock’s meticulous tracking methods, then I thought, screw it, he’d be thrilled to have a toy like this. Dr. Watson could be a real downer sometimes.
I heard the cavernous thump thump of a massive subwoofer before I even turned onto José’s block. I would have parked, but for the motley assortment of cars and pickups jammed every which way in his driveway, and up and down both sides of the street. My ears adapted slightly, and I was able to separate the bass-thump of sound into the brass, wind, percussion, and high-pitched acoustic guitar of Jalisco mariachi.
The front door opened and a man staggered out, propelled by a chorus of ululating falsetto yells from his compatriots. He reeled to the side of the house and puked into a potted succulent. Swells of raucous laughter ebbed and flowed inside. A major celebration was under way, and I had a pretty good idea what was fueling it.
I was undermanned for a commando raid; the first significant disadvantage I could see to partnering with a phone. Plus, stealing mota from a mariachi party wasn’t my idea of a worthy goal. So I did the next best thing: I called Deputy Sheriff Dardon.
“Am I catching you at an okay time?”
“Make it quick. I’m just about to turn into my driveway, where I got a bowl of my wife’s chili waiting for me.”
I told him about the missing mason jar and homegrown plants, the telltale neoprene boot print, and the all-points bulletin bash going on at José’s place.
“You’re a regular one-man neighborhood watch, aren’t you?” Dardon said.
“I just think it would be good for José’s karma if he got busted.”
“Karma, eh?” Dardon sounded amused. “That’s rich. I’ll be sure to tell José when I send the party car over to collar him that what’s bad for his police record is good for his karma.”
“Just trying to be a good citizen,” I said.
“Right. Well, I’d better go in and explain to the wife why I’m missing dinner again. See how that works out for me, karma-wise.”
He had a point there. I called Bill to tell him I was on my way, and stopped by a minimart for beer. I had Mexico on my mind, but there was no Noche Buena to be found. Where was the Cerveza Fairy when you needed her? I settled for a six-pack of Corona and a couple of rock-hard limes.
I pushed the Toyota to a bone-rattling 55 all the way back to Los Angeles.
Two hours later, matching redheads, bounded by plumped-up pillows, contemplated me across a king-size bed like two baby Buddhas. My pulse was racing. This was the first time I’d ever been left completely alone with one infant, much less two. Give me a dangerous stakeout anytime.
Bill and I had only managed one Corona each before the bedtime clock started ticking and Martha corralled me into their bedroom, a baby balanced on each hip, and set the three of us up.
“They won’t break, I promise. Just try not to let them roll off the bed,” Martha tossed over her shoulder. “Thanks.” Then she and Bill drove off to pick up the Thai takeout she’d ordered for their dinner. Parking’s a nightmare on Larchmont Boulevard, and this way they could halve the time between ordering and actually eating—when you have twins, every minute counts. I’d of course offered to get the food for them, but Martha admitted they loved any opportunity to finish a sentence with each other before exhaustion took over.
Lola/Maude stared. Maude/Lola stared. Now what?
“How’s it going, girls?” I said.
Lola’s mouth was an immovable line.
“That good, hunh,” I said. “I can relate.” I switched my attention to Maude and her eyes met mine. Then the bottom half of her jaw opened like a drawbridge, and she flashed a gaping, gummy smile that took up most of her face.
Up until recently, Lola was the grinner and Maude the baby with the unblinking stare. Now they appeared to have switched personalities.
“So what happened? You swap souls or something?” Lola lifted one dimpled starfish hand and started to suck on the middle two fingers. Her eyes glazed over with pleasure. Maude chortled and reached in my direction, causing her to tip onto the mattress in a perfect face-plant.
“Whoa!” I jacked her upright, no worse for wear. She was dense and warm, and she smelled like muffins. “Uncle Ten’s not so good at this baby stuff, ladies.” Lola uncorked her fingers at that, and leveled me with a look that said, “Stating the obvious, Uncle Ten.” Then she plugged in again, definitively. I laughed, and her mouth bowed up around her fingers. It was better than winning the lottery.
“Bah, bah, bah,” Maude said.
“Bah, bah,” I echoed.
“Bah,�
�� Maude said again, and squealed with delight. I started to relax. I heaved them closer together and pulled out my phone. “Say cheese.”
I snapped off several shots. Two pairs of marble-blue eyes fastened on the clicking sound and rose in unison to find my face behind my phone. They gawked at me in awe, like I was a magician.
An unfamiliar euphoria swept over me. I was alone with two delicate, untrammeled baby psyches, and they trusted me absolutely. Their parents did, as well. Maybe I could do this baby thing after all.
Full of apologies, I begged off dinner with Martha and Bill when they got home. I’d decided to make an impromptu visit, to take care of some unfinished business. Once I told them where I was headed, Martha practically shoved me out the door.
Julie opened hers in her purple apron. I checked for clothes. Yup. A tight spandex top and loose drawstring pants. Did I mention how much I love her body? She’s strong, but with a lot of interesting curves. Now that I knew those curves somewhat, I felt an instant stirring down in my jeans at the mere sight of her.
I wanted her. But her unsmiling face told me what I already knew. I had some repair work to do. She stepped back silently, and I made my way into the lair.
I perched on a bar stool at the island as Julie returned to stirring and sampling a bubbling pot.
“Smells amazing,” I said.
“Butternut squash soup,” her back replied. “I’m testing out a recipe for work. And compliments will get you nowhere.”
“Julie, I …”
Julie spun around to face me, her eyes flashing.
“I recently broke off a four-year relationship, Ten. I’m sure Martha and Bill must have told you that. But did they tell you why? Because,” and Julie enunciated each word with crisp precision, “I. Do. Not. Have. Time. For. Games.” She glared at me. I knew enough to nod but stay silent. She was just getting started.
“I don’t want to expend one more ounce of the precious energy it takes to create real intimacy, with one more man who is terrified by it. My life is very full right now, and very challenging, and my free time very limited. If I am going to share that free time with someone, it will only be because that someone else wants to walk toward me. Freely and fully. A good relationship adds to the Fulfillment column, for both partners. If I feel it subtracting instead, honestly? I’ll take a pass. Sorry, but I just can’t go there again.” She turned away.
I moved to her side. “I’m a fool,” I said. “A fool who’s walking toward you as best I can.”
She looked at me. I waited.
She seemed to make a decision.
“Good. Consider yourself warned. Now, eat my soup and take me to bed.”
So I did, and I did.
But I drove home afterward. I told Julie I needed to feed Tank. It was half-true. The other half? Hungry pets provide one of the few remaining acceptable excuses for escaping to one’s own burrow after making love.
I lay awake in the dark for over an hour, trying to understand the small kink pinching my chest. Julie was perfect. Sexy, warm, smart, and honest. Generous without being cloying. Funny without being mean. Independent yet vulnerable. Perfect.
So why did my upper torso contract and my breath grow shallow every time I imagined fully committing my heart to this woman?
CHAPTER 23
I sat at the kitchen table, pen in hand.
“Venerable Brothers,” I wrote, but I couldn’t concentrate. Instead I found myself doodling, filling the margin of my notepaper with a leafy, scrolling pattern, wrapped around a blocky sword.
I was mimicking the design inked onto Brother Eldon’s forearms. I stared at it. Got nothing back. I closed my eyes, groaning in frustration.
Venerable Brothers, I am two weeks into my new job, and my ideas are nothing but a load of crap.
Lobsang’s familiar voice was faint inside me, but unmistakable: Maybe that’s because you’re facing in the wrong direction. My bark of laughter startled Tank, who lifted a disapproving head from his windowsill perch. Leave it to Lobsang.
I set my letter aside and moved to my meditation room for a different kind of linking up with my two best friends.
Sometimes, when I’m too distracted to count breaths, I find that attending to the hum of distant traffic, punctuated by an occasional honking horn, works as a kind of urban channel into serenity. I closed my eyes and invited the outside sounds to guide me into a place of calm.
The far-off drone entered me, lulled me. Allow. I expanded my auditory awareness to include the subtle rustle of leaves outside and the almost imperceptible tick-ticking of the clock on my kitchen wall. Allow. Allow.
My breath became slow, even. My thoughts mere wisps, drifting across a spacious mental sky. Allow. I went even deeper, and wider, letting each sound merge into all sound, and all sound into no sound, until the channel was clear and my heart and mind fully opened, still, and ready to receive a clear connection with my two soul-brothers.
Venerable brothers, I began again. I send you greetings. Are you there?
This time, I was facing the right direction. Seconds later, like entering a clear body of water, I slipped into the current of subtle energy I’ve shared with Yeshe and Lobsang since we were children. For a moment, I just basked in the familiarity of the link between the three of us.
Yeshe has a simple, instinctive acceptance of others that is as strong as it is pure. Unlike blind naiveté, which can be self-deluding and an excuse for inaction, his tolerance is grounded in a deep understanding of humanity, with all its flaws. He loves me absolutely, unconditionally, and with no strings attached.
Lobsang’s personality, while magnanimous, is more particular: his love for me tempered by a fierce expectation of excellence. Without imposing his own goals, he has nevertheless always pushed me to be my very best. Between the two of them, I feel both adored and motivated. They are like the good parents I never had.
I sat with my eyes closed, barely breathing, sensing my two friends bobbing side by side like buoys, far away but tethered in the same ocean.
I am happy to have you in my life. Is there anything I can do for you, my friends?
They let me know they were fine, each in his own way.
I need your help. I have many uncertainties. They cloud my judgment and prevent me from finding solutions.
The silent field became charged with curiosity and anticipation. They like it when I include them in my work, though Lobsang also enjoys needling me when I’m stuck. I let the disparate events of the past two weeks play across our shared screen like a movie, albeit with a very confusing plot. Then I posed my questions:
How can I discern what lies beneath the murky mysteries of the pig farm, the cult, and the dead insurance-policy owners, so that justice can prevail?
What are Barsotti, Florio, Brother Eldon, and the others really up to?
How can I use my skills and presence to ensure that the highest good is accomplished?
I ended with an all-purpose benediction I apply whenever I ask for assistance from unseen forces, even when they’re my best friends: May answers come to me by easeful attraction rather than stressful pursuit, and may all beings benefit from these inquiries.
I set the questions adrift on the ocean of resonance linking me with my friends, tucked away in their monastery 8,000 miles away.
I sat for a few more minutes, basking in tranquil clarity. Opportunities to go deep like this are rare for me, and therefore precious. I slowly resurfaced, rotating my neck and shoulders, coaxing my consciousness back into my little body in my little room in my little house in my little canyon.
I rubbed my hands together briskly and pressed the heated palm-skin to my eyes. What the—? A bitter metallic flavor spread across the back of my tongue, sudden and noxious.
I gagged, a tight convulsion of throat muscle, and swallowed sour saliva. The sharp toxicity immediately seeped back into my mouth. I tried to stay with it this time, probe its source. I sampled the bitterness, tried to explore with awareness. It was
unfamiliar, a completely foreign taste. My heart constricted: it was the taste of death.
I opened my eyes, and the harsh tang disappeared as quickly as it had come. The whole experience had lasted ten seconds at most, but it left me wondering: whose death was I tasting?
I made breakfast without incident, thankfully, and took my second cup of coffee onto the deck. I sat and sipped. The morning air was crystal-clear; tiny boats floated like miniature toys on the horizon. But Lobsang hadn’t quite rung off, apparently, because his insistent voice kept nattering at me. Come on, come on, come on. Get to work, Tenzing.
“Good-bye, Lobsang,” I said out loud, but I went inside and got to work. I started by pulling up unopened e-mails on my phone. I quickly found one from Mike labeled “The Three Stooges.” It was a pretty good guess his cyber-chase of Florio, Barsotti, and O’Flaherty had brought results. Maybe the answer to everything was one message away. I felt a fluttering, a tremor down in my belly, signaling fear. But as my teachers used to say, fear is just excitement without the breath. I threw a couple of inhales at the dread, and it transformed into a happy caper of anticipation.
Staying in touch with my feelings can be a lot of work sometimes.
Before I had a chance to actually open the e-mail, Mike himself buzzed up my drive, balanced on his motorbike like an awkward insect. I watched from the window as he dismounted, popped off his helmet, and gave me a jaunty wave. I’d never seen him look so relaxed. He was clearly spending a lot of quality time, most of it between the sheets, I was guessing, with what’s-her-name.
Tricia.
He walked inside, helped himself to the last of my coffee, and plopped down at the kitchen table. He continued to grin, and his grin continued to irritate me, though I couldn’t say exactly why. Well, maybe I could.
Mike raised his mug to me.
“Ain’t love grand?” he said.
He set his mug down next to my aborted letter to Yeshe and Lobsang. Mike has no compunction about reading whatever’s around. He picked up the notepaper and examined my scrolled doodle.
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