I glanced at my watch.
“You know, it’s too bad about that ‘no such thing as enough’ issue, Thomas. You could have simply bought the acreage from the cult members at the going rate, and sued the government for your millions. Shady, though not necessarily illegal. But no. That would have required spending your own cash. How much better to steal their land and benefit from their deaths? I’ve met some genuinely bad people. But trading forty innocent lives for a cash payout? That puts you in a class by yourself.”
Florio’s face was getting very rosy.
I checked my watch again.
“It’s been fifteen minutes. Your symptoms should be pretty painful right about now.”
“Please,” he said.
I pulled a white plastic box out of my carryall.
“You’ll be interested to know this antidote kit contains everything you need to get better.”
“Please,” Florio said again. “I’ll make you rich.”
“I’m a monk. You’ve already paid me for my work. Anything more would be, well, greedy. Don’t you think?”
He winced, grabbing his stomach.
“But I didn’t do anything!”
“That’s the problem, Thomas. You’re too clean. Too smart. There’s never anything to tie you to anything else, is there? Your son and Barsotti are probably being booked right now. They’re filthy. They’ll go down for murder one, at least. But you don’t have any chips to bargain with. And then there’s the question of your intentions.”
Florio’s eyes darted back and forth, looking for a way out.
“You wanted to know how karma works? It’s a bitch.”
Florio clawed open the leather briefcase at his feet.
“In here,” he gasped.
He held up a manila envelope, stamped with the official L.A. County Department of Public Works insignia. His hand shook uncontrollably, but his eyes begged me to take it. I flipped through the contents. It was Norman Murphy’s neptunium-237 report. The original one.
The one that made Thomas Florio, Sr., an accessory to a whole lot of crimes.
I opened the kit and administered the ampule of amyl nitrite inhalant. Then I motored past dignified urns and columns and masterworks of art to the top of the sweeping marble staircase and called out for help in a most undignified way. In minutes ambulance attendants had strapped Florio onto a gurney, loaded him inside, and whisked him off to Cedars-Sinai, an IV of sodium nitrite and thiosulfate already binding and removing the cyanide from his veins.
Bill was waiting outside with his own report: Barsotti was cuffed and on his way to the hospital. Tommy Jr. was cuffed and on his way downtown for booking in the back of a black-and-white. And as promised, the evidence of at least one attempted murder had been served up to my partner on a tray. In this case, literally.
Bill’s eyes bored into mine.
“So,” he said.
“So.”
“Run your phone convo with Tommy Florio by me again? You weren’t making a whole lot of sense in my office.”
I shrugged. “I told him that his father had hired me to check up on him, and that I was on my way to the club with proof of Tommy’s shenanigans. That unless Tommy had a better idea, he was about to lose everything, because Mr. Florio had vowed that Tommy would get no more chances, and Mr. Florio struck me as a man who kept his word. That like it or not, his father still owned him. I said it would be a shame if nobody but Mr. Florio benefited from all Tommy’s hard work.”
“That’s all you said?”
“I might have reminded Tommy how much his father enjoyed his daily dose of Amaretto.”
Bill shook his head.
“You took a hell of a chance, Ten. How did you know he wouldn’t just run to his father?”
I smiled.
“Call it a hunch,” I said.
After Bill drove away, I stood outside the Jonathan Club a few minutes longer. The sky was a deep blue, scattered with puffy clouds. I breathed in deeply and felt the pavement firm beneath my feet.
I would have administered the antidote to Thomas Sr., either way. But this way was better. It meant a few less karmic boomerangs, for both of us.
CHAPTER 31
My house was spotless—I had spent hours going over every corner of it until it gleamed from the attention.
I poured myself a large glass of beer. I located Tank, lying in the sun on the windowsill.
“Happy Losar, Tank,” I toasted. “Happy Year of the Iron Rabbit.”
It was March 5th. Another new year, which meant another opportunity to reflect on things. I sipped, and I sighed with pleasure.
This morning I used my thangka as a focus for my meditation. I let my attention rest on the rich colors and abundant images of light and dark comprising the Eternal Circle of Life. Samsara. Illusion. And yet it feels so real. As I sat, I absorbed the harsh contradictions, painted on silk: compassionate deities and ignorant, but inspiring life forms, equally gripped in the talons of a ferocious Mara. Mara seems bent on their destruction, but shift the eyes a little, and it looks a lot like protection. It’s not always easy to tell which is which, you know?
It’s a paradox, a contradiction in terms, just like me.
I’ve been reflecting a lot on the concept of richness. Not Thomas Florio richness, but the richness of thoughts, flowing through the mind. Think about it: Our thoughts emerge unbidden, seemingly out of nowhere, and then they’re gone. This process happens thousands of times an hour, and the abundance never stops, even when we’re asleep. To know this is to be rich. Lobsang loves to point out that each thought is an exact replica of life, and to open fully to the free flow of thoughts is to open fully to life itself. Yeshe insists that the opposite is true—that meditation has the effect of quieting the flow of thoughts, enabling us to experience a still point, where all thoughts cease for a time, and true wealth lies. But really, it’s both. Like I said: paradox. To be in touch simultaneously with absolute stillness and the flowing river of thoughts is the exquisite paradoxical backdrop of every Buddhist’s moment-to-moment experience.
I raised my glass again.
Happy Losar, dear friends. Blessings, abundance, and good health to you both. May your lives be filled with richness. I think of you every day, and today most of all.
I moved to my deck, Tank on my lap, waiting for everyone to arrive. The evening air was cool and damp, redolent with scents released by yesterday’s heavy rain.
I remembered sitting with my father in the monastery garden one afternoon, when I was eight or nine. A hawk was tracing lazy circles above us. Suddenly it dived, and reappeared with some small creature wriggling in its beak.
“Apa, why do we have to die?”
“It is a paradox, son. Life’s rich pageant. Paradox is everywhere we look, because we, the ones who are looking, are living paradoxes ourselves. We are wired for bliss, but we choose to make ourselves miserable. We are capable of speaking the truth, yet we choose to spin webs of lies. We are here to learn the greatest wisdom of mankind, yet we choose to gossip and rebel.”
I remember squirming. My father couldn’t help but turn every question of mine into an opportunity to lecture me.
“But why do we have to die?” I asked again.
“I don’t know. But I suspect we have to die, so that we may learn to live.”
An approaching vehicle snapped me back to the present, to my own rich pageant of life, about to become even richer.
John D and his daughter-in-law Becky, her bump of a baby now visible, climbed out of his truck and walked up the drive. Becky carried an apple pie.
I took the pie.
“Looking better, John D,” I said.
“Yeah, well, the treatment’s going pretty good,” he said. “I know it’ll get harder soon, but they say I could get maybe three more years this way. You have any idea how long that is in grandbaby years?”
I gave him two $100 bills and told him it was compliments of his mugger. With interest.
More cars arrived—Bill and Martha’s family van, two little redheads in back, strapped in their car seats and wearing matching Dodger caps. Julie followed, her car loaded up for the long drive back to Chicago. Casseroles and salads and fresh-baked bread collected in my kitchen. Deputy Sheriff Dardon and his wife pulled up with a big batch of meatless chili, and Mike and his spiky but sweet live-in Tricia carted inside a cardboard container of hot coffee and a dozen glazed crullers.
Everyone crowded onto my deck as the sun spilled red in the distance, where land and ocean met. I leaned the photograph of Norman with his brother and father, surrounded by almond blossoms, both sweet and bitter, against the potted impatiens, front and center on the table. I added his business card, the one he gave me way back when. I laid out three bowls of rice, and three homemade torma cakes magically conjured into being by Chef Julie. My Buddha statue was there, as was the feather and mangled bullet.
I asked Becky to light the candle.
I looked at Norman’s smiling face. I felt his hope. I felt his sorrow. He had lost his hero, and his faith. He had lost the love of his mother, and the respect of his father. And then he had lost his way.
I understood.
I couldn’t change the past. But I could address the present. Norman didn’t have to remain alone and without friends. I dipped the hawk feather in water, sprinkled it over his smiling image, and began to chant him home.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
GRATITUDE FROM
GAY HE NDRICKS
First, I’d like to express my deep gratitude for all the mystery writers who have inspired me throughout my reading life: John D. MacDonald, T. Jefferson Parker, Michael Connelly, Sue Grafton, Robert Ferrigno, Don Winslow, Stieg Larsson, Georges Simenon, and Leslie Charteris. At the peak of this Everest of talent, of course, is the inimitable Arthur Conan Doyle, whose life I admire and whose talents I salute for giving me 50-plus years of pleasure.
I’m very grateful to have Tinker Lindsay as a co-author. Tinker writes like an angel, laughs like a pirate, and dispenses good vibes to all who are privileged to know her. Working on this book with Tinker has been one of the great pleasures of my literary life.
Louise Hay, Reid Tracy, Patty Gift, Laura Koch, and other members of the Hay House staff are a writer’s dream team. I’m very grateful for the warmth, professionalism, and enthusiasm they’ve gifted us.
I owe a debt of gratitude to the many Buddhists from different lineages with whom I spoke in my background research. My travels have taken me to monasteries in Tibet, India, Nepal, and Thailand, as well as to places closer to home such as Tassajara in Big Sur. I am grateful to have known the remarkable lama Kalu Rinpoche and to have been initiated by him in 1973.
Felipe Correa, executive director of the Hendricks Institute, is an ever-pleasant beacon of efficiency in my busy and multivaried life. Katie and I both give thanks regularly for his presence in our lives.
Like our hero, Ten, I am graced with a remarkable feline companion, our 16-year-old Persian princess, Lucy. Most of my writing is done to the accompaniment of Lucy’s purrs; no better background music for inspiration has ever been composed.
For 32 years I’ve been blessed with the mate of my dreams, Kathlyn Hendricks, who is the ideal partner for a quirky writer. A passionate poet and dancer as well as nonfiction writer, Katie understands the creative process in her bones and knows how to nurture it in others. Everything I write comes out of living in the sphere of her love, and it is to her that I give my ultimate bow of gratitude.
GRATITUDE FROM
TINKER LINDSAY
First, I’d like to thank my parents, Nancy and Rod Lindsay, for proving that avid readers raise avid readers. My late mother was never without a book in her hand, and I inherited her lifelong passion for detective novels. To this day, my father continues to pass along to me his own favorites. Literally. In taped cardboard boxes with stamps.
Thanks to my beloved sister, Cammy, who has had my back since before I could crawl, and my brother, Bob, whose talent is only superseded by his generosity.
It’s almost impossible to express my gratitude to my co-author Gay Hendricks. He swooped into my life like a comet and invited me to join him in a space where there’s no such thing as can’t, won’t, or shouldn’t. I thank him for giving me the opportunity to riff with unfettered abandon on his themes, for encouraging me to embrace and embellish the world of Ten, and for telling me I can do no wrong. Writing with him is a joy and an honor, not to mention a total hoot.
To my wonderful ones: Jon, Blossom, Thomas, and Dorothy; and their wonderful ones, Courtney, Brian, Rebecca, and James; and to Daisy and Addie, my hilarious and most remarkable granddaughters. Heartfelt thanks to them all for understanding my need to hole up in my cave and write, and giving me the best incentive anyone could have for stepping outside for fresh air. They are the reason any of this matters.
My gratitude to Patty Gift, Laura Koch, Sally Mason, and the entire creative and editorial team at Hay House, both for their enthusiastic support of our novel and for their brilliant, seemingly effortless ability to adapt and flow with any new idea or challenge that arises.
Thanks to Irene Webb, for saying yes to me first; to Jerome Lewis, for giving me, well, me; and to Peter Chelsom, my dear friend and co-writer—a man who makes work feel like play, understands my obsessive relationship with semicolons, and inspires me every day with his original humor, unique imagination, and loyal heart.
A special shout-out to my writers group: Monique de Varennes, Barbara Sweeney, Emilie Small, Bev Baz, Kathryn Hagen, and Pat Stiles. I am beyond grateful to these talented and amazing women for their friendship, care as readers, and inspiration as writers.
Thanks to John Burridge for introducing me to Wilson Combat Supergrades; to Arjuna Ardagh for recommending me to Gay; and to Kendra Crossen, for her meticulous attention to Tenzing’s Buddhist roots.
And finally, to Cameron Keys: my best friend, my partner, and my muse. You are my magnetic field, surrounding me with love, drawing out the finest from me. You believe in me, and my writing, unconditionally. All I can say is: back at you, my love.
About the Authors
ABOUT
GAY HENDRICKS
Gay Hendricks, Ph.D., has served for more than 35 years as one of the major contributors to the fields of relationship transformation and body-mind therapies. Along with his wife, Dr. Kathlyn Hendricks, Gay is the co-author of many bestsellers, including Conscious Loving and Five Wishes. He is the author of 33 books, including The Corporate Mystic, Conscious Living, and The Big Leap. Dr. Hendricks received his Ph.D. in counseling psychology from Stanford in 1974. After a 21-year career as a professor of Counseling Psychology at the University of Colorado, he and Kathlyn founded the Hendricks Institute, which is based in Ojai, California, and offers seminars worldwide.
In recent years he has also been active in creating new forms of conscious entertainment. In 2003, along with movie producer Stephen Simon, Dr. Hendricks founded the Spiritual Cinema Circle, which distributes inspirational movies to subscribers in 70+ countries around the world (www.spiritualcinemacircle.com). He has appeared on more than 500 radio and television shows, including The Oprah Winfrey Show, CNN, CNBC, 48 Hours, and others.
ABOUT
TINKER LINDSAY
Tinker Lindsay is an accomplished screenwriter, author, and conceptual editor. A member of the Writers Guild of America (WGA), Independent Writers of Southern California (IWOSC), and Women in Film (WIF), she’s worked in the Hollywood entertainment industry for over three decades. Lindsay has written screenplays for major studios such as Disney and Warner Bros., collaborating with award-winning film director Peter Chelsom. Their current screenplay, Hector and the Search for Happiness, is in development with Egoli Tossell Film. She also co-wrote the spiritual epic Buddha: The Inner Warrior with acclaimed Indian director Pan Nalin, as well as the sci-fi remake of The Crawling Eye with Cameron Keys.
Lindsay has authored two books—The Last Great Place and My
Hollywood Ending—and worked with several noted transformational authors, including Peter Russell, Arjuna Ardagh, and Dara Marks.
Lindsay graduated with high honors from Harvard University in English and American Language and Literature, where she was an editor for The Harvard Crimson. She studied and taught meditation for several years before moving to Los Angeles to live and work. She can usually be found writing in her home office situated directly under the Hollywood sign.
AN EXCERPT FROM….
THE SECOND RULE OF
TEN
Topanga Canyon, Calif.
Aug. 2, Year of the Iron Rabbit
Lama Yeshe and Lama Lobsang
Dorje Yidam Monastery
Dharamshala, India
Dear Brothers in Spirit,
I find myself reaching out to you because my own spirit lies heavy in my chest this evening. A few weeks ago a pair of cops in a city just south of here answered a call about a homeless vandal breaking into parked cars. They arrived on the scene and found the culprit at a bus depot nearby. He resisted arrest. They threw him to the ground, shocking him multiple times with their stun guns. Backup cops arrived, mob instinct took over, and soon six cops had tasered and clubbed him into a coma as he cried out for his father…
… who was at home, mere miles away, oblivious to the unfolding catastrophe.
… who was, it turns out, a retired member of the police force.
Three days later, this heartbroken retired cop took his son off life-support, finishing what his brethren had started. And today’s paper tells me the perpetrators are themselves under investigation by the FBI.
Multiple tragedies built on false assumptions. A homeless young man with a mental disorder, beaten to death by my other brothers, the ones in blue who carry badges. And all because they couldn’t see what was actually in front of them—a suffering human being gripped by paranoia, in need of medical attention. They saw the ground-in grime and ragged filth of the chronic vagrant, and assumed “homeless” meant abandoned and disposable, like trash. Maybe even dangerous. Their preconceived prejudices stripped the victim of all humanity.
The First Rule of Ten Page 26