The Fifth Rule of Ten

by Gay Hendricks

  It usually does.

  CHAPTER 7

  I paused at the head of the driveway to check my pulse. One hundred and thirty-two beats per minute. Good. I’d run long and hard this morning. Then I checked the mailbox, also a habit, though delivery was in the afternoon.

  A single white envelope lay inside. My name and address were block-printed by hand in blue ink. No return address. No stamp.

  It was probably another irrigation reminder from our die-hard environmentalist neighbor. She’d taken to leaving helpful drought-related fliers in all our mailboxes. The last one recommended soaker hoses for slow-dripping any live oaks on our properties.

  I jogged slowly up the graveled lane. Inside the house I tossed the unopened envelope next to the stack of unpaid bills on my desk. My work was also suffering a drought. Sorry, soaker hoses were not in the budget.

  It was so quiet. Julie and Homer were long gone. My cat and I were alone. The silence was both welcome and unnerving. I’d grown used to the little sounds of a shared life. Tank and I generated a lot less noise, but we also generated less warmth.

  Not to say that I didn’t relish the rare opportunity to take all the time I needed for a full set of yoga stretches on the deck, without Homer sniffing and licking at my face; or to enjoy a full hour of uninterrupted meditation with only the distant call of mourning doves to visit the silence; or to sprint the perimeter of Topanga State Park, muscles screaming, fully alone with my thoughts.

  I seem to be blessed, or maybe it’s cursed, with a constitution that craves solitude. I require doses of deep stillness or I start losing an essential piece of who or what I am. I realized I’d been missing myself—had been for a while.

  I peeled off my running clothes, showered, and ran an unnecessary brush over my cropped black hair. My reflection looked the same as always. Vaguely Asian, as Bill liked to say. Julie thought I was ridiculously handsome, but then she would. I saw a pleasant-enough-looking man, but one whose nature was tinged with a sadness he could never completely access or erase.

  “Cheer up,” I said, and faked a smile.

  Tank wandered in to investigate.

  “Just me, buddy. Talking to myself.”

  I dressed quickly. Jeans. White T-shirt. Flip-flops. Moving to the kitchen, I poured a mug of coffee. Julie had tracked down Peruvian beans untreated by poisons and untainted by child laborers. The taste was slightly acidic, but as she liked to remind me, it was a small price to pay. I carried the mug to my office—a workstation set at an angle in the far corner of the living room.

  I may have the best commute in Los Angeles.

  I put in a call to Kim. As I waited, I picked up the photograph of her and Bobby. If last night’s hunch was correct, the green helmet on Bobby’s head wasn’t plastic, and it wasn’t a toy. It was real. And it was way too large for him because it probably belonged to his father.

  “Hello, this is Kim speaking.”

  “It’s Ten. I have a question. Was your father ever in the military? The army, maybe?”

  “I do not know, Mr. Norbu,” she said. Her tongue stud tap-tapped against her teeth, a personal Morse code indicating distress. “I am sorry. Is it important?”

  “Not to worry. What’s your father’s first name?”

  “Oh,” she said. “Dave.”

  “Dave Smith. That’s your father’s name.” Oh, man. Couldn’t someone on that side of the family have tried for something even slightly unusual? Wangdue Smith, for example?

  “My mother always called him That Fucking Asshole Dave, Mr. Norbu. But you can probably disregard everything but the Dave part.” She coughed softly.

  I was stunned.

  “Kim, did you just make . . . ?”

  “Yes, Mr. Norbu. I made a joke.” She coughed again, or maybe that was how she laughed. I’d never heard her do either before. “I have to go now Mr. Norbu.” And she hung up.

  I stared at the phone. Kim moved through her life as if every action was a discrete occurrence, with its own specific lifespan, usually brief. Once its time was up, it was up. She was remarkably efficient, and one of the hardest workers I’d ever come across. But for me, her fascinating oddness was maybe her strongest draw. Like the view from my deck, she never presented the same face twice.

  I did some calculating. If Kim was 4 in the picture, and she was 26 now, that meant the picture was taken in 1992. Which meant Bobby was born in 1983, although that didn’t mean Dave Smith was no longer in the service. Soldiers on leave got their wives pregnant all the time.

  The helmet was olive green and looked well worn, as if it had served active time. I suspected it was army, but just in case, I’d make the parameters of my Google search nice and wide.

  I typed Army/Navy Military Helmets, 1960–1985 into the search bar, pressed enter, and let the engine do its thing. A dozen or more links appeared, but they seemed weirdly unrelated to my quest. Mostly they sent me to Veterans Affairs. I tried Google Images. The pictures that popped up were equally random—a minor-league football poster, a medal of merit. I did find one helmet, but it looked nothing like mine. I went back to the earlier links and started to scroll and open my way down the list.

  This time I got lucky, on an eBay link to collectible military gear, of all things. I found a visual match almost immediately.

  I was looking at a U.S. Army–issue steel pot helmet liner, dull green, and minus its camouflage covering. I dug deeper into the Internet now that my helmet had a name. The steel pot liner was first issued to ground troops during the Second World War and was used up until the mid 1980s, when the Kevlar helmet, or K-pot liner, replaced it. I assumed Dave was too young for Korea, and the helmet was too old for Bosnia. That put Kim and Bobby’s father squarely in the blood-soaked fields and jungles of Vietnam.

  The Vietnam War. According to many, one of America’s most damaging examples of misdirected commitment. Its veterans were still paying with their wounded psyches. As a rookie patrol officer I’d encountered dozens of them passed out on Skid Row, victims of untreated post-traumatic stress disorder. Kim and her mother were probably far better off without Dave Smith in their lives.

  Okay. I had a lead. Now I could fritter away hours I didn’t have, or I could lean on my friend Bill. What else were ex-partners still on the force for?

  Happily, Bill was in his office, and he was answering his phone.

  “Hey, Norbu. Don’t tell me. You and Julie are ready to tie the knot.”

  “All in good time.”

  “Yeah, well, we both know good time doesn’t stand a chance against Martha time. She’s back on the warpath, lining up potential venues. You’d think we were talking about a fucking inaugural ball, though given what these assholes want to charge, I’m sure it will cost you more. You got a job yet?”

  “Not exactly.” I was glad to hear Bill’s teasing tone. Last year, when he and Martha were separated, there was little to joke about. But he came to his senses and came back home, and now they’d been meeting with a counselor. Their marriage was healing daily.

  “Well, I’m sure you didn’t call me out of the goodness of your heart. What gives?”

  “I’m trying to trace a Vietnam vet, name of Dave Smith. Actually, I’m looking for his son, Bobby Smith, but first things first. The thing is, my military contacts presently consist of a bunch of vagrants on Third and Main and a lesbian FBI agent who only answers my call when it’s code orange and above. Can you help a partner out?”

  “I might know a guy,” Bill said.

  “I thought you might.”

  “I had a John Doe last year. Homeless dude, shot himself in Tellefson Park. Only ID was a dog tag in his pocket, everything rubbed off but the last three numbers of his social. Dave ID’d him in less than a day.”

  “Dave?”

  “Yeah, his name’s also Dave. Dave Brown.”

  “Of course it is.”

  Bill read off contact information and I jotted it down. “He works out of Phoenix. Runs the Benefits Department, Western divi
sion. You could also try the L.A. branch office but they’re worse than useless. Dave’s your best bet. Tell him you got his name from me.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How’s the Kumbaya fest going?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Isn’t this the week you’re saving Tibet?”

  “Right. It’s going well. Everyone got here safe and sound. You guys should come to the temple this Thursday. Bring the girls. They’re celebrating Buddha’s birthday.”

  “Just what I need. More birthday parties.”

  “You can meet my two oldest friends.”

  “Just what I need, more monks.”

  I waited.

  “Ah, hell, it’s time Lola and Maude got exposed to their Uncle Ten’s sordid past. God knows we all got ’em, right?” His laugh was a little hollow.

  “How’s everything going with that?”

  “It’s going. I got therapists and counselors up the wazoo, but it’s going.”

  Bill and Martha’s marital crisis had been precipitated by the unwelcome discovery last July that he’d had an affair two decades ago while stationed in Bosnia. An illegitimate son, Sasha, was the result. When Sasha suddenly dropped out of sight, his mother, Mila, and grandmother Irena showed up to ask Bill for help. The ensuing clash of commitments had left everyone, myself included, bruised and shaken. The drama took all of us to a dark and dangerous place. People died, and I was changed, but not necessarily in a good way.

  I shook off the chill of bad memories.

  “So I’ll see you then?”

  “Just promise me you won’t be up on the stage levitating or something.”

  “I promise. And thanks for the army contact, Bill. I owe you.”

  “Actually, now that I have you on the line, I got something I want to run by you.”

  “Something exciting?” My pulse quickened, a reflexive instinct.

  “Not sure about exciting, but definitely weird. A couple of locals from Beachwood Canyon were hiking up in Griffith Park this morning, and they got seriously spooked. The front desk routed their call to me, for lack of a better idea.”

  “What do you mean, spooked?”

  “Freaked out. I sent Sully and Mack to take a look. Apparently they take this hike every day, and they swear on a stack of bibles the fucking thing must have showed up overnight.”

  “What showed up?” Bill loved to draw these stories out, just to get to me.

  “Dead body,” he said. “Or I should say, the insinuation of a dead body. The actual body was nowhere to be found.”

  “Somebody moved it?”

  “The hikers say no. Not nearby, anyway. They looked.”

  “A dead body but no corpse, just an insinuation? Bill, what are you talking about?”

  “I’m getting to that. Somebody left a coroner’s outline, right where the dirt path turns into asphalt. Life-size. Couple of gang tags next to it, as well.”

  “Sounds more like vandalism than homicide.”

  “I would agree. Except these taggers didn’t use spray cans, and they didn’t use paint.”

  Dread pricked my forearms. “Go on.”

  “Fuckers used blood.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Bill said he’d report back to me once he had more information on this art project from hell. I knew what he was doing. He was trying to get me back in the saddle. But I wasn’t going to let the mystery fire up my cylinders the way it would have not that long ago.

  It had nothing to do with me.

  I moved outside to the deck and let the midday sun warm my arms and face.

  I slammed the railing with one fist.

  Who was I trying to fool? I hadn’t felt remotely challenged by anything in months, ever since I’d returned from that frenzied trip to Bosnia-Herzegovina. I’d actively sought out calmer cases, the PI version of misdemeanors as opposed to felonies; deadbeat dads and insurance-claim scammers, the staple diet of most private detectives. But lately even these small, dull jobs had dried up. And lately I couldn’t shake off the feeling that I might never earn enough again, with or without a fire in my belly.

  In the canyon, a topcoat of green riffled, live oak and eucalyptus leaves stroked into motion by a warm breeze blowing in from the ocean. The air tasted stale, and the light suddenly seemed to dim.

  A wave of dizziness blindsided me. My mouth filled with an acrid mixture of bile and panic. I bent in two, head below my knees, until the nausea passed.

  What was going on with me?

  I hustled inside and dialed Phoenix. Distraction was the obvious solution.

  “Veterans Affairs, Dave Brown speaking.” His voice was hoarse, as if filtered through dust.

  I told him my dilemma.

  “Tried your local office?”

  “Bill Bohannon suggested you might be more efficient.”

  “He’s got that right.” He hacked out a laugh, which led to a bout of wheezing. “Worthless asswipes, most of ’em. Gimme what you got. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “It’s not much. The father’s name is David Smith. Probably served sometime between 1965 and 1972, I’m guessing in Vietnam or maybe Cambodia. He lived in California for at least a decade afterward. All I know is he was army. Thanks, I’ll be here all day.”

  “Who said anything about all day? Lemme put you on hold for a few minutes. Think you can hold on to your horses that long?”

  Tinny music filled my ear. Tank wandered over, and I stroked the thin silk that papered his ears.

  “Found the fucker,” Dave rasped. “Corporal David Smith. Believe it or not, only Dave Smith over there during that time frame. What are the odds? Looks like he lives in San Diego. What’s your e-mail address?”

  I gave it to him.

  “Nailed it, by the way. Smith was stationed in Danang in ’69 and ’70. Almost identical time as me. Never ran into him, though. Same hell, different hole I guess.”

  My e-mail pinged.

  “Got it. You’re fast.”

  “I have my ways. I sent a recent address, plus a home phone, though these days who the fuck knows what anyone uses to communicate? He’s been cashing in his disability benefit checks since he moved to that address, and if he’d moved again, believe me, he would have let us know.”

  “And if he died?”

  “He’s alive. I can’t guarantee what kind of shape he’s in, but he’s definitely alive.”

  “What’s the disability?”

  “Can’t tell. Could be anything from tinnitus to the big C. Maybe his lungs are for shit, like mine. We were all practically mainlining Agent Orange over there. Why—does it matter?”

  “Not really. I just prefer to know who I’m dealing with.”

  “Don’t we all, pal, don’t we all.”

  CHAPTER 9

  I called the number, newly energized, and proceeded to sit through nine or ten rings. Just as I was about to quit, someone picked up.

  “Not interested, asshole. Don’t call here again,” a voice growled before I got out a word. Click.

  My work number comes up as unknown caller, for obvious reasons. A private detective hunting down a lead doesn’t want to broadcast the fact. Unfortunately, that means some people assume you’re a different kind of hunter, a hungry salesman robo-calling unsuspecting victims.

  I dialed again. This time, he didn’t answer at all.

  Now what?

  Tank chose this moment to butt my calf with his head. I checked the time. It was well past noon.

  “Sorry. I lost track.” But my cat had disappeared.

  I found Tank hovering by his food dish. When your live-in fiancée is a trained chef, meals magically appear at their proper times. But today we were just a couple of bachelors, on our own.

  I took full advantage. Don’t get me wrong, I’d never eaten better or healthier food in my life than with Julie as our in-house cook, and my trim waistline proved it. But Julie wasn’t here today, was she?

  “Dessert first, my friend,” I said.

  I t
reated Tank to a bowl of fresh-squeezed tuna juice, straight from the can. Julie worried about the mercury, but Tank did love it so.

  “Don’t get used to this,” I told him.

  As he lapped up the fishy nectar, I made myself the biggest, gooiest peanut-butter-and-honey sandwich this side of the Himalayas, adding a layer of sliced bananas for good measure. I washed the whole thing down with a glass of cold milk and licked the sticky overflow from my fingers and plate. Sometimes a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.

  Tank’s bowl, too, was tongued clean. I forked in a half can of organic beef and chicken, vegetables included, no grains or additives allowed, so my conscience wouldn’t prick.

  “Party’s over. Eat your meat and veggies,” I said to Tank.

  I forced down a farmer’s market carrot for the same reason and got back to work.

  The stubborn corporal still wasn’t answering his phone, and no recording or service clicked on to accept my message.

  I Googled Smith’s address. He lived in the City Heights section of San Diego, just east of midcity. The address was close to University Avenue, but the actual building lay like an afterthought on a side street, a cul-de-sac off the main thoroughfare that looked about as necessary to the neighborhood’s survival as the appendix was to the human body.

  I called Julie.

  “Hey, Yeshe and I were just talking about you.” I heard a bell clang.

  “Where are you?”

  “Trader Joe’s. For the third time. I need to seriously school these guys in the art of making a list.” She lowered her voice. “You should see them shopping. It’s hilarious.”

  I felt a pang. “I thought everyone would be resting today.”

  “Nope. Full speed ahead with this crew. They’ve been up for hours. How about you? I’ve been picturing you sitting in the kitchen in your underwear guzzling beer and scooping out peanut butter with your bare hands.”

  “Witch,” I said.

  “Not that yoghurt, Yeshe,” I heard, “get the Greek one.”

  I was missing a lot. Already.

  “Okay, I’m back. So, what time should we plan on dinner tonight?”