The Fifth Rule of Ten

by Gay Hendricks

“In what way?”

  “He was so confident. Fearless, even. And he made me feel the same way, as if I could do anything. Would do anything, at least for him.”

  “You admired him.”

  “More than that. I worshipped him. I was in awe.” I smiled. “Not just me. Everyone he came into contact with felt the same way. He was only seventeen, but already there was talk that he was destined for greatness.”

  “So what happened?”

  My face flamed—shame does that. “I happened. Or maybe I should say, we happened. He asked me to steal something, and I did. An ancient terma.”

  “Terma?”

  “A secret teaching. In this case, a forbidden one.”

  “And you stole it?”

  “Yes. Then I got cold feet, but it was too late. It led us both down a dark path.”

  “In what way?”

  I met Julie’s eyes. “That’s just it. I can’t remember. All I know is, a local Indian kid died, I was sent home, and Nawang disappeared. But the actual event is just out of reach, you know?” I shrugged. “I do think I’m getting closer. Eric is helping.”

  “But Nawang is definitely your brother?”

  “Half brother. Same father.”

  “But a different mother.”

  “Yes.”

  “Wasn’t that unusual? I mean, for a Buddhist monk?”

  “That’s one word for it.”

  I’d been so distracted by Sonam’s sighting of Nawang that the subject of my father’s “unskilled actions” had died on the vine. Maybe that was Sonam’s intention.

  I groaned. Every time I grew close to trapping a truth, it wriggled out of reach.

  Julie took my hand. Her grip was both firm and pliant. The middle way. “Maybe it’s time for you to see Eric again.”

  I kissed her cheek. “I’m going Monday, first thing.”

  Homer yawned and stretched, rump raised.

  “So, the boys want me to take them to Rodeo Drive,” Julie said.

  “They do?”

  “They like to ‘eye shop,’ apparently. That’s what Yeshe calls it.”

  “Has anybody warned the Beverly Hills police? I’m not sure they’re ready for five Buddhist monks and a bulldog.”

  Julie gave me a sidelong glance. “I thought I’d check out the wedding bands at Harry Winston.”

  “Sounds good. Buy me a Bugatti while you’re at it.”

  Julie was wearing thin cotton leggings. I touched the top of her thigh. Julie shifted closer and a current of longing passed back and forth between us. I was glad to feel the pulse of desire again.

  “I wish . . .” she said.

  “I know. Me, too.”

  TJ appeared across the courtyard talking into a phone, his face animated.

  “TJ has his own cell phone now?” I asked.

  “Refurbished. He bought it for his brother. I guess his family lives in some Tibetan village out in the middle of nowhere.”

  TJ ended the call and hurried back inside.

  “I’d better go back,” Julie said.

  I checked the time. “Same here.” I stood. “I’m meeting someone at Mike’s loft. A conceptual artist by the name of Lia Pootah Chang.”

  Julie raised an eyebrow.

  “Don’t worry. She’s Chinese.”

  “Tenzing Norbu. She’s a sentient being, isn’t she? Where’s your loving-kindness?”

  “Sorry, Jules. Not happening with a Chinese girl. Not in this lifetime.”

  She was laughing softly as my mouth found hers.

  “Even so,” she murmured.

  I reached around her waist and pulled our bodies closer, pressing my length against hers. Our beating hearts were inches apart.

  In this moment, the pulse of our love was strong and steady.

  CHAPTER 43

  “Enter.” Mike’s mop of hair stuck out every which way, as if he’d just rolled out of bed. No doubt he had—late afternoon was early morning to Mike.

  He was dressed for work: a tie-dyed shirt and lightweight drawstring pants that hung low on his bony frame. The hems were frayed from dragging on the floor.

  These were also his sleep clothes.

  “You’re up early,” I said.

  “Don’t start.” He stepped aside. The lack of furniture and proliferation of electronics gave his spacious loft an industrial feel.

  “That’s new.” I pointed to a sectional sofa.

  “Tricia,” Mike said. “She’s desperate to domesticate me.”

  A petite stranger stood by the large picture window. Behind her, the angled metallic wings of the Disney Concert Hall glinted in the sunlight.

  Mike pulled me forward. “Lia Pootah, Ten. Ten, Lia Pootah. Okay, you two. Be nice.” He scuffed to his ergonomic perch in front of three computer screens, a mouse, and a two-tiered keyboard.

  Lia Pootah Chang was tiny, but she radiated intensity. Coal-black eyes, black hair, black fingernails, black toenails. A black-cat tattoo curled around her right bicep, and a short black skirt and sleeveless top completed the monochrome look. Only her lips were a daring slash of bright red.

  She looked like she could body-press twice her weight. Then again she probably tipped the scale at 90 pounds.

  “Thanks for meeting me,” I said.

  “No worries.” She bit at a thumb cuticle then caught herself. “Sorry. Bad habit.” She moved to the far wall and made minuscule adjustments to a row of framed black-and-white photographs—homeless people doing a dance, it looked like.

  “Burning Man,” she said. “I took these.”

  “She’s fierce with a camera,” Mike announced from the corner.

  I wanted to sit but felt awkward about it, since Lia Pootah wouldn’t stop moving. I settled for leaning against the back of the sofa. “I’m curious to see this interview,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, about that . . .”

  “It’s bullshit!” Mike called.

  “Tell that to my lawyer!” Lia Pootah shot back. She shrugged at me. “No can do. I forgot I signed an agreement. I can’t let anyone see the interview until Maha Mudra gives the go-ahead. And I can’t seem to reach her.”

  A bitter taste filled my mouth. “That’s disappointing.”

  “And ludicrous,” Mike chimed in.

  Lia Pootah’s eyes gleamed. “Relax. She didn’t say anything about letting someone hear it.”

  Mike marched over. He had about 14 inches on Lia Pootah. Add on his wild crown of hair and he towered over her. He held out his hand. “Give.”

  She handed Mike her phone. He laughed. “You’re kidding, right?” he teased.

  “What? This is my backup audio! You’re the one always talking about backups, asshole!”

  Their fiery friendship was fueled by a particular kind of heat. If I were Tricia, I’d take note.

  I stored the thought in the bulging “Not My Business” file, where it would stay. Nothing good came from nosing around in there.

  Mike found a USB connection and hooked her phone to a deck that looked like a trash can full of wires. He fingered through cables, following two that led to a pair of tall speakers. Just watching him made my head hurt.

  He nodded to himself and pressed something on her screen.

  “Testing, testing.” Lia Pootah’s voice. Sort of. If she was a robot on a strict diet of rusty nails.

  “What the fuck?!” Mike fiddled with the speaker connections.

  Lia Pootah buzzed to his side and slapped his hand away. “Hey! It’s on purpose! I used a voice-changing app.”

  Mike’s look was admiring. “Shut the front door!”

  “I know. Sick, right?”

  If this Gen-X foreplay went on much longer, I was going to need my own brain-changing app. “Can I hear the interview, please?’

  “You be the kahuna,” Mike said. Lia Pootah giggled. Mike started the recording again.

  “Testing, testing. Interview with Maha Mudra, Monday, May twenty-ninth, two thousand and fourteen.”

  The first day
of Saka Dawa. Interesting.

  I’d brought along my notepad and pen. I flipped to a blank page and wrote down the date and its significance.

  Lia Pootah’s voice continued; robotic, almost disembodied, but my ears quickly adjusted.

  “So, Maha Mudra. I like your name, by the way. What does it mean?”

  “Nothing,” an equally toneless voice answered, though a little lower in pitch. “Names are meaningless. What matters is Atma.”

  Atma, I wrote down. Hindu term? Same meaning as Buddhist Atman? The first referred to the individual soul, the second to a kind of collective world spirit. I appreciated Lia Pootah’s next question.

  “Atma? Can you be more specific?”

  “At ma. I am that. That which cannot be destroyed. Uncuttable, like the atom. Decide to be that first. Otherwise, you revisit old wounds again and again. Like chewing old gum. You want to chew old gum? Go for it. Or don’t.”

  Chewing gum, I wrote. Added old. Then crossed the whole thing out. It looked ridiculous.

  “So you’re saying . . .”

  “That is the role of guru. Gu means sticky stuff. Ru means the one who removes. Guru is the one who removes the stickiness of life. Guru is heavy inside, from swallowing all the ignorance.”

  Guru = removing sticky stuff.

  I set the notebook aside. Sticky or not, none of this was adhering. Maybe Lia Pootah would send me a link to the interview.

  Lia Pootah sounded pretty befuddled herself, or her robot version did. “Can we just . . . can we talk about your attitude toward the feminine in your spiritual practice?”

  “Always the male and the female,” answered the flat mechanical voice. “Without both present, how can we have ultimate beauty?”

  “So you see them as equal?”

  Mike repeated the question with a mocking robotic delivery. “So. You. See. Them. As. Equal.” Lia Pootah threw a punch at his arm, but he hopped out of the way.

  “Atma,” the monotoned voice continued. “Nothing else matters. That intense feeling you think only exists between two people? That one special love? Temporary madness. A tiny drop of what is possible. You must want Atma more than anything else. You must be mad for beauty. Mad for love. Are you listening?”

  “Yes, but as regards the male dominance of certain . . .”

  “What looks like madness is the soul, searching for commitment. For devotion. For bhakti. This is not madness, this is sanity.”

  “I’m sorry. Bock tea? Can you spell that?”

  “You are here for a reason.”

  “Yes. I’m interviewing a lot of . . .”

  “You are here for a reason. You came to me. Something in you craves bliss. Do not waste this opportunity. This is what the guru is for.”

  “Okay, well . . .”

  “Nothing is permanent. Nothing else matters but this. The day you move to another womb, you leave all your toys behind. I have enough. Say it.”

  “I’m sorry? Another room?”

  “Womb. Mother’s womb. Say it. ‘I have enough.’”

  “I have enough.”

  “I have enough.”

  “I have enough.”

  “This is embodied Atma. Buddha-nature. Bhakti.”

  “But you still haven’t answered my . . .” A pause. “Where are you . . . ? You’re leaving already?” Lia Pootah’s robot voice could not disguise the stress.

  “You waste my time. Just as you waste your life. Namchuwangdan. He’s coming. It’s time. But you will be asleep.”

  The sound of a door opening, then closing.

  Dead air. Then Lia Pootah’s unaltered voice returned, taking charge: “Shit. Wow. Okay. So, umm, that was pretty weird. Interview concluded with Maha Mudra. I guess.” And a final, brittle laugh.

  “Yeah, so, that’s it,” Lia Pootah said.

  I looked up from my notebook to see Mike twirling a finger around his right temple. “Seriously,” he said. “That bitch is nutso.”

  “I know. Right?” Lia Pootah bit at another cuticle. “No way am I using her for my show, now that I listened to that again. Can you imagine the troll comments? Talk about flame bait.”

  “What do you think, boss?” Mike turned to me. “This stuff should be right up your alley.”

  I reread the phrases I’d just written down. He’s coming. It’s time. “Lia Pootah, where did this interview take place?”

  “Some empty warehouse waayyy downtown. The whole thing was pretty random. I didn’t even find out the location until a half hour before we met. By anonymous text. Talk about paranoid.”

  “Can you get me the address?”

  “Sure, I can look it up, but like I said, the building was empty. She said something about curtains, though.”

  “Curtains.”

  “Yeah. That people went there for curtains.”

  This jiggled something loose, but it floated off before I could grab hold.

  “Use the bathroom, Mike?” Lia Pootah didn’t wait for an answer. She ducked inside a door to one side of Mike and Tricia’s raised king-size bed.

  Mike had returned to his cove of computers.

  “So boss, that website you sent me? I moused it up, but no dice. Shut down already.” His fingers flew across the keyboard as he stared at one of the monitors. “Come see.” He motioned me over.

  The screen displayed a “This website is no longer active” message. “Been finding a buttload of these, by the by. Fund-raising events. Spiritual gatherings. They show up for a few days, and then they’re gone, straight into the black hole. All of them routed by Tor and connected to your favorite server.”

  “Indra’s Net?’

  Mike pointed to me. “Bang.”

  “But why? What does that mean?”

  “Means they want to be seen, but they don’t want to be found.”

  My head was spinning. Like Collie.

  A key turned in the front door and Tricia shouldered her way inside. A heavy canvas bag swung from the crease of her right elbow. She set the bag down with a thud and it tipped, spilling textbooks. Her left arm balanced an extra-large pizza container.

  I gave Tricia a little wave.

  “Hey, Ten!” She stepped over the spilled books. Her voice cooled several degrees as Lia Pootah emerged from the bathroom. “Oh. Lia Pootah.”

  Mike looked like a spooked giraffe galumphing across the floor to Tricia. “I got that.” He grabbed for the pizza.

  “I can do it.” Tricia spun away and stalked into the kitchen area.

  Uh-oh. Tricia and Mike were on the brink of slipping into the three-step waltz of bad relationship roles: victim, rescuer, persecutor; victim, rescuer, persecutor; one-two-three, one-two-three.

  By the counter, Tricia was a ramrod ready to force its charge. She didn’t say another word. She didn’t have to.

  “Okay, well, thanks Mike.” I edged for the door. “You coming, Lia Pootah?”

  Spots of scarlet marked her cheekbones. “What? Oh. Yeah.” She disconnected her phone from the tangle of wires and followed me out the front door.

  We rode the elevator down in silence. With any luck, a sweaty conversation was taking place above us. If not, there was sure to be more trouble ahead.

  We stood at the crosswalk, waiting for the light to change. I’d somehow snagged a metered spot directly across from Mike’s building. Multistory apartment complexes lined both sides of this avenue, and available parking was rare.

  “Need a ride?”

  Lia Pootah was staring at the ground.

  “It’s not like anything happened.” She knuckled her cheeks. For a split second, her tough veneer cracked. “I just think he’s cool, you know?”

  Maha Mudra’s robotic voice seemed to echo through the urban canyon.

  That intense feeling you think can only be between two people? That one special love . . . ? Temporary madness.

  I passed Lia Pootah my handkerchief.

  “Thanks.” She wiped her eyes, leaving black smears. “Oh, great. Now I look like a fuck
ing raccoon.” Her smile was watery as she handed the hankie back. “Horrible animals.”

  “Hey,” I said. “Raccoons are sentient beings, too, you know. Where’s your loving-kindness?”

  She laughed, and I realized I no longer disliked her.

  The human heart isn’t Chinese, or Tibetan. It just is. And sometimes, it just wants what it wants. Until, being human, it gets distracted by something else.

  Lia Pootah’s eyes widened. “Is that your Mustang?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sixty-five Shelby?”

  I nodded, impressed.

  “Oh, snap!” Her good humor restored, Lia Pootah opened her iPhone, scrolled through some images, and flashed me a photo of a beautifully restored gold El Torino. “Meet Baby,” she said. “I did the work myself.”

  I tried to enlarge the image, but swiped to the next picture by mistake. A selfie. The right half of Lia Pootah’s face grinned in an empty parking lot. Behind her was a squat cement building with a row of narrow openings lining the top like bunker windows.

  “Weird.”

  “What.”

  “I feel like I know that building,” I said.

  She took the phone. “Oh. That’s where I did the interview. I have the address somewhere.” Her fingers danced. “Here it is. Eleventh and Main.”

  Adrenaline sent my energy spiking. “I knew it. I’ve been there. They hold underground concerts in that place. Electronic music. I went there a few years ago, to meet Mike.”

  The experience came back in a rush. The secret codes and texts from the organizers. The switched locations and times, keeping the event off the radar of any authorities. The warehouse room packed with young people, high on X, arms waving.

  The woman at the door with the red bindi.

  “Whatever.” Lia Pootah shrugged. “Like I said, they use it for curtains now.”

  “Lia Pootah, you’re a genius! Not curtains. Kirtans.”

  “That’s what I . . .”

  “With a K. A kirtan is a special form of devotional chanting. Part of the bhakti tradition. They have huge kirtan concerts in India. All over the world now, actually.”

  I pulled out my phone.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “Mike.” Oh. I paused before I pressed his number. “Sorry, I . . .”

  But Lia Pootah was halfway down the sidewalk. “Knock yourself out,” she called over her shoulder.