The First Rule of Ten tnm-1

by Gay Hendricks

  A split second later, he did it. He opened his jaws. The hummingbird dropped, wet and stunned. Maybe already dead. Tank and I waited. Then the little bird rose straight up like a helicopter, darted left, and hovered nearby, no doubt giving thanks to whatever hummingbird-deity they call on in such situations.

  Tank was pretty smug about the whole incident. I tried to reinforce this by praising him vociferously for allowing a fellow sentient being to live.

  As I zipped my Wilson inside its nylon pistol rug and retrieved the Glock from its aluminum case, I took note of the irony. Here I couldn’t bear for a hummingbird to die, but I was making sure my handguns stayed good and lethal for fellow bipeds.

  On the other hand, as far as I know, hummingbirds don’t turn homicidal.

  I repeated the entire cleaning process with my service gun. Then I tidied up and locked both weapons and the cleaning kit back in the safe. I paused for a moment by the closet, sensing the weight of my feet pressing against the floor, enjoying the flow of air expanding and contracting my lungs…. For the first time in days, I felt centered, ready for my new life.

  My ancient fax machine emitted a strangled squawk from the other room and beeped haltingly before spitting out pages. A quick glance told me it was Zimmy’s legal document, as promised. I made myself a fresh pot of coffee and sat at the kitchen table to read.

  Florio’s contract was a simple two-page agreement, granting permission for the law firm TFJ amp; Associates to seek unpaid royalties owed to Zimmy by several record companies. Benign, at first reading.

  I reread, slowly, pausing to underline any passages that confused me. A couple of dubious clauses earned that privilege.

  The first: If royalties are recovered, TFJ amp; Associates shall be entitled to 35 percent of said moneys. The number seemed high to me, but what do I know? I made a note to check on similar contingency-type legal efforts.

  A second passage also caught my eye: TFJ amp; Associates shall be entitled to reimbursement for legal fees and expenses incurred during the recovery effort, said reimbursement to precede division of royalties. No mention of a cap on the fees and expenses. I’m not a lawyer, but this seemed to me an open invitation to skim off the top, big time, leaving Florio and Company licking cream off their whiskers, and Zimmy no better off.

  But the capper, the red flag flapping wildly in the breeze, was the final section, stating that TFJ amp; Associates would purchase a “Key man” term life insurance policy in the name of Zimmy Backus. If Zimmy should die before royalties were recovered, guess who was named as sole beneficiary? Hint: it wasn’t baby Burroughs.

  I called Mike, waking him up.

  “Key man policies,” I said. “What are they?”

  Mike groaned, but he knew the faster I got an answer, the faster he could go back to sleep.

  “Logging on,” he muttered. “Searching … Searching … and … here we go. Okay: a company will sometimes take out a Key man, or Key person policy on a corporate executive when his or her death would cause significant financial strain to the business.”

  “Interesting,” I said.

  “Yeah, I’m guessing like an Oprah, say, or an Ely Broad. Someone irreplaceable. Going back to sleep now, boss.”

  I applied my new knowledge to the contract before me. From what Mike said, corporate beneficiaries usually came into play in situations where huge money was at stake, not the relatively minor unclaimed residuals of a retired rocker name of Zimmy Backus. Why was this clause in there, making TFJ amp; Associates the beneficiary? Why would they exclude Zimmy’s surviving family from participating?

  I knew the answer, of course. Greed. They wanted the “filthy lucre” for themselves, to borrow a phrase from Dr. Watson. I moved to the phone. Time to check in on Buster’s widow, Beulah. It took about eight rings before a paper-thin voice quavered hello. I introduced myself.

  “Who?” she said.

  “Tenzing, Mrs. Redman. Tenzing Norbu. I’m a friend of Zimmy Backus.”

  “Louder, dear,” she said.

  This might take a while.

  I raised my voice and upped my enunciation, and soon we were getting along famously. Beulah may have been hard of hearing, but her humor was sharp and her mind lucid.

  “Yes, young man. Buster signed the contract. He was a trusting man, my husband. Me, I thought Mr. Florio was slippery as sin. Any man takes that much time with his clothes, got to be compensating for something. Plus, he had a short upper lip. My daddy was a salesman. He taught me, never trust a man with a short upper lip.”

  I couldn’t help it. I pressed my fingertip against my upper lip, measuring. It seemed okay. Trouble is, I had no idea what constituted short.

  “Do you know the total amount of the royalties Mr. Florio was hoping to recover for your husband?”

  “Let’s see. I believe it was somewhere around two hundred thousand dollars. Or so he claimed. Seemed high to me.”

  I did a quick calculation.

  “So, after Mr. Florio’s cut, Buster would have ended up with maybe a hundred and thirty?”

  “If you say so. And Lord knows, we could have used it. We were having some money troubles. Buster thought Mr. Florio had been sent straight from heaven. I was thinking he was more likely from that other place, the one full of brimstone.” Beulah sighed. “Anyway, thank Jesus we got the insurance money. At least now I’m getting by.”

  I was pleasantly surprised. “Florio paid out on the life insurance policy?”

  “Mr. Florio? Come again?”

  I gave her a quick explanation of the Key man clause.

  She said, “I don’t know anything about that. I’m talking about the policy Buster had. Fifty thousand dollars. We’ve been paying on it for years. How much was the other one for?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but I plan to find out.” I chose my next words with care. “Mrs. Redman, I understand you had your … suspicions about Buster’s death.” I needn’t have worried. Beulah was all too happy to let loose a fresh diatribe, well-rehearsed, against the ageism, racism, and flat stupidity of the medical establishment when it came to the death of an old black man.

  “He was doing fine. Then he wilted almost overnight, like a daisy in an empty glass. He was fine, and then he was gone. What’s natural about that, I ask you? I’m sorry. I have to go. I’m getting all worked up.” And she hung up.

  I jotted down a recap of our conversation. I mulled over Beulah’s suspicions, which led me back to Barbara’s. I called Mike.

  He answered with the forced alertness of a man who’s still dead asleep.

  “Where are you with Maxey?” I said.

  “What? No good-morning?”

  “Good morning,” I said. “Where are you with Maxey?”

  “Jesus, Ten. Who died and made you captain of the go-getter’s club?”

  I waited. Heard Mike pop a can of caffeine. Got my pen ready.

  “So. She’s a strange one. It’s like she fell off the face of the earth for ten years while she was in the cult. I did hunt down a couple of mug shots before she found God, while she was still with Zimmy B. They got busted for possession. Neither did any time for it, though. Things were a little looser then.”

  “Find out anything about the cult?”

  “Does Humpty Dumpty have balance issues?”

  “Who?”

  He chuckled. “Brush up on your nursery rhymes, Ten.”

  “Oh. Okay.” With an ex-patriot alcoholic for a mother, and a Tibetan monk for a father, my upbringing was pretty lean on traditional bedtime verse. Maybe having Bill’s twins in my life would help fill in the gaps.

  “So, the cult’s called Children of Paradise. No relation to the movie. Forty members, give or take. Their slogan is ‘God Will Provide.’ Inventive, no?”

  “Okay, so originality is not their strong suit. What else?”

  “What else is, they’re camped on land out in the boonies, past Lancaster. They’re like those uncontacted tribes, living in a collection of yurts on a
buttload of undeveloped acreage. Which they own, by the way. Jointly. I checked. Forty-two members. Every one of them is on the deed.”

  Forty-two, minus one.

  “Google Earth doesn’t work up there, but I found a picture of the place in an old Sacramento Bee article. I’ll send you the link. Sorry, I mean, I’ll print it out and fax a copy to you. Or should I use pony express?”

  “I’m working on the new computer, Mike. First I have to earn some money.”

  “I hear you. So, and this is refreshingly different, Children of Paradise got busted a few years back for stealing electricity from the power lines that connect to a hog farm up the road.”

  “God doesn’t provide electricity?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Anything else?”

  “You’re a greedy little sucker, for a monk. That’s about it for now. I’ll keep looking.”

  “Good work, Mike. In the meantime, I need your help with another matter.”

  “Ten, I do have an actual job that pays me,” Mike said.

  I gave him a moment to remember how he got that job.

  “Never mind,” he sighed. “Shoot.”

  “Is there any way you can find out how much life insurance money was paid to a company called TFJ and Associates, on behalf of a musician they insured?”

  “What’s the musician’s name?”

  “I doubt you’ve heard of him. Buster Redman.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Ten, if you’d bothered to join Facebook, you’d know I posted a remix edit of Buster Redman’s ’77 track ‘Tender Is Rough’ just last week. I’ve been sampling the dude for years, along with every other digital deejay I know. He’s like the poor man’s Isaac Hayes, only more badass. So, yes, I will definitely run this down. Which insurance company?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re killing me, man,” he said. “There are like a trillion insurance companies, and most of them are locked up pretty tight. Could be a mother to crack.”

  I waited.

  “Give me an hour.” Mike sighed. “First I have to break into the Royal Bank of Scotland’s security system. For a metric load of pounds, I might add.”

  “In that case, hurry up,” I said. “Bankers are just thieves. I’ve got a killer to catch.”

  CHAPTER 10

  It was close to dusk when my cell phone buzzed. I was in the garage, polishing the Mustang with an old T-shirt. Tank was hiding underneath the chassis. By now he’d figured out I was on some kind of major sanitizing tear, and he feared for his furry life. Free time was not his friend.

  I stepped outside, making my way to a cellular sweet spot next to the eucalyptus.

  “Hey, Mike,” I said.

  “No time,” he answered, “so I’ll make it quick.”

  He sounded tired and wired. I wondered how much rocket-fuel he’d consumed today.

  “Item Number One: Children of Paradise was founded by a guy who called himself Master Paul-real name Paul Alan Scruggs. He died three years ago. A legitimate nut, if there is such a thing. He used all his savings to buy this property and start his own church. Made everyone who came with him a part owner.”

  “Paul Alan Scruggs. Got it.” I said.

  “Item Two: I got lucky on the insurance thing. I found a policy assigned to TFJ by a smaller company, National Life.”

  “Excellent!”

  “Well … maybe. The thing is, it wasn’t on Redman-it was for a woman named Freda Wilson. Ever heard of her?”

  “No.”

  “Neither had I, but I did a search. Guess what line of work she’s in?”

  “She’s an old-time rock-and-roller.”

  “Close,” he said. “She had a couple hits on the country charts back in the late seventies. She was a teenage phenomenon, a real looker, blond and built, with the pipes of an angel, but her success was short-lived.”

  Two-hit wonders in R amp;B, Rock, and now Country. An eclectic bunch of has-been musicians, comprising their own uncontacted tribe. Until Tommy Florio unearthed them.

  “Did you find out how much the policy is for?”

  “Sure did. Two million bucks.”

  This was getting interesting.

  Mike said, “I bet I can guess what your next question is going to be.”

  “How’s Freda’s health?”

  He laughed. “Smart man. Good news on that front. She’s alive and kicking in the San Fernando Valley. Her home’s a one-bedroom in Van Nuys, so she’s definitely not living large. I’ll text you her address. Then I’m done for the day. Which brings me to Three: I’m deejaying tonight at the Ecco. I’ll stake you the cover charge. Interested?”

  I declined politely. I was about as interested as I was in getting a root canal, but I wasn’t going to tell Mike that. Anyway, I had my own tracks to lay.

  I opened my Thomas Brothers and worked out my route-old school, but with no Internet, I had to make do. I’d start with a visit to Van Nuys, which was less than a half hour away. I could look in on Freda Wilson before it got too late. Then I’d head toward Antelope Valley to scope out the cult.

  I fed Tank, rewarding him for his earlier show of mercy with a shot of chunk light tuna juice, straight, no rocks. I slapped together my own go-to favorite dinner, a peanut butter, Nutella, and banana sandwich on sprouted wheat, with a cold milk chaser.

  I gave it five stars.

  I changed into dark jeans, a navy T-shirt, and a black windbreaker. Grabbed my Jackass Rig shoulder holster and the Wilson out of the closet. Good thing I cleaned my Supergrade this morning-the tritium night sights might come in handy. My pulse quickened at the thought.

  I took my beater car, rather than putting unnecessary rattles through the Mustang’s 40-year-old suspension. The ancient Toyota had proved virtually indestructible, and was my preferred set of wheels for harsh terrain. I figured Antelope Valley qualified.

  By the time I got to Van Nuys it was closing in on darkness. Freda Wilson’s house was tucked in a cul-de-sac of one-story bungalows, front lawns studded with “For Sale” signs. People were hit hard here. I felt for them. When things are going well in the economy, it’s easy to justify paying half a million for a two-bedroom box on a quarter acre of dirt. You can sell it in a year or two and make enough to maybe buy yourself an SUV. But when things stop going well, and stay stopped until you can’t remember a time you weren’t worried, you wake up one day and wonder, What the hell was I thinking?

  I looked around. How many of these sellers would become walkaways next? Laid off. Mortgages under water. Only one choice left, to disappear into the night. I shook off the thought. Getting a little too close to my own situation, as of last week.

  A battered pickup truck lay askew in the Wilsons’ driveway. A skateboard leaned against the front porch. I sat outside for a couple of minutes, to get myself in the right frame of mind. I’ve found I can learn a lot from uncoached responses to an unexpected visitor. Some people are pissed. Others, curious. They may flare with suspicion or shrink with fear. The possibilities are infinite-just the kind of situation I like. I took a few deep inhales; then headed up the concrete walkway to the front door.

  No bell. I knocked on the peeling wood.

  After a few minutes, a lanky, gaunt-faced man opened the door. He was wearing a stained white undershirt, polyester track pants, and the dejected look of the long-term unemployed.

  “Yes?” he said.

  I introduced myself and volunteered my hand, which he stared at for a moment before giving it a perfunctory shake. I don’t claim to be able to see auras, but this poor guy was emitting waves of depression like smoke.

  “Wesley Harris,” he said.

  A husky voice came from behind him. “Who is it, honey?”

  I peered over his shoulder and saw a middle-aged woman wiping her hands with a dish towel. She wore a shapeless tunic over leggings. Her face was still lovely, but there was little else of the “looker” left. Dark
smudges of fatigue underlined her eyes. Her hair, dyed fuchsia, spiked upward in a jagged butch-cut.

  “Freda?” I asked. “Freda Wilson?”

  “Freda Harris, now,” she answered and moved to Wesley’s side. They both stared at me.

  They weren’t scared. They weren’t suspicious. They were … absent. Like optimism had long since left the premises.

  “May I come in for a moment?”

  Wesley roused himself enough to shake his head. “We can talk here.”

  A teenager with a stringy ponytail and a face pocked with acne slouched into the foyer to suss out the situation. One look at the three of us and he rolled his eyes and wheelied out of there as if we were contaminated. And Martha wonders why I don’t want kids.

  Freda and Wesley listened as I explained that I was a private detective looking into an issue with royalties. The moment the word royalty came out of my mouth, I saw anticipation surge in Wesley’s face.

  “You found something? You have money for us?” he said. He put his arm around Freda and squeezed. “Well, hallelujah. It’s about time.”

  I felt a stab of anger at TFJ amp; Associates, for putting me in this position. Once again, I was bearing bad news.

  “I’m not representing TFJ and Associates. I’m investigating them. For possible fraud.”

  “I don’t understand,” Freda said. “We haven’t heard a peep about the royalties in a long time. Now you show up talking about fraud? I’m confused.”

  Wesley’s shoulders slumped. “Maybe you’re confused,” he said. “Not me. Nothing’s changed.” He walked back into the house. From behind, he looked like an old man.

  Freda’s eyes followed him, darkened with sorrow. She fingered a gold cross hanging around her neck as she turned back to me. She coughed the deep, hacking cough that told me she was, or had been, a heavy smoker. “Don’t mind him,” she said. “Now, what’s this fraud business about?”

  I told her my suspicions concerning Florio’s dealings with Zimmy Backus and Buster Redman. She smiled slightly when she heard the two names.