The First Rule of Ten tnm-1

by Gay Hendricks

  “The Town Club Library,” my guide announced. He opened the heavy wooden doors, and I stepped into a secret world of hushed opulence. Wall-to-wall flooring echoed the downstairs in a repeating pattern of rose and gold florets. A row of columns marked smaller private sitting areas. A painting of a man in a scarlet robe and cap pinned me with stern eyes, pegging me as an interloper of uncertain beliefs.

  My guide turned left, but I paused to scan the spacious room. I might never get this close to a museum-quality world again. Lots of columns, sculptures, busts, and ornamental vases. Lots of portraits of hoary men staring into the distance, calculating their net worth. I felt completely intimidated, which was probably the point.

  “He’s in the stacks,” the concierge said, and led me between two enormous cloisonne urns, one black, one red: possibly the final resting place of expired associates who couldn’t bear to give up their membership.

  This was the “book” part of the Library. The shelves were full of them, floor to ceiling. Maybe six or seven thousand print volumes, and not a Kindle or iPad in sight.

  Directly across from us was a large fireplace under a magnificent carved wooden mantel. Two leather wingbacks flanked the hearth. A distinguished gray-haired man sat in one, reading a leather-bound book. He gave a little wave. The concierge left us, melting into the background and out the door.

  My chest was reminding me I needed to breathe. I was strangely nervous as I made my way to Thomas Florio, Sr., stepping around an Old World globe set in a four-legged wooden frame. It was tipped on its axis, just like me.

  Florio was compact, very fit for a man in his 70s, with a full head of wavy hair combed back on both sides and crested over the top. His black suit and pearl-gray tie were somber, but a vivid red pocket square added a waggish dash of color. An old-fashioned leather briefcase rested on the floor next to him. He set his book aside and slowly climbed to his feet. He reached out a slim hand.

  “Mr. Norbu. I’m Thomas Florio. Good of you to come.”

  “Please call me Ten. It’s short for Tenzing.”

  “Thank you, Tenzing. Ten. No doubt you’re of Tibetan heritage?”

  “More of a hybrid, actually. My father is Tibetan, my mother was born in America, but moved to Paris before I was born.” I changed course. “Beautiful place,” I said, gesturing to the elegant decor.

  “Yes, I find it very pleasant. So pleasant, in fact, that I’ve come here almost every afternoon for twenty years.”

  He moved to the globe and set it spinning with one slender finger. “As I’m sure you know, most of the world first heard the name Tenzing when Sir Edmund Hilary and his Sherpa climbing partner, Tenzing Norgay, summited Mount Everest back in 1953.”

  I told him my father had the good fortune of actually meeting Tenzing Norgay once, when I was just a child.

  “Good for him,” he said. “So, then. Tibetan-American-Parisian-you come from unusual stock.”

  I could feel him waiting for me to reciprocate. Normally I’m not one for prolonged small talk, but I was on his turf. I also sensed this was some sort of an audition, and if I was to pass, I needed to adapt to the social rituals of this select tribe.

  “And you, sir? What is your background?”

  Florio smiled. He took his seat and gestured to the matching leather chair across from him. “Sit, please, Ten!”

  I sat, glancing at the spine of the book Florio was reading. I smiled to myself. It was The Prince, by Machiavelli, the famous Renaissance guide to attaining political power. Perfect.

  He laced his fingers and settled back in his chair. “My grandfather emigrated from Italy almost a century ago.

  He established himself in the banking business, inspired by the great success of a distant cousin, A. P. Giannini.”

  Florio’s eyes lasered in on mine, assessing my reaction. Giannini. Oh, man, I knew that name. Mike’s face popped in my head. I took my best shot.

  “He founded … Bank of America?”

  Florio nodded, pleased. “That’s right. Amadeo Giannini was in fact a revolutionary, the first man to create a bank for the masses. Before him, banks were only for the wealthy. My grandfather and father followed his lead, although on a much more modest scale. But times have changed, and banking is no longer what it was. In my era, I have found it necessary to diversify into other areas.”

  I was dying to ask what other areas, but we were getting along so swimmingly, I decided to wait. “Sounds like quite an immigrant success story. I’m trying to be one of those myself.”

  “And from what I hear, doing a fine job of it. A stellar member of law enforcement, and now an entrepreneur of sorts.”

  Okay. Enough. I was starting to go into sugar shock with all this sweet talk.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Florio?”

  “Thomas, please.”

  “Thomas.”

  “Let’s repair to the Tap Room, shall we?”

  Fine by me.

  The Tap Room was a pedigreed drinker’s dream. The polished bar, lined with studded black leather barstools, was 50 feet long. The authentic assortment of colossal Old World beer steins displayed above it made my ale-swigging soul swell with anticipation. The walls here were lined with black-and-white photographs of past luminaries, interspersed with the only bow to modernity I had seen, several flat-screen televisions. They were tuned to different channels, broadcasting the breaking news of politics, finance, and sports to people who moved money accordingly.

  We sat in leather club chairs at a table in the corner, under leaded glass windows. A waiter materialized to take our orders: for me, locally brewed India pale ale on tap, for Thomas Sr., something with a fancy Italian name I didn’t quite catch.

  Thomas Sr. exchanged nods with a few businessmen across the room. A pair of women in power suits glanced our way before returning to their conversation.

  The waiter set a tall stein of straw-colored ale in front of me, and two small snifters of thick amber liquid before Mr. Florio. He raised one glass to mine.

  “Amaretto,” he said. “A custom I inherited from my grandfather.” We clinked glasses, and I took a long, happy draw. The icy-cold ale cut through the road dust on my tongue. I sighed with pleasure. Nothing like good beer, on tap, for free.

  Florio drained his liqueur, and set his first glass down. “Here is my concern,” he said. “During your conversation with my son, you mentioned something about Mr. Barsotti. Specifically, that Mr. Barsotti had a girlfriend. Did my son hear that correctly?”

  “Yes, he heard it correctly.”

  He frowned. “I’m very sorry to hear that,” he said.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, why is this of any interest to you?”

  “Do you have any children, Mr. Norbu?”

  I shook my head.

  Florio took a small sip from his second glass. He stared off into the middle distance, then returned his gaze to me. His voice was firm. “Mr. Barsotti is married to my daughter. He is my son-in-law.”

  Looks like I stepped right into the middle of an old-school family muddle. I could almost feel the quicksand sucking at my feet.

  Florio’s mouth flattened into a horizontal crease of distaste. “Can you give me the details, please?”

  I described the horse-riding blonde, the SUV, and the subsequent stakeout at the condo-everything but the girl’s name. Florio’s eyes held mine throughout, without flinching.

  “Permit me a few moments to digest this information,” he said. He closed his eyes and sank back in his chair. Suddenly he seemed frail and diminished; the worry lines on his forehead and around his mouth deepened, bathed in the ocher light of an antique lamp on the table.

  He firmed up his shoulders and the lines smoothed. When he opened his eyes, they were steely, and for the first time I sensed iron beneath the velvet voice.

  “This presents me with a dilemma,” he said. “Vincent Barsotti is the father of my grandchildren. What is best for the grandchildren? Is it better to be raised by a cheating father o
r to have no father in the house at all?”

  I knew which one I’d pick, but I wasn’t standing in the Barsotti children’s shoes. I pictured the two youngsters as I’d last seen them, waiting at the kitchen table for their parents to join them for a family dinner. With that in mind, I tried on both scenarios, and they both felt awful. “I don’t know. I don’t know which is best.”

  “Welcome to the complicated world of parenting,” he said. “My daughter is married to a man who cheats, and my son has been known to cheat me. You’re from the East, Ten. Perhaps you can explain to me how bad karma works. I think I am getting my nose rubbed in it.”

  How to answer? Every situation comes with myriad karmic influences and conditions. The Buddha himself said that karma is so complex a person could go crazy trying to figure it out: the only way to simplify, he suggests, is to follow the basic principle that it is our intention that determines our karma. Good intentions produce good karma; bad intentions produce bad karma. When conditions are right, in this or a future life, effect follows cause, and the seeds of your good and bad actions ripen into the fruits that are your karma. Or something like that. Anyway, Mr. Florio wasn’t asking for a treatise on karma. He was asking for help.

  “I’m not sure karma has anything to do with it,” I said. “But I will say this. It seems to me a skillful parent is like a skillful teacher. Such a person is mindful of their charge’s well-being, taking note of their actions and intentions, and steering them straight when they veer off course. Closing our eyes to their wrong actions, choosing to avoid or withdraw from them, can cause the wrong to boomerang back, more often than not, in a harsher form.”

  Florio’s chuckle was rueful. “Well put, well put. I guess I’d better find out what I closed my eyes to with both my son and daughter, because the boomerangs seem to be coming faster and faster.”

  “May I ask you a couple of questions?”

  “Anything,” he said.

  “Did your son tell you why he came to see me?”

  “He told me you represented a former client of his. He didn’t elaborate.”

  No, I’ll bet he didn’t.

  “You say he has cheated you. In what way?”

  He grimaced. “It’s painful to discuss.”

  “As you wish,” I said. I waited.

  He went on, “It’s a pattern he’s played out several times, and unfortunately I have been a willing participant. I hire him to work for me. He behaves irresponsibly, creating a mess that someone then has to … no, that I then have to clean up. I enable. I grow frustrated. I withdraw all support. Time passes. His mother weeps. He begs, and comes crawling back to me. I am convinced by both him and his mother that he is no longer irresponsible. I hire him again. And so it continues.”

  “And now?”

  He nodded. “Ah yes. Now. Now I have him working on a real estate deal. Up to this point, everything seems to be progressing smoothly.”

  I watched him closely. Did he believe this? “I’m glad for you,” I said.

  His eyes bored into mine. “What do you really think, Tenzing? You’ve just spent time with my son. Can I trust him this time?”

  I held his gaze, letting my lack of reassurance speak volumes. Mr. Florio gave a short nod, as if I had confirmed something.

  “A father knows, you see,” Florio said. “My son grows secretive, yet also agitated. Unlike you just now, he does not meet my eyes. He avoids my calls for days. I know the signs, Tenzing. It is like an addiction, only the drug for Tommy is breaking the law. Thus far, he has never been formally charged with a crime, but only thanks to my timely interventions. I’m afraid he is going to run afoul again.”

  Florio picked up his second glass and took a small sip. His voice grew firm. “This time, should it happen, I have taken a vow not to protect him. And I always keep my vows. Always.”

  “That sounds painful, but in this case wise,” I said. “Maybe it will break the pattern you describe.”

  “I hope it’s wise. I know it’s long overdue.”

  I stood up. I felt sad for Thomas Florio, Sr., but there wasn’t much I could do besides send him good thoughts; he would have to do the rest. Life demands that we face the consequences of our actions, and sometimes it boils down to a series of sweaty ten-minute conversations that you’re either willing to have or you’re not. Florio had a few such conversations looming over his future, and I hoped for his sake he wouldn’t put them off for too much longer.

  I thought about me and my father. Who was I to talk?

  I held out my hand to take my leave, but Florio was unclasping his leather briefcase. He withdrew an envelope, and clicked it shut.

  “Still, one prefers to know such things ahead of time, doesn’t one,” he said, as if continuing a conversation in his head. “I’d like to engage your services for the next week, Ten, to keep an eye on my son’s activities.”

  This was getting interesting. And tricky. “I’m already conducting an investigation for another client,” I said.

  “Please. There’s no reason you can’t report to two people. Unless you’re aware of a conflict of interest?”

  I thought it over. Zimmy could only gain by anything I learned on Florio’s dime. And Florio Sr. didn’t know it, but I was already onto some of Junior’s extracurricular shenanigans, thanks to Zimmy.

  “We need to be clear on something, right up front,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  “If it comes down to a choice-discovering the truth or concealing it to save your son-you need to know that I’m after the truth. Period. I have zero interest in protecting Tommy Junior, or anybody else for that matter, from the consequences of their actions. Are you absolutely sure we’re on the same page there?”

  He nodded. “We’re both after the same information, Tenzing.”

  I took the envelope, peeked inside, and sealed the deal with a firm handshake.

  Immobilized in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the way home, I opened the envelope and took a second look. I rolled down my window and stuck my head outside.

  “Woo-hoo,” I yelled to the startled driver to my left.

  I called Mike and gave him the good news. With ten thousand more in my account, I could finally pay him for his time.

  “So, Mike, can you do a detailed, due-diligence report on Thomas Florio Senior, please?”

  “Planning to bite the hand that feeds you?”

  “More like quietly run its prints. It’s always good to be cautious,” I said, thinking of Florio’s reading material. “Also, I need an in-depth background check on Norman Murphy, John D’s son.”

  “Will do. When do you want me to install your new equipment?”

  “Now, baby. Now.”

  I made a quick side trip to the bank and got there just before closing time. I deposited Florio’s check, less $600 in cash. I liked the feel of the folded Franklins in my back pocket.

  I’d just doubled my fee as a private investigator, not to mention tripled my monthly pay at the LAPD, in under two weeks. Everything is impermanent, subject to change, and guess what? That goes for poverty, too. The pleasurable tickle in my belly migrated lower. Apparently, earning big bucks was an aphrodisiac. I pictured Julie, probably hip-chopping something astonishing in my kitchen. I called Mike back.

  “Uh, Mike? About installing the office? Let’s make that a job for tomorrow.”

  I pressed hard on the accelerator and rode my magic carpet home.

  CHAPTER 25

  My turn to cook for the chef. I had made a quick early-morning run to the local market and now was sawing off thick slabs of freshly baked sourdough boule. The frittata was in the oven, the coffee was brewing, and Julie was sitting across from me in my button-down shirt, and nothing else.

  Her tousled hair spilled over one shoulder in a tangle of rich brunette curls. To me, even sleepy, she looked like a movie star. In Los Angeles, that’s saying a lot.

  “So how does a gentleman like Florio end up with a son like Tommy?” Julie said. �
�It doesn’t compute.”

  “I know,” I said. “This is why the notion of having children scares me. I feel like I’m surrounded by sons disappointing fathers, and vice versa.”

  Julie opened her mouth then shut it again.

  “Listen, I get it,” I said. “I’m probably hyper-aware of this stuff because of my father and me.”

  “Like when Martha couldn’t get pregnant,” Julie said.” She’d call me in tears, swearing the entire city was made up of expectant women about to pop.”

  I served Julie a wedge of frittata and two pieces of hot buttered toast. My eye happened to catch a shadowed womanly curve, just inside the unbuttoned part of the button-down shirt.

  Julie stood. Our mouths met.

  We backed into the bedroom, stumbling and laughing and kissing and never once detaching. We fell onto the bed, and the air exploded around me, and inside me, and Julie was right there beside me, with me all the way.

  We lay entangled in the sheets and each other.

  “Okay,” I said. “Okay. That was pretty amazing.”

  Julie rolled on top of me, pinning my arms to my sides.

  “Pretty amazing? Pretty amazing? I’ll give you pretty amazing,” and she tickled me until I promised to reveal my deepest, darkest secret.

  So I told her about Apa and Valerie. How I was a mistake, the accidental result of a Tibetan Buddhist monk’s midlife folly with an ethereal American girl trekking around India in search of enlightenment.

  “Well, it is kind of romantic,” Julie said.

  “Not really. He was almost forty,” I said, “and she was twenty, going on fifteen. For reasons that were never clear to me, they ended up falling in love. Or falling in something, anyway. Whatever it was, they fell out of it just as quickly.”