The First Rule of Ten (8 page)

I rolled over and closed my eyes. Gently invited my breath to deepen and slow down, my hammering heart to return to …

Who am I trying to kid?

Rather than spend the next hour doing battle with my curiosity, I sat up, turned on the light, and grabbed my cell phone. I squinted at the glowing screen.

The first text read, ZB’S #, followed by a 503 number, which I assumed was Oregon.
XPECTING YR CALL
.

I moved to the second message.

NOW
.

I glanced at the clock. Now? Really? I pictured Mike snickering, his goateed features rendered ghoulish by multiple light-emitting diodes emanating from all the electrical apparatuses in his office-cave. He loves to yank my chain.

Ding!

R
EALLY
, I read.

Apparently retired musicians and computer wonks keep similar hours. (Also reluctant lamas on long retreats, but that’s another story.)

I used my landline. Cell reception can be sketchy at best up in my canyon. Sure enough, one ring later, I heard Zimmy Backus’s distinctive drawl, graveled by long nights of nicotine and howling into mikes.

“Tenzing Norbu, as I live and breathe. Your man said you were looking for me. What’s the word?” He sounded the same—hoarse, but openhearted. I remembered how much I liked him.

“Good to hear your voice, Zimmy. You doing okay up there?”

“More than okay, my friend. Jilly and I, we have a baby now. Named him Burroughs, after the Beat writer, may his subversive soul rest in peace. My life today? It’s better than my wildest dope-induced dreams. I should be long dead. Instead, I got me a wife, a kid, a dog—the whole enchilada.”

“Plus a pear farm, right?”

“Yeah, well, I don’t actually grow those suckers myself. I just own the land they’re on. Somebody else does the growing. I do think good thoughts about them a lot, though.”

“That counts.”

We both chuckled. If we lived closer, we’d probably be friends.

A shadow passed over my heart.

“Did Mike tell you why I wanted to talk to you?”

“Nope. Just that you did. What’s up?”

I explained that I was no longer with the LAPD, that as of this week I was a private detective.

“Cool,” Zimmy said. “How’s that working out for you, then?” If he was impatient for me to get to my reason for calling, he didn’t show it.

The truth is, I was stalling.

I took a deep breath.

“Zimmy, you had a visitor here a few days ago. She didn’t know you’d moved. Barbara Maxey.”

Zimmy barked with laughter.

“Barb? I don’t believe it. I was just thinking about her the other day, swear to God. I’ve been trying to track her down. I owe her an apology, you know, amends. Barbara Maxey. Talk about a flash from the past. How the hell is she? How can I reach her?”

This was getting harder, not easier.

“You can’t … She’s not … I’m so sorry, Zimmy. She’s dead.”

The silence was heavy and dark. Then I heard soft sobs. I waited. Said nothing as he tried to pull himself together.

“What happened? Did she OD?”

I guess that’s the first place fellow addicts go, recovering or not.

“No. At least I don’t think so,” I said.

For the third time in as many days, I relayed the story of Barbara Maxey: her visit to me, and all that followed.

“It’s just too weird. I don’t think about her for years, then I do, and now this?” His voice broke. “Ah, Jesus.”

He put down the phone. Blew his nose. When he came back on, his voice was firmer.

“Thanks for calling to tell me,” he said. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

That’s Zimmy for you, in a nutshell.

“Maybe,” I said. “Barbara wasn’t just looking you up for old time’s sake. She wanted to warn you. Something to do with your royalties. Any idea what she meant?”

He went silent. Finally he said, “I might. I had a situation recently, a run-in with somebody over royalties. But I don’t see how Barbara could possibly fit into the picture.”

“She said it was heavy. ‘Something bad’ were her exact words. Was your situation bad enough to kill for?”

“Jesus, Ten, I don’t think so, but …”

“But what?”

“I sort of got threatened myself the other day. I thought I took care of it.”

“Sort of? What happened?”

“Some guy came by the ranch. That was strange all by itself. I’m way off the grid up here.”

“So I noticed.”

“Hey, that’s the way I like it. I spent close to thirty years on the road, twenty of them grinding it—I must have sung in every dingy dive in every Podunk town in America. God, those places were depressing. No wonder I self-medicated. Then I had a hit or two, and it was the same thing, only bigger—bigger stages, bigger tours, bigger excuses to do bigger drugs. Different venues, same ol’ same ol’.”

He drifted off for a moment. I waited.

“Yeah, so these days I try to stay in one place as much as I can. Today it’s all about Jilly and Burroughs. Keeping it simple, you know? So when this asshole in fancy slip-ons showed up at my front gate, he was dragging some bad memories along with him.”

“Who was he?”

“Wasn’t so much who as what. Sharp suit. Ostrich loafers that set him back at least a thousand. He was straight out of the old music-business days, Ten. Godfather time. You know, the Mob.”

I knew next to nothing about the music business. I certainly didn’t know there was a Mob connection.

“How’d he find you?”

“Good question. I’m guessing the Internet. Can’t hardly hide anywhere, anymore. Anyway, my foreman left him cooling his designer heels on the dirt road outside the entrance. Came and got me.”

“So you talked to him?”

“Yeah, I figured I’d better. I never unlocked the gate for him, though. I took one look at the punk and knew whatever he was selling, I wasn’t buying.”

Fascinating as all this was, I couldn’t see what it had to do with Barbara. I glanced at the clock. It was nearing two in the morning. I swallowed a yawn. Maybe Zimmy heard, because he picked up the pace.

“Long story short, he said his name was Tommy Florio, and he wanted to talk comeback tours. Another bullshit artist is what I thought. I told him I wasn’t interested in any comeback tour, because I wasn’t interested in coming back. Then he handed over some papers, along with a fancy basket of gourmet foods. Said did I know I was owed a bunch of royalties? That my record company had scammed me? He claimed he knew how to make it right.”

My ears perked up.

“So, is that true? About the royalties?”

“Well, yeah. Probably. I mean, record companies skimmed from just about everybody in the early days. We all bitched about it. Still do. But back then if you bitched too much, you found yourself without a contract.”

“Did you take him up on his offer?”

“Hell, no. I like money as much as the next guy, but no way was I going to have some goon ‘make things right’ for me. I refused his offer and told him where he could shove his bribe. And that’s when things got heavy, like you said.”

I grabbed a notebook. Wrote down:
Tommy Florio. Royalty scam. Heavy.

“Florio tells me I’m making a big mistake. Pissed me off even more. How is he supposed to know whether something I do is a mistake or not? Then he says, ‘You don’t want to end up like Buster.’ That got my attention, because Buster and I go way back. We hit
Billboard
’s Top Ten around the same time, me for Rock, him for R&B.”

“I’m sorry, Buster … ?”

“Buster Redman. ‘Shake It Out’? ‘Come Runnin’?”

I said nothing.

“Jesus, Ten, he’s one of the greats!”

“I spent my formative years in the monastery, remember?”

“Right. Sorry,” Zimmy said. “Buster’s a touchy subject. He passed away last year. The man was a flat-out genius, and he never got the money or attention he deserved. His death was pretty sudden. Beulah—that’s his old lady—insisted something fishy was going on, but there was never any proof. I thought she was blowing smoke. Now I’m not so sure.”

“You think this guy Florio was threatening you?”

“You’re the cop. What do you think?”

“Ex-cop. Did you keep the papers?”

“Yeah, they basically authorize his company to go after any unpaid royalties due me.”

I asked him to fax me the contract. Gave him all my numbers and told him to call if anything else came up. I also jotted down Buster’s widow’s number. I was just about to hang up when he stopped me.

“One last thing,” he said. “Speaking of numbers, the guy had mine. It scared me.”

“I don’t think you need to—”

“My home phone, Ten. Not my cell. Nobody knows it except my neighbor, my wife, and me. The little weasel has my home number. I asked him how he got hold of it and all he said was ‘Give my regards to Jilly and … little Burroughs, is it?’ So I ask you again. Does that constitute a threat? What do you think?”

I need to warn Zimmy
.

“I think it’s good we’re talking.”

After the call, I couldn’t settle down. I rolled to the right, then the left. Punched my pillows. Tank leapt onto the bed and started to knead the covers. I reached over and buried my fingers in his fur, just at the scruff of his neck. I thought about Zimmy, escaping his old life, building a new one in his own personal Garden of Eden. Thought about a guy in a sharp suit. Thought about where Barbara was headed. What she’d left behind.

I sat up. Thumbed a text to Mike. Pressed send. It went through easily in the clear night air. I flopped under the covers one more time as my query sped through the ether.

Time to locate Barbara’s religious retreat. Maybe stir up a serpent or two.

C
HAPTER
9

I felt my four-legged alarm clock before I saw him. Tank’s loofah tongue was doing its best to exfoliate my left cheek.

“Okay. Okay. I’m up!” I said, pushing him off my chest.

Sheets of light streamed in the kitchen window. It was midmorning already, and nobody but my Persian knew or cared if I was upright. I stepped onto the deck in my boxers and tipped my face toward the warmth. I could learn to love this self-employment gig, maybe a little too much.

To counter the self-congratulating sluggard in me, I spent the next several hours on maintenance. Barbara’s fear was one thing, Zimmy’s story another. But invite the two together, and the situation resonated with threat, radiating warnings outward like the overtones of a struck gong. I had better be prepared.

I began with my body. Four days off was three days too many. I stayed on the deck for a 20-minute routine of standing and sitting postures—a yogic version of the LAPD-recommended light aerobics and stretching. I went back inside and pulled on sweats and running shoes. I paused to dump a can of cat food in Tank’s bowl before I left. He gave me a look, the one that says:
This is the best you can do?
Then he lowered his head, barely deigning to eat.

I stepped into the dappled driveway and started with an easy jog down Topanga Canyon Drive. I veered left onto Entrada Road and picked up the pace, running the mile or so to the Trippet Ranch entrance into the park. I was nowhere near Barbara’s campsite, but I felt a prick of sadness nonetheless.

I did a weave and sprint up Musch Trail until I had a good sweat going. Then I stepped off the trail and did 30 reps each of push-ups, curls, leg lifts, and lunges. Used a tree branch for another 30 pull-ups. There weren’t any wooden horses to vault, or chain-link fences to climb, so I turned around and ran home. I calculated time and distance as I jogged into my driveway. Seven-minute miles. Good. I might not be a cop anymore, but I still more than met the physical requirements to qualify. I planned to keep it that way.

I addressed my inner health with 20 minutes of mindful awareness on the meditation cushion. Mostly I was aware of endorphins. Fine by me. Sometimes running works better than sitting.

Food next—an avocado, mesclun, and sprouts salad with cherry tomatoes and toasted pine nuts. Iced green tea. I was Mr. Virtuous today.

I had one more job to do. I went to the bedroom closet, unlocked my gun safe, and pulled out three cases, one wooden, one aluminum, one of sturdy gray nylon. I took all three outside and set them on the deck. I opened the wooden case first—my gun-cleaning kit—and set up my station with the care of a field surgeon. I pulled out the gun mat and spread it out on the deck like a tablecloth. Then I lined up oil, solvent, cotton swabs, rags, toothbrush, and a polymer pick with a hex-shaped shaft. I added two chamber-cleaning bores, one for my duty gun, a standard 9-mm Glock, and the other for my passion piece, a custom-made Wilson Combat .38 Super. Supergrade. Super reliable. Super cool.

I was glad my brothers in Dharamshala couldn’t see me. They’d find it hard to understand my fascination with guns. I find it hard enough to understand myself.

Three things in my life present an ongoing challenge to the practice of nonattachment: my cat, my car, and my classic Supergrade .38. I live in fear of losing them, even as I know that someday, one way or another, I will. But it’s like my body—I may not control the expiration date, but I can certainly influence the quality of the shelf life.

To that end, I set about cleaning the two guns patiently and with intention, another meditation of sorts. The urban warrior’s, maybe.

I started with the Wilson. I hadn’t had an opportunity to dry-fire the little beauty, much less take it to the range, for over a month. I ejected the magazine and emptied the chamber, double-checking that the magazine well was clear. As I fieldstripped the weapon, I paused to feather my thumb across the checkered mainspring housing and slide. As always, I marveled at the precision and sheer beauty of each component, from the cocobolo wood grip to the throated and polished five-inch barrel.

There are eight elite master gunsmiths in the United States. Four of them work at Wilson Combat. Superior craftsmanship is what drew me to their custom-built firearms—that, and the fact that they are family owned and operated. When you don’t have family to speak of yourself, mom-and-pop organizations hold a special draw. No pun intended.

I wiped, scrubbed, picked, bored, lubricated, and swabbed, until the reassembled piece glowed inside and out. I stood up. Racked the slide and pulled the trigger. There was a satisfying
click.
Everything was back where it should be. The Super .38 serves me perfectly, like a trusted comrade. I’m not a tall man, but I’m solid. Same thing with my hands. My standard-issue service Glock was more than adequate—a big improvement, in fact, over the pre-Bratton-era Beretta. I figured I was set, weapon-wise. Then I borrowed a buddy’s Wilson .38 at the practice range. Hit a four-inch grouping at 25 yards. Twice. I was in lust. I had to have a Wilson for myself. Within the year, I did. Mind you, if I ever go back to Dorje Yidam for a visit, my love of guns is yet another thing I won’t discuss with my father.