The Second Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (Dharma Detective: Tenzing Norbu Mystery) (20 page)

What had I gotten myself into?

Attendants in neon vests merrily waved me to Lot 3, at the far end of the stadium. I was directed to tuck my Toyota between two huge pick-ups. The lot was packed with super-sized SUVs and trucks built for giants, with jumbo tires and massive grilles. I guess I didn’t get the memo. The stadium was alight, the crowd roaring, big engines answering with roars of their own. A deep, hearty, manly-man voice barked announcements over the P.A. system. I could think of no better way to stay good and lost, until my new friend got tired of looking for me, so I melted into the crowd flowing toward the stadium. They were the usual sports event blend of flotsam, jetsam, and gentry; only in this case many were dressed in their Halloween best. I grabbed a Dracula. He reeked of pot and his eyes were as red as his bloodstained lips.

“What’s going on here tonight?” I asked.

“Monster Jam Rally! I’m stoked. Big machines, man, dueling each other.” He peered at me. “What are you?”

“Undercover monk,” I said.

For me, Halloween was a personal nonevent, and always caught me by surprise. In my seven years living in Topanga, I’d never had a single trick-or-treater, and anyway, the whole point of the holiday was bizarre. I mean, dressing up like a ghoul and demanding candy hardly seems like a meaningful way to honor the dead.

There was no sign of the chopper or his rider, but just to be safe, I bought a ticket from a scalper just outside an escalator that led to the main entrance. Another $20, gone. I rode the escalator up, sandwiched between Captain America and Green Lantern, or so they informed me.

I slowly inched my way up one last line to the main entrance. My breath had returned to normal. Maybe I’d get a veggie Dodger Dog and watch a few cars spar with each other, or whatever they did at these things. The stadium attendant scanned my ticket. As I started to push through the turnstile, one tiny part of my brain registered the four designated motorcycle spots just to the left of me, in the preferred parking area, the black and orange custom Harley, dead still and dead empty in one slot.
Danger!

My Harley-riding nemesis was waiting for me, leaning against the chain link barricade just inside the entrance. He saw me and reached to his ankle, where I glimpsed a Microtech stiletto. I recognized it, because I had one just like it. Back at home, locked in my gun safe. He began to move, and my feet started going before my brain had a chance to catalog much else.

I was running pretty well, considering the crowd. I debated finding a security guard, but slowing down would expose my ribs. One jab, and I was done, at least for this lifetime. I veered right, weaving between vendors hawking monster jam gear and families with young kids waving flags emblazoned with Grave Digger and Maximum Destruction—I tried not to read too much into the names.

Someone cried out. I threw a look back. My pursuer had knocked over a little kid. Now I was pissed. I wheeled around and ran right at him, not what he expected. I grabbed his wrist and gave it a vicious twist. The knife clattered to the ground, and I pinned his arms to his side, hooking my own arms hand-to-wrist behind his back. He thrashed against my tight embrace. It took all my strength to keep him immobilized.

He had swapped his helmet for the bandana, which he’d tied across his forehead like a pirate. His neck was inked. He was young, maybe early 20s, with chestnut-colored skin, aquiline nose, and full lips: startlingly good-looking, if you like pretty boys. But his eyes? Gang eyes. Any veteran cop will tell you the same thing. Eyes that become flat from killing people or helping other people kill people.

“We don’t want a scene, do we?” I tightened the squeeze.

He struggled against my rigid hold.

“What do you want?” I said.

“You,” he said, and in one strong full-body twist, he wrested from my grasp and bent to the ground. I leapt back, as a blade flashed through the air, just missing my neck. I heard a woman scream. I had to get out of there, before someone innocent got hurt. To my right was a set of stairs leading to the lower decks and eventually to the field-level seats. Where were all the fucking cops? Where were the security guards, normally posted at every stairway to keep riffraff from going to the lower levels? I hit the stairs running, Pretty Boy right on my heels. I took the steps three at a time, down, down, until I burst through the field level entrance to what Bill called the high-baller sections. Which were empty, and blanketed with thick red and yellow nylon tarps.

I swan-dived onto a tarp and crabbed my way across, using the seat backs underneath for support. I was vaguely aware of the sound of souped-up engines revving and roaring somewhere in front of me. I reached the front row and took a flying leap, landing on all fours on a dirt surface covering the playing field. I scrambled to my feet, dodged between slanted runaway vehicle ramps, and pounded up a steep incline to a wide platform right in the middle of the track. An electronic board directly across from me blinked red, its digital clock counting down seconds. I was at the starting gate, and the next race was moments away.

“Get off of the course,” I heard over the P.A. “
Get off of the course!
” I had three seconds to take in the semicircle of monster trucks, suspended on humongous tires, pawing and snorting like angry bulls that couldn’t wait to gouge and toss me. Then I was tackled and cuffed by five cops, or maybe five random dudes in cop costumes. What did I care? I was safe at last.

Two hours later Security released me from the Dodger Stadium slammer, or “holding area,” as they prefer to call it, a bleak space between two upper decks, behind where home plate should have been. The two moonlighting detectives working the rally were from the Burglary division. They knew my name, and knew Bill’s even better. I got off easy for my stunt: they didn’t even slap me with a fine. As I left the concrete holding cell, two security guards muscled a soused and belligerent fan past me—my first and hopefully only experience seeing a bumblebee with an overhanging gut in handcuffs.

By the time I’d finished explaining myself, Pretty Boy and his chopper were nowhere to be found. Anyway, how would anyone know if he was a gang-banger, or just dressing like one?

It was past ten when I got home. I was exhausted and wired at the same time. I listened to a brief, sleepy message from Heather. She’d called my home phone at 9
P.M
. to say she was turning in. Good. I wouldn’t have to make excuses about the retreat until tomorrow. I gave Tank a late-night snack, shoveled down a banana smeared with no salt Valencia chunky, and fell into bed.

Tired as I was, I lay awake, my blood buzzing from the chase. I traced tensed body parts with light attention, beginning with my toes, to unwind the knots. I had barely reached my kneecaps when my heart constricted like a fist.
Someone’s outside.
I slipped out of bed and was at my closet; in seconds, I had my Wilson in my hand.

There it was again—a bumping sound by the front of the house. It was pitch black inside, but I wasn’t about to turn on a light.

I slid along the bedroom wall to the door. Tank raised his head from my bed.

Stay here, Tank.

I dropped out of window-level sight and crouch-walked across the living room. I pressed my ear against the front door. I heard sibilant whispers. There were at least two of them. If they really wanted in, they could smash right through that hollow core door . . .

The knob turned, left, right, just a test. My adrenal gland dumped a metric pint of endocrine into my bloodstream. In about three seconds, my hands would start shaking:
fight or flee, Ten?

I stood up, stepped back, planted my feet, and took careful aim at the closed door. I imagined my target on the other side, heart level. I released the safety, lightly hooking my index finger around the trigger.
One . . . Two . . .

A pair of giggling voices called out “Trick or treat!”

Fear rippled through my body like iced water. I engaged the safety, laid my .38 on the floor, and stepped away, as if the gun was timed to explode.

I turned on the light and opened the door. A couple of teenagers, camouflaged as His and Her corpses, stood grinning at me, their painted features slightly askew. The yeasty scent of beer—too many beers by the looks of them—wafted from the swaying pair in a sour cloud.

“Get the hell out of here,” I said.

The young man glanced at my shaking hands. I stuffed them in my pockets. He looked past me into the house, where my gun lay in full view. He took a quick step back.

“Sorry,” he said. “Shit!”

He grabbed the girl’s arm, and they hustled down my driveway. She stumbled once, and he steadied her without breaking stride.

“I’m sorry, too,” I whispered, but I don’t think they heard me.

My heart was pumping so hard and high I couldn’t swallow. I backed inside, my step unsteady.
What was I thinking?
I wasn’t. I was assuming, running on leftover fear. I had broken my second rule once again and almost shot an innocent child because of it. I turned off the light and sat very still, breathing in the dark room until my hands stopped trembling. Then I went over to my computer, opened the on-line application form, and signed up for the retreat.

C
HAPTER
15

I still felt shaken in the morning, even after a run, a weight-lifting session, and half an hour of yoga stretches. The terror at what might have been reignited whenever I stopped moving.

I called Bill. He would understand.

“Hey, Bill.”

“Ten.” His voice was tight. Angry-tight, not anxious-tight.

“What’s going on?”

“Why don’t you tell me?” he said.

I tried to laugh it off. “Ummm, I’m not sure what you mean. Did the Dodger-cops call you this morning?”

“No,” Bill said. His voice hardened. “Sully did. He told me you’re still sniffing around my case.”

“Bill . . . “

“I asked you nicely to back off, Ten. Now I’m
telling
you to back off. Is that clear? Stay the fuck away.” I had heard this level of anger in his voice once or twice over the years. But never aimed at me. “Jesus, I’m sorry I ever brought you into this!”

Heat boiled through my body.

“Yeah, well, thanks for nothing,” I snapped. “What gives you the right? You’re not my partner anymore, and you sure as hell aren’t my father!”

“Thank God, because I sure as hell wouldn’t want you for a kid!”

“Go to hell,” I said, and hung up on his answering, “Fuck you.”

I stood by the phone, eyes scalding with fury. I ran out to the deck. “Arrghhhh!” I yelled into the valley. I peppered the air with quick punches until sweat dripped. I leaned against the deck railing, breathing heavily. Now righteous indignation flooded my system. I let it.

I’ll show you. I’ll show all of you.

Tank meowed from the kitchen.

“Not yet!” I yelled.

I called Clancy and told him to meet me at Robinsgrove in half an hour. We’d get inside, somehow.
Screw them.
Inside, I dumped a full can of tuna into Tank’s bowl. It was ridiculous and a total waste of money, since he only liked the water.

I rode the Mustang hard. Every time I tried to breathe through the fist of feeling, I heard Bill’s
I sure as hell wouldn’t want you for a kid,
and my chest clenched tight. A tiny part of my brain waved an even tinier flag signaling that I was having a tantrum. That puffing myself up, vowing to show everyone how competent and superior I was, might be yet another reaction to a dearly held limiting idea. I brushed the warning aside. I needed to feel superiority to function right now.

I pulled in behind Clancy’s Impala, parked in its usual spot. I looked up the block to the Robinsgrove. We were in luck. A large moving van sat in front, hazard lights blinking. A cardboard mover’s box propped open the glass doors.

I grabbed the two pairs of disposable latex gloves and eight 35-gallon garbage bags I’d thrown into the back of my Mustang.

Clancy climbed out of his car, tossing a crumpled coffee cup onto the new mound of takeout containers on his front seat.

“You ready to do a trash cover?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Am I?’

“Absolutely,” I said. “You’ll feel right at home.”

We walked to the Robinsgrove entrance. Two clean cut, muscular young men, one fair, one dark, both with crew cuts, and both wearing Meathead Movers shirts, juggled a heavy bed frame into the back of their van.

“How much longer will you be here?” I made a move to help them with the frame, but they waved me off.

Blond Crew Cut answered. “We’ll be here maybe an hour more.”

An hour was good. First task? Locate the trash bins. We crossed the shabby-elegant lobby, a small sitting room on either side, and faced a maze of stairs, elevators, exits, and entrances. You could easily get lost in a building like this. I told Clancy to wait. I trotted up a short flight of stairs to the first floor and checked the hallway. Most older buildings like this had incinerator chutes, and this one was no exception. The chute was no longer functional, but told me what I needed to know. Buildings, like people, don’t like change. The bins were probably located directly below.

I rejoined Clancy and found the elevators, a pair of heavy wooden doors, painted white and stenciled with little star-shaped holes. I pushed the down button and stood waiting. And waiting. The blond mover called to me from the lobby.

“You have to look through the holes. “

“What?”

“The elevator doesn’t ping. You have to look through the holes to see if it’s there.”

I looked, and it was. I heaved open the righthand door, and we stepped inside. I pushed the B button. We creaked downward. The door pushed open to a dark basement corridor, running east to west. I could hear the swish and hum of washing machines to our right. I looked left, and spotted another very short flight of stairs, leading upward this time, to a metal door and an exit sign. I pulled it open. We were standing in the underground parking lot, home to a row of six black dumpsters and six blue recycling bins.

“I hope you’re not squeamish,” I said to Clancy, pulling on my gloves. I scanned the lot. Lots of cars. No people. One by one, I flung open the dumpsters and did a quick rummage. I ignored moving-type cast-offs like a broken umbrella and three torn sofa cushions. I grabbed assorted small garbage bags, moist, fetid, and loaded with potential clues, stuffing them into the extra-large ones I had brought for this purpose. Clancy stared with something approaching disgust. I handed him the second set of gloves and two more big bags.