Gay Hendricks - The First Rule of Ten

“And here you are with a guy named Ten,” I said. “Must be your lucky number.”

I winced. What had gotten into me? I was babbling like an idiot.

Julie played it just right. “Ten years, ten fingers, guy named Ten. Coincidence or …?” She let the sentence trail off dramatically. “Here.” She tossed me a Persian cucumber. “Show me what you got.”

She quickly illustrated the secrets to slicing and dicing while keeping fingers attached to hands. (Secret One: Tuck your fingertips under and push the vegetables toward the knife with your middle knuckles. Secret Two: Pay attention.) I even started to relax. Julie seemed about as far away from needy as any woman I’d met in a long time.

“So how long are you visiting for?” I asked.

“Don’t know. I may move here. I’m in town to audition for a job as sous-chef at the new W.”

She was moving here? I grabbed another cucumber and hacked intently.

“All righty then, here we are,” Julie said, picking up on my anxiety. “Two eligible, nervous urban professionals channeling their tension into chopping.”

I concentrated harder on the cuke.

“I don’t know about you,” she added, “but I’m getting worn out deflecting all Martha’s matchmaking candidates.”

“Tell me about it,” I answered. “The last two dates Martha engineered for me had all the forward trajectory of a set of dropped car keys.”

Julie threw back her head and belly-laughed. I found myself liking her a little more, especially the way she’d named our nerves out loud. Internal memo to self: next time I’m feeling anxious with someone, just express it. Possible exception: when I’m with a criminal brandishing a weapon at me: “I’m feeling a little anxious.” “Oh, you’re anxious? Let me take care of that- BLAM!”

Bill and Martha came in with the twins, so we could say good night. They were clean and pajama’d, their hair standing up in damp red spikes. One of the babies caught my eye and she grinned, her mouth dropping open like a hinge.

“Hey, Lola,” I said, pleased with myself for identifying her. Lola was a grinner practically from day one, while Maude always gave you a flat-eyed stare, as if to say, “Prove it.”

“Ummm, that would be Maude,” Julie said.

So much for my investigative abilities.

Thirty minutes later, we were serving up a cashew-and-vegetable stir-fry with basmati rice. Expertly chopped cucumber salad on the side.

Bill was soon regaling Julie with my new theory of moneymaking. He’d had a few more beers and was now into the red wine.

“He claims the money will just fall out of some tree. Poof! Like magic! So, Ten, where’s it going to come from?”

“From wherever it is now,” I said.

“How much wine has this knucklehead had, Martha?” Bill chuckled. “He’s beginning to lose the plot.”

He picked up the bottle and started to pour himself another glass.

Martha gently moved Bill’s goblet away. “Honey, I think that’s enough. Your skills as a career counselor are going downhill rapidly.”

A slight twist of irritation crossed Bill’s face. Then he sighed. “You’re right, love. Sorry. I’m just jealous, is all.”

The table fell silent. Sometimes it takes three beers and two glasses of red wine to unlock a cop’s tongue. In vino veritas.

“You and I aren’t so different, Ten,” he said. “The day after I got out of the army, I joined the LAPD. I’ve never had any other kind of job. Now I see you heading out on this big adventure into the unknown …”

Some friends might choose to placate, to say reassuring things like “You’re a great cop and you have an even greater life.” I’m not one of them. I like it when people try to talk me into my feelings, not out of them. So that’s what I did with Bill.

“What about my new life looks attractive to you?” I asked. That got a smile from Julie.

Bill’s reply was instant.

“Freedom,” he said. “Freedom to be your own man.”

“Anything else?”

Martha stood and started to stack our plates.

“Picking what you want to work on rather than, oh let’s see, getting handed a stack of files every Monday morning, getting grilled by morons in court, putting up with dingbat administrators downtown, being hauled in front of a committee every time your weapon discharges. Stop me if there’s any you haven’t heard.”

“I get the picture,” I said. “Those are all the reasons I bailed out.”

“Well, maybe that’s what I should do, too.” Bill yawned, and stretched his back until it gave a satisfying set of pops.

“How about you bailing into bed?” Martha said. “You’re talking like a man who needs a good night’s sleep.”

Bill didn’t argue with that. He stood up and gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Keep me in the loop,” he said. “Don’t leave me behind.”

I stood and gave him an awkward man-hug.

“You are the loop,” I said.

Bill headed to bed, his gait unsteady.

Martha waved me off dishwashing duty.

“It’s my only alone time,” she said. “Julie, why don’t you walk Ten to his car?”

“Subtle,” Julie said.

We strolled up the sidewalk to where I’d parked my prized possession. I found myself wanting her to say something.

She didn’t disappoint.

“Wow,” she said. “I’m not a car person, but wow. What is this?”

“A ’65 Shelby Mustang,” I said. “I bought it back when I was a lowly patrolman. Not like this, of course. It was totaled. I spent three years restoring it. Helped me get my mind off cop stuff for a couple of hours every evening. Some genius mechanics over in Santa Monica did most of the heavy lifting, like rebuilding the engine.”

“I like the color, too,” Julie said, running her hand along the vivid yellow contours of the hood.

Charlotte had hated that color.

“How about I give you a ride in it sometime?” I said. “You could even drive it if you like.”

I regretted the words the moment they slipped out.

“Deal,” Julie said. “How about I reciprocate by cooking you dinner?”

“Uh, deal,” I said.

“I’m here at least through the weekend,” she said.

We stood there a little awkwardly.

“It’s just a dinner, Ten,” Julie said. “Don’t worry. I won’t let Martha order the wedding invitations quite yet.”

She walked away, laughing quietly.

Ding!

I jarred awake, heart pounding. Something had invaded my dreams. An alien sound. Was it from outside?

My phone dinged a second time from the bedside table. I groaned. A text message, at one in the morning. Mike, being Mike. Why couldn’t he keep daylight hours like the rest of us humans?

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!

REALLY, 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.