Gay Hendricks - The First Rule of Ten

“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.”

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.