Gay Hendricks - The First Rule of Ten

“Look, I owe you an explanation. I also owe you a ride, and you owe me a meal. How does tonight sound?”

She thought about it. I waited, wondering which way she would tip. Which way I wanted her to.

“As it happens, I’m off this evening,” Julie said. “Come to my place. We can take the Mustang for a spin, and then you can fill me in while I fill you up.”

I got directions-she was renting one of those temporary furnished apartments at the Oakwood in Burbank-and hung up feeling a little better about things.

A FedEx truck scraped over the gravel into my driveway. Now what?

Moments later, I was looking down at Mike’s face, displaying an uncharacteristic ear-to-ear grin, filling the screen of a brand-new, very fancy cell phone. I spent one second wondering what Mike was so happy about, before I started to mess around with my new toy, tapping and stroking the little stamp-sized images the way I remembered Mike doing.

At first, it was like trying to control little balls of mercury. Icons kept skittering away, disappearing and reappearing willy-nilly. Once I got the hang of it, though, I discovered that I not only had access to the Internet and my e-mails, I could also check on the weather, the stock market, Facebook, and YouTube. People could track me wherever I was, and I could get directions to anywhere, and listen to music by anyone. Now if it would only open cans of cat food, life would be perfect.

I called Mike. The reception was clear as crystal. Man, I hate it when he’s so right. I left a message.

“Okay. You win. I did need this gizmo to tide me over before I can afford the whole home office upgrade. Thanks.” I went to press end, then changed my mind. “Question: who took that picture of you? Why the goofy grin?”

It was time to hit the road. I grabbed an old pair of binoculars and fed my beast. The new, 21st-century me downloaded door-to-door directions to today’s destination, and added Julie’s address and number to my address book. I was pretty pleased with myself. On a whim, I also Googled “Hog Farms.” We were strict vegetarians in the monastery, avoiding the consumption of any other sentient beings. In Paris, my mother was whatever suited her at any given moment. One week, she would eat nothing but fruit and nuts. Another week, only meat would do. Raw, cooked, gourmet or junk food, whatever she ate, I ate, or I didn’t eat at all. Since I’ve been on my own, I’ve tried to listen to what my body needs, while holding some awareness of the source of my nourishment. Mostly, I eat fresh fruit, vegetables and legumes, with the occasional cheese, egg, or fish product when there are no vegetarian alternatives. No red meat, though. The closest I’ve come to pork is bacon bits at a salad bar, which I’ve so far avoided. Anyway, what I knew about pig farming wouldn’t fill a thimble.

What I learned about pig farming made me wish I owned a gas mask. Among other unsettling facts, apparently pilots are encouraged to avoid flying over hog farms at altitudes lower than 3,000 feet, due to instances of fainting in the cockpit from catching piggy updrafts. In other swine-related news, entire hog farms occasionally spontaneously burst into flames from the various gases produced by the active little fellows.

“We’re talking some potent emissions, my friend,” I told Tank.

My phone produced a cascade of syrupy harp arpeggios, Mike’s tongue-in-cheek choice of ringtone for a meditating ex-cop.

It was Julie.

“About dinner,” she said. “I forgot to ask, anything you don’t eat?”

I didn’t hesitate.

“Pork,” I said.

My neck was killing me. I lowered my binoculars, rotated my shoulders and head, and steeled myself for stage two of my observation plan. It was already midafternoon. Except for a handful of raw almonds, I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I’d already spent several hours standing on a hill, studying from afar the outfit that caused such olfactory distress for the Children of Paradise. Fortunately, the wind was blowing east, so I was spared the full effect of nastiness.

Here’s what I’d learned so far. This wasn’t much of an operation. By my count, there were about 20 employees, mostly Hispanic, mostly just hanging around. Occasionally, someone would be doing the things you’d expect workers on a hog farm to be doing: feeding hogs; dealing with the inevitable aftermath of feeding hogs; waiting around to feed them again. Some of the men wore surgical masks. Others, mostly the older workers, went without. Maybe you got used to the smell after a few years. I found that a scary thought.

The moment had come. I had to drive closer to glean anything further.

Even safely sealed inside my car, it was bad. When I reached the entrance, I braced myself and rolled down the window. I instantly experienced two things-a burning sensation in my eyes, and a gust of empathy for the neighboring cult. The powerful blend of foul-smelling excrement and pungent garbage, topped by a nostril-stinging high-note of urine, was almost unbearable.

I caught myself: Here I was complaining about a strong smell, without giving any thought to the suffering of the poor animals inside. Their rebirth into the animal realm was already a form of slavery, and their present living conditions were horrific. I tried to balance my revulsion with an equal amount of compassion for these highly intelligent animals.

Window raised again, I took shallow, acrid gulps of oxygen through my mouth as I steered the Toyota up the entry road to the farm. The main building was set well apart from the actual operation. No surprise there. The far side of a parking lot held a dozen or so cars and pickup trucks. One car stood out-a shiny black Mercedes, an E550, top of the line. A classic midlife-crisis car. The sexy two-door convertible hardtop still sported dealer plates-a Pasadena dealership.

At least one person here was bringing home a lot of bacon.

I parked. I stretched. I strolled to the front door, as if I hadn’t a care in the world, which is hard to do when your gullet is spasming in protest at the stench. I entered, and was hit by a blast of cold air. They must keep the air purification and cooling system cranked up high to keep the pig smells out. Everybody in the office was wearing a sweater.

I took a tentative sniff. Not bad.

A dazzling bottle-blond young woman in a tight, low-cut pullover manned the front desk, so to speak. Her head was lowered as she tapped away at her computer keyboard. Behind her, a couple of young men and women sat at their own desks, staring at screens, talking quietly into headsets. At the far end of the room was the only closed door.

Low-Cut flashed a bright smile at me. “May I help you?”

I decided to aim for humble and disarming. “I sincerely hope so, ma’am. I’m a private investigator, looking into the Children of Paradise community next door.”

A sour little look rippled across her face. She caught herself, and quickly snapped the smile back into place.

“Yes? And?”

“And, I know that your company had some problems with them a while back. I was wondering if I could talk to your boss about it.”

She shook her head. “Mr. Barsotti is unavailable right now.”

Good. A name.

“I’m guessing Mr. Barsotti will want to know about this,” I said. “When do you think he’ll be available?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “It could be a while.”

“No worries. I can wait.” I looked around in vain for a place to sit down.

“We don’t get a lot of visitors.” Her voice was clipped.

“I can’t imagine why,” I said, testing for signs of humor.

No response, except that immovable smile.

I moved to the corner. Just stood there, waiting. She eyed me for a minute or two, nibbling on a hot-pink finger-talon, then went back to clacking away on the computer.