Gay Hendricks - The First Rule of Ten

I turned my back to her and stepped close to some old framed photographs of what looked like prize-winning hogs on the wall, as if I were admiring their girth and blue ribbons. Actually, I was adopting the time-honored but effective secret-agent trick of using the reflection off the glass to spy on her. She glanced at my turned back, picked up her phone and had a short, whispered conversation punctuated by a couple of more quick peeks in my direction.

Fortunately, I was also half-facing the window into the parking lot. Within moments, a man exited the back of the building and hustled toward the new Mercedes, shrugging a sport coat over his dark lavender shirt and matching tie as he trotted. He looked to be in his mid-40s. His longish hair was uniformly dark, except for suspiciously perfect little flags of silver at the temples. Prominent nose. Fairly fit body, though his somewhat loose jowls hinted at a recent weight loss. I was too far away to see, but I was betting on manicured fingernails. All in all he wasn’t bad-looking, in that “I’m determined to look younger than I am” way.

It had to be Barsotti, in a rush to get out of there. I wondered why he was so anxious to leave.

My gut twanged. A man in a hurry is a man with a secret. Follow him.

I turned to Low-Cut. “Sorry. Just remembered something I should take care of. I’ll have to come back another time.”

“Okay,” she chirped, without looking up from her work.

I decided to double-check I had the right guy, just in case. “By the way, how does Mr. Barsotti like his Mercedes?”

“Oh, he just got it, and he loves it.” She wasn’t too bright. I suspected Barsotti hired her for what was below her neck, not above it.

I popped out of the door just as Barsotti was smoothly reversing out of his parking place. Engine purring, the sleek machine glided toward the exit.

I sprinted across the lot and jumped into my jalopy. I reached the main road just as he was accelerating, maybe a quarter-mile ahead. I goosed my hard-working engine, willing it to catch up. I felt like a mutt chasing a greyhound. Soon Barsotti reached the freeway entrance.

He turned onto the ramp heading south on the 14 toward Los Angeles. Thank goodness. I didn’t want to restart things with Julie by canceling our dinner.

For once, heavy traffic was my friend. If both the 14 and the 5 hadn’t been jammed with stop-and-go traffic, his wheels would have left mine in the dust. As it was, we surged and slowed our parallel ways back into town.

Just north of where the 5 and the 170 meet, the lanes inexplicably cleared, and I almost lost him. I floored my Toyota, pushing the tachometer to redline as I merged onto the 170. Every nut, bolt, and belt in the car rattled and howled in protest, but I managed to just keep him in sight as he suddenly zipped off the freeway at Roscoe. I felt a niggle of recognition. I’d been in this part of North Hollywood before, but I couldn’t say why. Then Barsotti again turned, this time onto Coldwater Canyon Boulevard.

I was confused. Coldwater Canyon serves as a back way into Beverly Hills, that famous playground of the rich, where shiny new luxury sports coupes feel most at home. But if that was his destination, he should have taken the later Coldwater exit, made a left at the bottom of the ramp, and climbed over the hill to the high-rent side of town. We were a far cry from there.

As I turned onto Coldwater myself, I realized why this area seemed so familiar. I was a stone’s throw away from Wat Thai, the ornate Theravada Buddhist temple located, incongruously, right off the freeway. Two turns and you think you’re in Bangkok.

A pair of looming demons guarded the gates of this classic Thai temple, with its red roof and ornamental eaves outside, and a plump, gilded Buddha watching over the chanting monks within. I’d love to say I went there to join their meditation practice. In fact, it was the lure of mango and sticky rice, purchased from temple food stalls using funny plastic temple money, that drew me. That and the Thai Iced Tea, a divine beverage if ever there was one.

Barsotti had a different elixir in mind. I almost ran up his tailpipe when he braked suddenly and turned into a strip mall. I took a deep breath to slow my pulse, and sent a prayer of gratitude to the chubby Buddha next door. That would have been one pricey fender bender. Barsotti hurried into a Starbucks-or Fourbucks, as Bill likes to call it-phone glued to his ear. He emerged moments later with two 20-ounce Ventis nestled in a cardboard box.

Unless his car drank coffee, he was on his way to meet someone.

I sincerely hoped my gut wasn’t leading me on a crazy chase for nothing.

Traffic again formed a thick clot, and I had no trouble keeping the sports car in sight as he turned right, toward the jumble of apartment complexes and houses that sprawl for miles out there, forming separate branches of the seemingly infinite grid known collectively as “The Valley.” I found this part of town monotonous, flat, and downright depressing, but to each his own. I gave myself a mental attaboy for choosing to drive the Toyota today. A saffron Shelby Mustang would have made this part of the pursuit problematic. Happily, older Toyotas were a dime a dozen.

Coldwater quickly became Sheldon, condos became houses again, and I dropped back another two cars. His destination turned out to be a small but beautifully appointed cluster of stables and paddocks surrounding a riding ring, a jewel of a place in the East Valley. Several riders mounted on thoroughbreds trotted around the ring. A discreet sign revealed this to be the East Valley Equine Center. I knew about the enormous equestrian center in Griffith Park, but this was obviously the well-kept-secret alternative for wealthy horse-owners craving privacy. I parked across the street and watched as Barsotti maneuvered into a tight space between a Beemer and a Lexus. He carried both coffees to the riding ring, set them down, and leaned against the fence to watch the riders.

I now knew where we were, but I still hadn’t a clue what either of us was doing there.

I left my car across the street, retrieving only my binoculars-they were getting quite a workout today. I found a secure vantage point and peered at the ring, trying to guess which rider, or horse for that matter, Barsotti was visiting. I swept my field glasses past an older man with a patrician nose and a young, fresh-faced teenage girl posting up and down in spotless jodhpurs, her braces glinting as she grinned.

Then my binoculars filled with the smooth, glowing face of a beautiful young woman in her 20s. Blond curls spilled out from under her black helmet. With mental apologies to my Tibetan teachers, I lowered the glasses slightly. Yup, the rest of her equipment was equally to Barsotti’s taste, and I’m not talking about stirrups. She cantered past him, thighs gripping the sleek, chocolate-brown flanks of her horse. Barsotti’s head followed her around the ring as if magnetically connected.

As Julie would say: All righty, then.

A freckled kid on a two-wheeler screeched to a halt near me.

“Whatcha doing?” he asked.

I wasn’t going to lie. First of all, way back when, as a novice monk, I had vowed not to. Second of all, children get enough of that every day from the people they know; they don’t need strangers running cons on them, too.

“I’m watching a man watching a woman ride a horse.”

“Cool,” he said, and pedaled off. Would that all human communication were so simple.

I decided to give the binoculars a rest before I drew less agreeable attention. I let them dangle and took a slow stroll around the perimeter of the equestrian center, keeping watch on Barsotti out of the corner of my eye. As I completed one full lap around the place, staying well out of Barsotti’s line of vision, the blonde dismounted. She passed off her reins to a handler. He walked the horse toward the stables. She sashayed over to the fence and gave Barsotti a quick kiss. The giant rock on her left hand flashed and bounced light like a laser. Trophy wife, I thought. Explains the weight loss. Barsotti passed her a coffee and they shared a short conversation. As she left the riding ring, he escorted her over to, wonder of wonders, another brand-spanking-new Mercedes, this one a gleaming silver SUV. Same new plates. Same dealer. I took note of the name. One, or maybe both, of them went on a shopping spree recently, purchasing two new sets of wheels. I was betting on Barsotti, myself.