Gay Hendricks - The First Rule of Ten

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone, as if I’d just felt it buzz. Raising one finger, I stepped away and engaged in a brief, intense conversation with nobody. I finished the phantom call and smiled an apology at my new buddy. “I’m needed back at the office-can I get your card?”

“Uh, okay.” A scrim of disappointment dropped over Chad’s face. I almost felt sorry for the guy. I pocketed his card and gave his hand a quick shake.

“Do you have a card?” he asked.

I slapped my pockets. “Fresh out,” I said. “But here’s a number you can call.” I rattled off a series of random digits in the 310 area code. It was definitely a number-just not one that had anything to do with me.

“I’ll let Mr. Barsotti know you stopped in,” Chad said.

“Please do,” I said. “I’m sure he’ll be surprised, if not thrilled.”

By now, I was starving, but out of time, and almost out of gas. I filled up at a local Arco station and grabbed a packet of peanut-butter crackers at the counter.

Made a mental note to remember wine for dinner.

Then I dashed back to Barsotti’s love nest, “dash” being a relative term anywhere in Los Angeles any time after three o’clock in the afternoon. It was close to dusk when I pulled into the complex. I was glad to see both cars still in place.

I’d no sooner opened my crackers when Barsotti emerged and quick-walked over to his car. Here we go again. I stayed five cars back as he hacked his way through traffic, this time taking Coldwater south. It was a slow grind, climbing up and over Mulholland, dipping down into Beverly Hills. Night was closing in by the time we reached Beverly Drive. I checked my watch. I was cutting my dinner plans close. Barsotti hooked a left, onto a quiet street in the part of Beverly Hills known as “the flats.”

I rolled past as he pulled into the circular driveway of a two-story English Tudor, centered on a large manicured lot. The garage door opened to admit his car. Well, what do you know? Another Mercedes SUV was parked in the his-and-hers garage. Silver, like the girlfriend’s, but an older model. I glanced in the kitchen window. Barsotti was hugging a woman. Blond, like the girlfriend, but an older model. Mrs. Barsotti, I presume.

Two preteen Barsottis were already sitting at the kitchen table, set for four. So Vince was a family man who believed in good old-fashioned family values … with one small exception. I doubted the missus knew about that exception, especially the bit about the newer, shinier sheet metal. Beverly Hills wives can be touchy on that subject.

A security car pulled up next to me. Now my Toyota stuck out like a tutu at a wrestling match. What a difference a few miles makes. The patrol car’s window slid down and a uniformed guard leaned his jaunty cap out the window.

“Help you, sir?”

I explained I thought someone I knew, a friend, lived on this street, but I was mistaken.

Lying while telling the truth. Easy as pie.

In L.A., there’s “fashionably” late, and then there’s “just plain rude” late. I arrived at Julie’s front door somewhere in between the two. I hate being late at all-monastic living trained me to be a stickler about keeping to a schedule, otherwise you never found any spare time for yourself. I also hated to show up for dinner empty-handed, but with no opportunity to pick up a bottle of wine, I just had to make do with what I had.

My choices were limited, but between an opened packet of peanut-butter crackers and a paper bag of raw almonds, the almonds won easily. At least they had a nice story to go with them.

I pushed the doorbell, suddenly aware of a swarm of winged creatures fluttering inside my rib cage like newly hatched termites.

The door opened. Julie stood smiling at me, framed by the soft light from inside. She was wearing jeans, a white cotton shirt, and a bright purple apron. Rolled-up sleeves showed off her toned muscles, and her apron was snug over her breasts. Fit, yet voluptuous, what a combination. We cheek-kissed. Her skin was slightly damp and her hair smelled of jasmine. I pulled away quickly. I didn’t want to think about what I smelled like.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said. “Crazy day. I’m a little worse for wear.”

“To say nothing of your Mustang,” Julie said, looking over my shoulder at the battered Toyota parked in her guest slot.

Oh, well.

I handed her the paper bag of almonds. “For you,” I said. “A bag of nuts, straight from the grove. Don’t let anyone tell you I’m not a romantic at heart.”

She laughed, and ushered me inside.

“Welcome to the land of beige,” she said. I looked around. Sure enough, the walls were beige. The wall-to-wall carpet was beige. Even the photograph of a mountain range hanging over the living room sofa was beige. “I bought the apron as an act of self-defense.” She spread her purple apron and curtseyed.

I’d forgotten how quirky she was.

The smells coming from the small kitchen area were enough to make me weep. Sauteed garlic and onions. Balsamic vinegar. Something else, creamy and comforting. I honed in on a bottle of Pinot Noir breathing away on the counter. Soon I was perched on a stool by the kitchen island, sipping delicious wine and watching delicious Julie perform culinary magic.

She opened the oven and leaned in to poke at something. I spotted a cast iron pan loaded with bubbling, thinly sliced potatoes.

“You didn’t,” I said. “Potatoes Anna? Really? What are you, psychic?”

Not psychic , a voice inside me said. Manipulative . A drop of uneasiness tainted the pleasure, like ink in water. My chest constricted, though I kept my tone casual.

“Did you talk to Martha?”

Julie turned. The heat from the oven flushed her cheeks a becoming pink.

“Guilty as charged,” she said. She pulled a basket of morels from the refrigerator and waved them at me.

“She also told me you loved these.”

My jaw must have tightened.

“Hey,” Julie said. “Give me a break. I never cooked for a monk before.”

She had a point.

Soon we were tucking into heaping plates of crispy, buttery potatoes; big, juicy grilled mushrooms, and a tart, delicate salad of arugula, avocado, and crumbled blue cheese. Her silent concentration on the food blessedly matched my own, until our plates were clean.

I helped myself to more of everything.

“I thought morels weren’t in season,” I said, refilling our glasses. “Where did you find these?”

“The competition can be fierce, but we chefs have our own inside informants,” she said. “They’re called exotic food suppliers. I got the morels from one of our regulars, in Calabasas. Guess where they’re flown in from?”

I had no idea.

“The Southern Himalayas,” she said. “Not too far from where you grew up, right?”

Again, I felt that little kink of unease. She seemed to know a lot more about me than I did her. I took another bite of potatoes, and as the buttery mixture melted on my tongue, I let the feeling melt away along with it.

“So, how’s the chef gig going?” I asked.

“Sous-chef,” she said, “and it’s a nightmare, thanks. I’m dealing with a maniac. When they interviewed me, I neglected to ask why the executive chef didn’t bring his own sous-chef with him. Turns out she’s in rehab for alcoholism.”

She poured herself another glass of wine. “I may be headed that way myself.”

She described her chef’s latest tantrum, one of many. Broken dishes and a weeping waiter were involved. I told her I understood, and detailed several infamous outbursts by my own former boss, the king of homicidal rages.

“He’s one of the reasons I left,” I said. “What about you? Do you have to put up with it? Why not quit?”