Gay Hendricks - The First Rule of Ten

I looked at my clenched fists, resting on the steering wheel. Loosened them, finger by finger. Self-recrimination was going to get me absolutely nowhere. There were too many questions swirling like loose sediment in my psyche. I had to find a quiet zone to sit, let the silt settle. See what I actually knew.

I drove north on Alameda, turned right on Third, and again on San Pedro. I circled the block to look for street parking, and then thought better of it. A bright yellow Mustang might prove irresistible to gangbangers and car thieves. I grudgingly parked underground at Five Star and walked the two blocks to the Japanese American Cultural amp; Community Center. I tried to leave my resentment over public parking outside the gates of my secret downtown refuge, an authentic Japanese stroll garden.

I had stumbled onto the garden early on in my police training. I’d gone into Little Tokyo for takeout and was looking for a quiet place to eat. Something drew me to the Cultural Center, and I’d soon spotted a small side gate. I pushed it open, and was rewarded with my first glimpse of the Seiryu-en, the Garden of the Clear Stream. It turned out food wasn’t allowed, but ever since, I’d visited this garden many times to partake of my other necessary sustenance, the spiritual kind.

I looked around. I was alone. Good. I stood still, letting the melodious sound of water cascading over rock soothe me. The azalea bushes were glossy green, with tight buds hinting at the spring bloom ahead. The delicate foliage of the heavenly bamboo still showed traces of the bright crimson it wore through the winter months, but I could picture the clusters of creamy white blossoms to come. The same with the Japanese wisteria-its green leaves held their secret close, but within a few months the vines would be draped with flowering lilac clusters, smelling of grape and possibility.

My eyes traced the tumbling waterfall as it forked into two streams near its head, splitting around a small island, then slowing and reuniting in a shallow, quiet pond.

I stepped onto the walking path, and let my attention rest on the sensation of my upright body, my arms hanging by my sides, my hands lightly clasping each other. I let my eyes rest on the ground, a few feet ahead of me. Lift, move, press. Lift, move, press . I paused, breathing in and out, feeling my lungs bellow and compress. Lift, move, press . Feet touching the ground, the space between each step, the feeling of stopping and starting. The mental silt began to settle, the inner chatter to fade away. Lift, move, press .

I paced the circular path, feeling the terrain change beneath me: hard granite … beaten earth … knobby, uneven stepping-stones. I traversed the three arched, wooden bridges, hanging like lanterns over the gurgling water. Lift, move, press .

Pieces of my dream tiptoed back to me, enticed by the clear, empty vessel that was now my consciousness. I let the images flow: my father standing guard … the X-shaped building … the pelicans … the watchtower. A geometric tattoo, straddling a man’s thick neck. Guards. Pelicans. Prison. Paradise.

Got it.

As I left, I stopped at a small fountain, cupping my hands under the cool stream of water flowing from a bamboo spout into a stone basin. My teachers taught me well. Thank you.

Bill met me in the lobby of the Police Headquarters.

“Two Tenzing sightings in one day,” he said. “I like it.”

We took the elevator to his fourth-floor office, where he closed the door. I told him about the insurance policies. The suspicions I had about Buster’s death and Freda’s illness. My visit to the Children of Paradise. Barsotti’s pig farm. John D’s almond grove. Then I ran the dream images by him, and what I thought they meant.

Bill nodded at once, like he got where I was going. He pulled up a page on the computer and tipped the screen my way. I found myself staring at an overhead view of the Pelican Bay State Prison. My eyes zeroed in on an X-shaped cluster of white concrete buildings set apart from the main facility.

“What is that?” I pointed.

“That’s the Security Housing Unit,” Bill said. “Pelican’s supermax-type control unit for the superbad. Affectionately referred to by inmates as ‘the Shu.’”

Is that what you want to go back to? The shoe?

“The Shu. Of course,” I murmured.

“Those are some bad boys in there, Ten. Not to be messed with.”

“Can you see if they had an inmate by the name of Monroe, Eldon Monroe?

Bill picked up the phone. Three re-routes later, he had an answer for me. No. It was what I expected, though not necessarily what I needed to make sense of anything else.

“You’ll get there,” Bill said.

On my way out the door, insects started chirping. The look on my partner’s face was priceless.

“New phone,” I told him. “Very green.”

I glanced down. It was Zimmy.

“Hi, Zimmy,” I said.

“My man. How’re you doing on this fine day? I hope I’m not calling at a bad time.”

“I’m doing great,” I said. “I just finished an hour of walking meditation, so you are probably talking to the clearest version of me you’re going to get.”

Bill made a gagging motion from his desk.

“Good deal,” Zimmy said. “I had an idea pop into my head clear as day myself-something I want you to do for me-and I’m not taking no for an answer.”

“That’s quite an introduction,” I said. “I’m all ears.”

“Jilly and I have been talking it over, and we want to hire you as a private detective to get to the bottom of all this stuff. Florio, Barbara’s death, the whole thing.”

I smiled. “Thanks, Zimmy, but I’m already investigating this on my own. You don’t need to pay me for it.”

“You don’t understand, Ten. I do. See, when Barbara and I first got together, she had some money saved up, several thousand dollars. Me being me back then, it wasn’t long before I’d put it up my nostrils, and hers.”

I waited.

“I have to make this right somehow,” he said. “It’s eating away at me, you know? Jilly can always tell when I’m getting wound up, so last night we had a long talk. We’ve been real fortunate up here, Ten. We just found out we’re gonna have the biggest crop of pears since we started growing them. We’ve got some extra money to spend. But even if we didn’t, I’d be asking you. I owe this to Barbara. I’m telling you, my peace of mind, maybe even my sobriety, depends upon repaying this debt. You’d be doing me a big favor by letting me buy five grand’s worth of your services. So, do we have a deal?”

I spot-checked my insides, and his, for any hidden agendas, and came up clear.

“We have a deal,” I said.

“Fantastic. I’ll get a check in the mail to you this afternoon. And Ten? I love you, brother.”

“You’re a good man, Zimmy. I’m proud to have you as my first official client.”

I hung up, and beamed at Bill.

“What?” he said.

“Magic is what, Bill. Five thousand dollars, falling from a tree, is what.”

“Zimmy hired you?”

“Zimmy hired me.”

“Then I guess it’s true, what they say. ‘If you investigate it, they will come….’”

“Who will come?”

“Forget it.” Bill walked over and clapped me on the back. “My dad used to tell me the only difference between an amateur and a professional is one dollar. You are now a bona fide professional private investigator. Congratulations. Now get to work.”

I drove home smiling. Tank met me at the door. I picked him up and gave his sturdy body a hug. His eyes blinked, like, “What’s the big deal?” I was on a spiritual roll, so I beamed him a little mind-movie, a series of mental pictures of me happily working on the case, and a cupboard stacked high with cans of tuna fish.