Gay Hendricks - The First Rule of Ten

“I propose that we meet at the Jonathan Club. Do you know it, Mr. Norbu?”

I did, the same way I “knew” a lot of icons: by reputation only, and from a distance. I’d driven past their blue awning downtown many a time, but I’d never made it inside. The Jonathan Club was elite and expensive, a favorite haunt of L.A.’s well-to-do aristocracy. Not too many boys and girls in blue on their membership list.

“I’m familiar with the club. When would you like to meet, sir?” Florio’s graciousness was contagious.

“I’m here now, Mr. Norbu. I come here almost every day. Would you consider joining me for a drink?”

“I can be there in two hours,” I said. “I have to make another stop first.”

“Excellent. I’ll let them know you’re coming.”

I don’t go out much to begin with, and since I got laid off, I had moved my formal wear, so to speak, to the far end of the closet. There was no way my jeans and T-shirt would make it through the front door of the Jonathan Club. I riffled through my hangers and came up with gray slacks, a halfway decent striped button-down shirt, a black wool sport coat, and a relatively clean blue tie with yellow stripes. I rolled the lint-remover over my pants and jacket, hopefully sticky-taping off any stray Tank-hairs. After I’d gotten dressed, I modeled the new me for Tank.

Not bad, he seemed to say, for an ex-cop.

I was never more grateful for the Shelby. Driving into the parking structure in my Toyota would have resulted in banishment to the hinterlands. I felt sure my brash Mustang would be a welcome addition to the luxury sedans stabled in front.

But first, a trip to Pacific Palisades. I had just enough time to follow up on Mike’s information, and pay a quick visit to Jeremiah Star Trek’s widow. I pulled into the driveway of a spectacular two-story Spanish home, way up in the Highlands off Sunset. A fountain trickled merrily from behind a wooden gate to one side, and the front door’s knocker was a cast-iron lion’s head, clasping a ring in its jaws. I lifted the heavy ring and let it drop with a loud clang . Then I pushed the electric buzzer, for good measure.

After a few minutes, the massive door swung open. A handsome woman in her 70s, her blue eyes framed with white wavy hair, met me with a smile that would melt snow. Mrs. Cook seemed to approve of my jacket and tie.

I introduced myself and told her why I was there. Her eyes darkened, and she ushered me inside.

I stepped into a California version of a medieval castle, complete with stained-glass windows, thick velvet curtains, and a pair of hand-carved gargoyles, sculpted out of what looked like animal bone.

She caught me staring.

“Jerry liked to sculpt between acting jobs,” she said. “He hated to be idle.” She gave me a quick tour of the house. Our first stop was a small room packed full of Star Trek memorabilia, from cookie jars to bobble heads. I never knew a spaceship, much less pointy ears, could fit on so many household goods. Following that, she ushered me in and out of two bedrooms, and a large study. She pointed out several more of his sculptures, lovingly describing them in detail-a garish, grinning commedia dell’arte mask of flat cow bone; a mobile of two twirling dancers, teased out of antelope ribs; a magnificent eagle, wings spread, carved from a camel’s femur. The house was a mausoleum of abandoned bone, reconfigured as art.

If I were a camel femur, I could think of a lot worse ways to be reincarnated.

We soon sat facing each other on high-backed velvet chairs, in front of a fireplace big enough to roast one of Barsotti’s pigs. A small, beautifully carved treasure chest sat on the mantel, another of Jerry’s works, I was quite sure.

“Now,” Mrs. Cook said. “What do you need to know?”

I hesitated. “This could be painful to talk about.”

“Mr. Norbu, what’s painful is knowing something’s very suspicious about your husband’s death, and having no one else believe you. I know he had prostate cancer, but he was in remission. The laetrile was working. His father and mother both lived well into their nineties, for goodness’ sake!”

“Can you describe to me exactly what happened?”

The events were so familiar. The visit from Florio. The signed contract. The promise of money.

“Mr. Florio seemed so certain about the royalties.”

Mrs. Cook sighed. “And then, when he came back with the check …”

“He came back?”

“Yes, a few months later, with a check for two thousand dollars, and a dear little gift basket of local wines and cheeses. Jerry and I celebrated our good fortune that night.” Her voice grew bitter. “The next day, my husband was dead.”

I glanced at my watch. I did not want to be late for Florio Sr.

Then I caught myself. This woman was in pain. Florio could wait I reached over and touched the back of her hand.

“I lost my mother very suddenly. The death of a loved one is never easy,” I said. “But when it’s sudden, the pain is that much more acute, isn’t it?”

She squeezed my hand. We sat together in silence for a few minutes.

“What am I thinking,” Mrs. Cook exclaimed. “I never even offered you something to drink!”

“Thank you, but I should get going,” I smiled. We both stood. “I am curious, though. Have you received any more money from TFJ?”

She shook her head. “Not one penny.”

I met her eyes.

“One last question and I apologize for this one. Would you consider making your husband’s body available for an autopsy?”

Her eyes filled. She walked over to the mantel. She reached for the carved wooden chest and turned, hugging it close.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but it’s too late. This is what Jerry wanted. To be here at home, with me.”

I took Sunset south, hopped on the Pacific Coast Highway, then jumped onto the 10 to the 110 South. I kept one eye on the road and the other in my rear-view mirror for traffic cops. The traffic was pretty light, for once. I put in my little white earbuds and called Julie.

“Guess where I’m going,” I said.

“Dharamshala, to visit your father.”

“Very funny. I’m invited for drinks at the Jonathan Club.”

“Is that good?”

“That’s very good. The drinks are free, and the club, I’ll have you know, is extremely exclusive.”

“All righty then. I was going to offer to cook at your place tonight, but I guess you just vaulted out of my league.”

I laughed. “Please come. The keys are under the front mat, and Tank will be thrilled to have you to himself for as long as possible. I’ll be back around seven.”

“Good,” she said. “As you must have figured out, Detective, I’m hoping to seduce you.”

Actually I hadn’t figured out any such thing. This particular detective was notoriously poor at detecting the obvious, when it came to women.

“Sounds perfect,” I said. “What are we having for dessert?”

“Don’t push your luck, Norbu.”

I exited at 6th, hung a left, and drove past the front entrance to the club. I took a moment to glance up at the elegant brick facade. Part Italian Renaissance, part Parisian folly, the building managed to feel opulent without being decadent. The navy blue awning, cupped over the entrance, was marked with a discreet shield bearing the initials JC in angular white. It reminded me of a cattle-brand.

I turned into the underground garage. A parking valet was at my side in an instant.

“Beautiful ’Stang,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to drive one of these.”

’ Stang ? I handed him the keys, and hoped that the Jonathan Club was as meticulous vetting its parking attendants as it was its membership. As I suspected, high-end Beemers, Mercedes, and Cadillacs were strategically placed in the prime front slots. I was gratified to see the attendant slide my Mustang right in the middle of them.