Gay Hendricks - The First Rule of Ten

The trick, of course, is to stop at one.

I headed for the Generator Lounge. Cops tend to congregate there because it has its own exit and is wedged into a back corner, flanked by two walls facing outward. We love to face out. We’re like the Mafia, that way.

As my eyes adjusted, I found Bill and six or seven fellow detectives from Robbery/Homicide, most of them lifers, already digging into a platter of hot-and-sour shoestring fries. Bill handed me a stein of ale.

“This one’s on me,” he said. “Now you owe me big time.”

“Right. Now I owe you thirty-five cents.”

Sipping, I tasted honey, apricots, and a kiss of hops. Chimay White, one of my favorites.

“Bless you,” I said to Bill. “And bless those industrious Belgian Trappist monks.”

Marty, who came up with me at the Academy, clinked on his glass with a knife to get everyone’s attention.

“To Hizzoner Tenzing Norbu,” he said. “First to get in, first to get out.” His face was a little ruddy. He was already into the $12 second drink.

He gave an exaggerated bow.

“Damn, Ten, when you showed up for training, bald as a cue ball and shyer than spit, I thought, ‘Hallelujah, this weirdo’s going to anchor the curve, he’s going to make me look goo-ood.’”

He turned to the group.

“For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out how he kept kicking my butt so bad, mine and everyone else’s. He was a Buddhist monk, for Chrissake. I actually considered taking a break from the horizontal mambo myself, just to level the playing field.”

“Celibacy is overrated,” I said.

A volley of bad bedroom jokes and raunchy stories followed, all of which I’d heard a thousand times. My mind drifted to those early days, the intensive six months of training, cruising the streets as a newbie patrol officer, then moving up the ranks until I achieved Detective I, then II. I could still recall the heady sense of anticipation back then, the excitement that propelled me into each morning. Like being in love.

A shout of welcome interrupted my reverie. A long-limbed redhead, wearing a diaphanous gown, sparkling green wings, and not much else, rolled a wooden cart into our midst. It held a glittering array of neon elixirs in individual glass bottles.

When Prince Siddhartha, the Buddha-to-be, sat in deep meditation under the Bodhi Tree, the demonic shape-shifter Mara appeared in the form of seductive women to test his mettle. Here at the Edison, temptation came in the form of the Absinthe Fairy.

“Libations, anyone?” she crooned. “You get to keep the bottle.”

Marty was all over her like a rash. He pulled out a roll of bills, happy to pay top dollar for his next round of distilled relief.

I looked over at my ex-partner. Bill caught me catching him peeking at his watch. He looked a little sheepish, but I tipped my chin toward the exit. I’d already reached my limit of small talk. We said our good-byes and aimed for the door.

“Hey, Ten!”

I turned. Marty again. His cheeks were flushed from the absinthe. “So what’s next?”

“Not sure,” I said, playing for time. I was afraid actually voicing my lifelong aspiration, inspired by long, late nights with Arthur Conan Doyle, might cause it to evaporate into thin air. “But I’m thinking, maybe, private investigation”

With that, one of the older detectives launched into some sort of musical chant, a series of Dunh, dunh, dunh, dunh ’s. The others joined in. I looked at Bill helplessly.

“It’s the theme song from an old television series, Magnum, P.I.,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Grow a mustache,” I heard Marty shout after me as we headed out the door, followed by hoots of laughter.

Bill walked me to my car.

“So,” he said.

“So.”

“I got you something.”

Bill fished around his pockets and pulled out a small evidence bag. He opened it and tipped the contents into the palm of my hand.

“Think of it as a little reminder to look before you leap.”

I stared down at the misshapen slug. My lucky charm.

“Thanks,” I said. “Now I owe you another ten cents.”

“Watch your back out there,” Bill said.

I put the bullet in my pocket. I was certainly planning to try.

Home. Free.

I skated the dry mop across my floor, enjoying the light grip of fingers on handle, of bare feet on smooth, hard wood. The back-and-forth, back-and-forth rhythm transported me to predawn in Dharamshala, performing my morning job of sweeping the meditation hall before the swarm of lamas descended on it. It was my favorite time of day, a few moments to be alone with my thoughts before the mandatory schedule kicked in, the prayers, the practices, the painstaking rituals and endless dry debates. The constant worry that I was breaking yet another obscure rule by, say, scratching my nose before noon, or tying my robe under the wrong armpit when a woman was passing by on the road.

People assume life in a monastery is filled with blissful, solitary contemplation. People assume wrong.

I paused, breathed in the morning air, the slight tang of eucalyptus and ocean salt I have come to know as the smell of contentment. Somehow, this little getaway in Topanga Canyon has become my place of refuge.

Up until a few years ago, the concept of “home” eluded me. It conjured up a jumble of pictures and feelings, a contradictory collage of resistance and longing-the monastery in Dharamshala; the small, dark house in Paris where I’d lived with my mother, Valerie (as she insisted I call her), until her untimely death; and some nameless, unsettled craving for a place just out of reach. Nowhere felt right.

Maybe that’s a good thing. Now that I am here, I know enough to really savor and appreciate it.

I ran the mop under my floor-to-ceiling bookcase, over-flowing with all the books I’d devoured since I moved here-I’d had a lot of catching up to do: European and American history; Eastern and Western philosophy; William Shakespeare; Stephen Hawking; illustrated guides to local plants and trees; how-to books on subjects ranging from vintage cars to long-term relationships (much more mysterious); even an obscure but fascinating political tome by Kautilya, ancient adviser to a King of India. The top two shelves were stuffed with detective novels, and the first book, on the first row, presiding over all like a wise elder, stood my beloved, tattered Complete Works of Arthur Conan Doyle.

I set my mop aside and scanned the rest of my little cottage-the simple, elegant Japanese lines; the clean white walls and dark burnished hardwood floors; the big deck I added, overlooking the ocean; the tiny kitchen bathed in morning sunlight. Each piece evoked a fresh swell of gratitude, of Yes, I belong here . My place was small, about 1,200 square feet, but the interior space was designed so cleverly that I never really had the sense of being cramped. I sent a silent thank-you to my former landlord Zimmy, his wife, Haruka, and even the rock-star lifestyle that led him into rehab and me into renting, and eventually buying, this house.

Poor Zimmy. He built this place made-to-order for his bride, and then the hits stopped coming and the wife started roaming. She soon left him for greener pastures, a bass player no less, the ultimate low blow. Zimmy moved out for a long stint in a recovery facility, and I moved in. A year later Zimmy was a little cleaner, and I was a little wealthier.

I added Valerie to my gratitude list, for gifting me enough inheritance to use as a down payment. Zimmy had no desire to come back to Topanga Canyon, and I never wanted to leave. He took the money and moved to a pear farm in Oregon. Last I heard he was clean, sober, and happy, living a new life with a new woman.