The First Rule of Ten (12 page)

“You talking about ESP?”

“It’s more like staying attuned to what’s happening beneath the surface, and somehow picking it up in visual form.”

“Like dowsing for water,” John D said. “Only it’s your mind that’s bent like a branch.”

“Exactly. One time, I was maybe seventeen, I was called to the bedside of an old monk. My father thought it would be instructive. The monk was somewhere around eighty—he didn’t know exactly when he was born—and deep in his final passage.”

“You mean dying?”

“Yes. Dying. He was lying in bed, with his eyes closed. I was only allowed the briefest of visits. I sat cross-legged on the floor next to him. I started chanting from one of our traditional liturgies for the dying. All of a sudden, the clear image of a snowball fight flashed across my mental screen; you know, just a bunch of little Tibetan boys, lobbing snow at each other. It was like I was there. The monk must have sensed a change in my concentration. His eyes flickered open, and he turned to look at me. ‘Describe,’ he said.”

“No kidding. You tell him what you saw?”

“Yes. I told him. After a minute, he smiled. ‘That was the day I became a monk,’ he said.”

“No kidding,” John D said again.

“He described how a lama showed up at their little village that snowy afternoon and invited the boy to come live with him in the monastery.”

“And his parents agreed?”

“Well, it’s a great honor, to have a monk in the family. And they were very poor, so it was one less mouth to feed.”

“Hunh.”

“Anyway, then he started to weep. I was astonished. I had never seen a grown man cry, much less one of the monastery elders. He said, ‘I’ve always wondered what my life would have been if I hadn’t left my friends that day.’”

“What did you say?”

“I … I told him that his life had been full of merit, one I could only hope to emulate. After a moment, he just motioned at me to continue with the prayers, and closed his eyes. He crossed over later that night, sitting upright, surrounded by the senior lamas.”

John D cleared his throat. “You ask me, sounds like that’s a fine way to go.”

I was flooded with sharp longing for my own friends, Yeshe and Lobsang, so very far away. They knew me like no others, sensed my every mood. They loved me, without judgment. They nourished my being.

John D seemed to register the press of grief in my chest. He walked over to the mantel and returned with a faded photograph.

I looked down at the photo. A young man and two strapping boys posed side by side, grinning amid a thick grove of blooming almond trees. The older boy sported a cowboy hat and a carefree grin. The younger was looking up at his big brother, his mouth serious, his eyes ablaze with admiration. The trees were mostly swathed with snowy white blossoms, though here and there one boasted a frothy explosion of pink.

“That’s me with Charlie, and my other son, Norman. Back when their mother was still alive. Back when we were all full of hope.” John D rubbed his callused thumb across the picture. “Things don’t always work out the way we want them to, Ten. Don’t mean they’re not working out the way they’re supposed to.”

I handed the picture back. I touched his arm lightly.

“Thanks. I’d better get going.”

“Hang on, hang on, young fella.” He bustled back into the kitchen and returned with a small paper bag, which he pressed into my hands. “Take some of my almonds with you. Case you get hungry on the way home.”

Visions are well and good, but sometimes the simplest deed will warm the cold places in our heart when we least expect it. As I drove away, I vowed to someday return John D’s act of kindness.

C
HAPTER
12

As I cycled through my morning maintenance rituals, I was all too aware of the conflicting jumble of feelings inside. Each one vied for my attention, like siblings at a dinner table: excitement over the many tasks ahead; anxiety at the possibility of failure; concern for John D. Woven through all of these was a thin but familiar thread of dread—the sense that I was about to volunteer to be berated, yet again, by a woman I liked. I had to call Julie back, deal with the disastrous call of the night before, but I kept putting it off. This uncharacteristic procrastination told me I’d already assigned my heart in some way to this woman. After one dinner. How had this happened?

I picked up the phone, looking over to Tank, asleep in a patch of sun.

“She probably won’t pick up anyway, right?” Tank didn’t answer.

She did, on the third ring.

“It’s Ten. Is this a good time? Can you talk?”

She snorted. “Gee, thanks. Rub it in, why don’t you?”

I swallowed. “Julie, I’m sorry I snapped at you before.”

“A girl steps outside after a long night of work, sees the full moon, gets up her nerve to call a boy about it, and
bam!
You put me off my feed, Tenzing, and I’m not happy about it. Nothing puts me off my feed.”

“Look, I owe you an explanation. I also owe you a ride, and you owe me a meal. How does tonight sound?”

She thought about it. I waited, wondering which way she would tip. Which way I wanted her to.

“As it happens, I’m off this evening,” Julie said. “Come to my place. We can take the Mustang for a spin, and then you can fill me in while I fill you up.”

I got directions—she was renting one of those temporary furnished apartments at the Oakwood in Burbank—and hung up feeling a little better about things.

A FedEx truck scraped over the gravel into my driveway. Now what?

Moments later, I was looking down at Mike’s face, displaying an uncharacteristic ear-to-ear grin, filling the screen of a brand-new, very fancy cell phone. I spent one second wondering what Mike was so happy about, before I started to mess around with my new toy, tapping and stroking the little stamp-sized images the way I remembered Mike doing.

At first, it was like trying to control little balls of mercury. Icons kept skittering away, disappearing and reappearing willy-nilly. Once I got the hang of it, though, I discovered that I not only had access to the Internet and my e-mails, I could also check on the weather, the stock market, Facebook, and YouTube. People could track me wherever I was, and I could get directions to anywhere, and listen to music by anyone. Now if it would only open cans of cat food, life would be perfect.

I called Mike. The reception was clear as crystal. Man, I hate it when he’s so right. I left a message.

“Okay. You win. I did need this gizmo to tide me over before I can afford the whole home office upgrade. Thanks.” I went to press end, then changed my mind. “Question: who took that picture of you? Why the goofy grin?”

It was time to hit the road. I grabbed an old pair of binoculars and fed my beast. The new, 21st-century me downloaded door-to-door directions to today’s destination, and added Julie’s address and number to my address book. I was pretty pleased with myself. On a whim, I also Googled “Hog Farms.” We were strict vegetarians in the monastery, avoiding the consumption of any other sentient beings. In Paris, my mother was whatever suited her at any given moment. One week, she would eat nothing but fruit and nuts. Another week, only meat would do. Raw, cooked, gourmet or junk food, whatever she ate, I ate, or I didn’t eat at all. Since I’ve been on my own, I’ve tried to listen to what my body needs, while holding some awareness of the source of my nourishment. Mostly, I eat fresh fruit, vegetables and legumes, with the occasional cheese, egg, or fish product when there are no vegetarian alternatives. No red meat, though. The closest I’ve come to pork is bacon bits at a salad bar, which I’ve so far avoided. Anyway, what I knew about pig farming wouldn’t fill a thimble.

What I learned about pig farming made me wish I owned a gas mask. Among other unsettling facts, apparently pilots are encouraged to avoid flying over hog farms at altitudes lower than 3,000 feet, due to instances of fainting in the cockpit from catching piggy updrafts. In other swine-related news, entire hog farms occasionally spontaneously burst into flames from the various gases produced by the active little fellows.

“We’re talking some potent emissions, my friend,” I told Tank.

My phone produced a cascade of syrupy harp arpeggios, Mike’s tongue-in-cheek choice of ringtone for a meditating ex-cop.

It was Julie.

“About dinner,” she said. “I forgot to ask, anything you don’t eat?”

I didn’t hesitate.

“Pork,” I said.

C
HAPTER
13

My neck was killing me. I lowered my binoculars, rotated my shoulders and head, and steeled myself for stage two of my observation plan. It was already midafternoon. Except for a handful of raw almonds, I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I’d already spent several hours standing on a hill, studying from afar the outfit that caused such olfactory distress for the Children of Paradise. Fortunately, the wind was blowing east, so I was spared the full effect of nastiness.

Here’s what I’d learned so far. This wasn’t much of an operation. By my count, there were about 20 employees, mostly Hispanic, mostly just hanging around. Occasionally, someone would be doing the things you’d expect workers on a hog farm to be doing: feeding hogs; dealing with the inevitable aftermath of feeding hogs; waiting around to feed them again. Some of the men wore surgical masks. Others, mostly the older workers, went without. Maybe you got used to the smell after a few years. I found that a scary thought.

The moment had come. I had to drive closer to glean anything further.

Even safely sealed inside my car, it was bad. When I reached the entrance, I braced myself and rolled down the window. I instantly experienced two things—a burning sensation in my eyes, and a gust of empathy for the neighboring cult. The powerful blend of foul-smelling excrement and pungent garbage, topped by a nostril-stinging high-note of urine, was almost unbearable.

I caught myself: Here I was complaining about a strong smell, without giving any thought to the suffering of the poor animals inside. Their rebirth into the animal realm was already a form of slavery, and their present living conditions were horrific. I tried to balance my revulsion with an equal amount of compassion for these highly intelligent animals.

Window raised again, I took shallow, acrid gulps of oxygen through my mouth as I steered the Toyota up the entry road to the farm. The main building was set well apart from the actual operation. No surprise there. The far side of a parking lot held a dozen or so cars and pickup trucks. One car stood out—a shiny black Mercedes, an E550, top of the line. A classic midlife-crisis car. The sexy two-door convertible hardtop still sported dealer plates—a Pasadena dealership.

At least one person here was bringing home a lot of bacon.

I parked. I stretched. I strolled to the front door, as if I hadn’t a care in the world, which is hard to do when your gullet is spasming in protest at the stench. I entered, and was hit by a blast of cold air. They must keep the air purification and cooling system cranked up high to keep the pig smells out. Everybody in the office was wearing a sweater.

I took a tentative sniff. Not bad.

A dazzling bottle-blond young woman in a tight, low-cut pullover manned the front desk, so to speak. Her head was lowered as she tapped away at her computer keyboard. Behind her, a couple of young men and women sat at their own desks, staring at screens, talking quietly into headsets. At the far end of the room was the only closed door.

Low-Cut flashed a bright smile at me. “May I help you?”

I decided to aim for humble and disarming. “I sincerely hope so, ma’am. I’m a private investigator, looking into the Children of Paradise community next door.”

A sour little look rippled across her face. She caught herself, and quickly snapped the smile back into place.

“Yes? And?”

“And, I know that your company had some problems with them a while back. I was wondering if I could talk to your boss about it.”

She shook her head. “Mr. Barsotti is unavailable right now.”

Good. A name.

“I’m guessing Mr. Barsotti will want to know about this,” I said. “When do you think he’ll be available?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “It could be a while.”

“No worries. I can wait.” I looked around in vain for a place to sit down.

“We don’t get a lot of visitors.” Her voice was clipped.

“I can’t imagine why,” I said, testing for signs of humor.

No response, except that immovable smile.

I moved to the corner. Just stood there, waiting. She eyed me for a minute or two, nibbling on a hot-pink finger-talon, then went back to clacking away on the computer.

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?”