The Second Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (Dharma Detective: Tenzing Norbu Mystery) by Gay Hendricks Page A
Authors: Gay Hendricks
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look.
Julius’s front door opened. I looked over. Señor Beefy moved into the doorway and leaned against the frame. He crossed his arms, and his bicep muscles bulged against his suit coat.
I hopped in my Mustang and left Julius’s estate, intent on my gift-finding mission. I drove just over the speed limit, parked in an alley off West Third Street, and walked into freeHand Gallery, a store committed to selling handmade crafts, a scant hour later. I described what I wanted. The saleslady led me to a wooden rack against one wall, and within minutes I found almost exactly what I’d envisioned: a vibrant hand-dyed silk and wool shawl of swirling yellows, oranges, and reds. Most unmomlike. I threw in two little sparkling, beaded headbands for the twins. I had hoped to pay with cash, but the total was twice what I had in my wallet. I hesitated—maybe I should just go with a funny card.
No, this was Martha. I had to trust I’d be an earner again soon.
I handed over my little plastic debt-maker. The joy on Martha’s face would be worth forgoing months of Belgian Trappist beer.
I called Heather from the store parking lot, and got her voicemail.
“It’s Ten. Martha loves Gewürztraminer, or any good Pinot Noir. You can’t miss with either of those. Okay. See you tonight.” I hung up feeling smug. Nary a stutter out of me.
And nary a word from Clancy. I tried him again.
“ Yo, Clancy here. Wassup?”
Yo, yourself. Answer your damn phone! my mind snapped. I shook the irritation off. Clancy wasn’t my employee. Not yet, anyway.
“It’s Ten, again. Call me.”
I stopped by the Urth Café, wolfed down a portobello panini, and raced home. Halfway up Topanga, my iPhone buzzed. I veered into a private driveway to take the call.
“Hey. It’s Clancy.”
“Clancy? Where the hell have you been?”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Great. I’d managed to piss off my first possible lead on Marv’s death before I even got the information.
“Really sorry,” I said. “Long day. Let’s start over. Hey, Clancy, thanks for your message. I really appreciate your keeping my proposal in mind. I could use a resourceful man like you in my life right now.” I paused. “And if you don’t tell me what the hell is going on I may jump right out of my fucking skin!”
Clancy laughed, and the tension between us drained.
“I told my wife about you,” he said. “How you’re, like, a monk, but then, not at all like a monk.”
“And what did she say?”
“She said, ‘Don’t look a gift monk in the mouth.’ Did I mention she hates what I do for a living?”
“I believe you did.”
“Right. Well, moving on. Like I said, no sign of Arlene all day. Just a lot of older women coming in and out with food and shit. But this afternoon the garage doors opened and Harper—she was wearing a baseball cap and shades, but it was definitely her—pulls out in a little red Mini Cooper. And guess where she winds up?”
“No idea.”
“Robinsgrove Apartments. And get this. Either she knew the code or she knew someone else in there, because she punched in a code and was buzzed inside. She came back out a few minutes later. I wasn’t sure what else to do, besides snap a few photos.”
“Are you still there?”
“Close. I went into Larchmont for a late lunch break. If I don’t eat every few hours, I smoke.”
“Meet me back at the Robinsgrove.”
So much for lowering my blood pressure before I saw the good Dr. Magnuson again.
C HAPTER 9
I was back on the road by 4:30 P.M., leaving just enough wiggle room for traffic and a quick stop at Robinsgrove Apartments. Much as I loved my canyon retreat, on days like this it felt like I lived in Siberia. As I slalomed down Topanga, I did a body-check. I was still wound up pretty tight. I had scheduled a full half hour to sit on the meditation cushion, but by the time I’d typed up the barest essentials of the meeting with Julius, fed Tank, gathered material for
Julius’s front door opened. I looked over. Señor Beefy moved into the doorway and leaned against the frame. He crossed his arms, and his bicep muscles bulged against his suit coat.
I hopped in my Mustang and left Julius’s estate, intent on my gift-finding mission. I drove just over the speed limit, parked in an alley off West Third Street, and walked into freeHand Gallery, a store committed to selling handmade crafts, a scant hour later. I described what I wanted. The saleslady led me to a wooden rack against one wall, and within minutes I found almost exactly what I’d envisioned: a vibrant hand-dyed silk and wool shawl of swirling yellows, oranges, and reds. Most unmomlike. I threw in two little sparkling, beaded headbands for the twins. I had hoped to pay with cash, but the total was twice what I had in my wallet. I hesitated—maybe I should just go with a funny card.
No, this was Martha. I had to trust I’d be an earner again soon.
I handed over my little plastic debt-maker. The joy on Martha’s face would be worth forgoing months of Belgian Trappist beer.
I called Heather from the store parking lot, and got her voicemail.
“It’s Ten. Martha loves Gewürztraminer, or any good Pinot Noir. You can’t miss with either of those. Okay. See you tonight.” I hung up feeling smug. Nary a stutter out of me.
And nary a word from Clancy. I tried him again.
“ Yo, Clancy here. Wassup?”
Yo, yourself. Answer your damn phone! my mind snapped. I shook the irritation off. Clancy wasn’t my employee. Not yet, anyway.
“It’s Ten, again. Call me.”
I stopped by the Urth Café, wolfed down a portobello panini, and raced home. Halfway up Topanga, my iPhone buzzed. I veered into a private driveway to take the call.
“Hey. It’s Clancy.”
“Clancy? Where the hell have you been?”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Great. I’d managed to piss off my first possible lead on Marv’s death before I even got the information.
“Really sorry,” I said. “Long day. Let’s start over. Hey, Clancy, thanks for your message. I really appreciate your keeping my proposal in mind. I could use a resourceful man like you in my life right now.” I paused. “And if you don’t tell me what the hell is going on I may jump right out of my fucking skin!”
Clancy laughed, and the tension between us drained.
“I told my wife about you,” he said. “How you’re, like, a monk, but then, not at all like a monk.”
“And what did she say?”
“She said, ‘Don’t look a gift monk in the mouth.’ Did I mention she hates what I do for a living?”
“I believe you did.”
“Right. Well, moving on. Like I said, no sign of Arlene all day. Just a lot of older women coming in and out with food and shit. But this afternoon the garage doors opened and Harper—she was wearing a baseball cap and shades, but it was definitely her—pulls out in a little red Mini Cooper. And guess where she winds up?”
“No idea.”
“Robinsgrove Apartments. And get this. Either she knew the code or she knew someone else in there, because she punched in a code and was buzzed inside. She came back out a few minutes later. I wasn’t sure what else to do, besides snap a few photos.”
“Are you still there?”
“Close. I went into Larchmont for a late lunch break. If I don’t eat every few hours, I smoke.”
“Meet me back at the Robinsgrove.”
So much for lowering my blood pressure before I saw the good Dr. Magnuson again.
C HAPTER 9
I was back on the road by 4:30 P.M., leaving just enough wiggle room for traffic and a quick stop at Robinsgrove Apartments. Much as I loved my canyon retreat, on days like this it felt like I lived in Siberia. As I slalomed down Topanga, I did a body-check. I was still wound up pretty tight. I had scheduled a full half hour to sit on the meditation cushion, but by the time I’d typed up the barest essentials of the meeting with Julius, fed Tank, gathered material for
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