The Third Rule Of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery by Gay Hendricks, Tinker Lindsay

father, American mother,” I said.
    He nodded. “Yeah, I can see that. Vaguely Asian.”
    That sounded about right. I’d inherited my father’s thick black hair, which I had to keep mowed pretty short to prevent it from sticking straight up like the tip of a Magic Marker. I had my mother’s nose, slightly thinner than the average Tibetan’s. Her pale skin had mixed with my father’s Tibetan ruddiness to give me a tannish tint, so I looked healthy even when I wasn’t feeling it. My eyes, too, were a mix—not quite round like Valerie’s and not quite slanted like my father’s. Somehow her blue eyes and his brown ones had come together to make mine hazel, muddy brown, or green, depending on your-guess-is-as-good-as-mine.
    “Ready?” I asked.
    “Ready.”
    We crossed the street and sauntered up the block and into the bar. We were greeted by the clack of colliding balls from a pool table installed somewhere in the dim depths of the room. The sound provided percussion to a lively Mexican melody playing from a jukebox, the tune a kissing cousin of a polka.
    A smattering of Hispanic men, all middle-aged or older, sprawled around a handful of round wooden tables. Their eyes were fixed on the two guys shooting pool. Señor Cowboy was sitting by himself at the bar. His eyes were glued on the bartender, who carefully poured a Dos Equis into a glass as if every drop was precious, which it is. I felt an instant connection: Dos Equis is one of my favorites.
    We sat down at the bar as well, a few stools away from our man. The bartender finished pouring and stepped away. My mouth watered as I watched a Beer Moment happen, that first sacred swig that brings such meaning and purpose to the beer-lover’s day. I was ready to encounter my own.
    “Are you over twenty-one?” I asked Carlos.
    “Twenty-three,” he answered.
    “Good. You order. I’ll pay. Dos Equis for me.”
    The bartender moseyed over to us. He was clearly his own best customer; his massive belly strained the buttons on a shirt that had probably been white, and had actually fit, a few years back.
    Carlos pointed down the bar to the old man’s Dos Equis and said the Spanish equivalent of “We’ll have what he’s having.” The bartender pulled two frosty bottles out of the cooler and set them on the bar, along with a couple of glasses. He carefully poured the amber beer into the glasses and stepped back, as he had with Señor Cowboy .
    East L.A. isn’t so bad , I thought.
    I sipped, I savored, and I let out a sigh of satisfaction. You don’t want to overwhelm the taste buds with too big a swallow at first. They prefer a nice, gentle stretch to a frontal assault.
    The bartender, who doubled as waiter, had just returned after delivering fresh beers to the pool table gang, swapping full glasses for empty ones. He stepped close to Carlos and said something under his breath. Carlos’s mouth thinned.
    “What?” I said.
    “Don’t ask me why, but he’s figured out you’re a cop. He says he doesn’t want any trouble.”
    I offered my best Buddhist smile.
    The bartender said to Carlos, “ ¿No habla español su amigo?” Carlos shook his head and rattled off an answer. The bartender said something back, and they both chuckled. Carlos was turning out to be a natural at this.
    “I told him you were cool. Asked him how we could make friends with the old man real quick,” Carlos reported. “He says the guy loves ceviche but never has enough money to order it. He says they have great ceviche here. Should I order some?”
    “Yeah,” I said. “Get a double order, and we’ll ask him over to share.” I’d try to watch them eat it without regretting breakfast. Eating meat was one thing. Raw fish flesh? I don’t think so.
    The bartender disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared with a huge bowl of ceviche topped with slices of ripe avocado and wedges of fresh lime. He set it down in front of us. I slid $20 across the bar and waved him off making change. The