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

bill disappeared into his pocket like magic. I glanced over at the old man. He was mesmerized by our bowl, a serious case of raw-fish lust if I’ve ever seen one. I made an exaggerated move of pushing the ceviche over to Carlos as I shook my head. Carlos turned to the old man, as if drawn by his longing, and gestured for him to come over and share. Moments later, we were seated three in a row—and ready for the next stage of interrogation.
    Carlos seemed to enjoy the fishy concoction at least as much as Señor Cowboy did, but I didn’t hold it against him. Meanwhile, I found that by defocusing my eyes slightly I could maintain a benign outer expression while watching them eat belly-white chunks of raw fish. Even a lifetime of rice and lentils was preferable.
    I sipped my beer and waited as they ate and chatted. Finally, the old man wiped his mouth with a faded but clean-looking bandanna and let out a satisfied belch. Carlos and he were quickly immersed in a longer, fairly animated exchange, a blur of Spanish that lasted for several minutes.
    The old man pushed away from the bar and headed for the men’s room.
    “I’m dying here,” I said to Carlos. “Talk to me.”
    “Okay, well, I got him going by complaining about my two jobs, but he’s outdoing me big-time: he’s complaining about his job, his kids, his grandkids.”
    “Focus on the grandson Miguel, if you can.”
    The old man staggered back to his stool, and they finished up their conversation. Señor Cowboy was now into his third beer and clearly getting maudlin in any language. We slid off our stools and left our man staring down his weather-beaten reflection in the well-polished wood of the bar. One eyelid was drooping: he was closing in on bedtime, and fast.
    Back in the Corolla, Carlos turned to fill me in. “Get this,” he started, his eyes gleaming.
    “Nah, ah, ah,” I said. I passed over the bills. “A deal is a deal.”
    “You don’t like to owe anyone, do you?” Carlos said, but he took the money. “Okay. So, his no-good daughter married a no-good man, and now their son, his no-good grandson Miguel, has dropped out of school and joined a gang. To make matters worse, his father, the son-in-law, has started running around with another woman, a puta , just as no-good as the rest of them. Miguel was the kid you were interested in, right?”
    “Yeah. Did he say which gang Miguel joined?”
    Carlos shook his head. “All he kept saying was it was a gang of gangs.”
    Gang of gangs. First I’d heard of it. Maybe Bill knew more.
    Carlos laughed. “Maybe they’re forming a union.”
    “Okay, I’ll look into it. Chances are, the old guy was just talking beer-talk, but you never know. Thanks, Carlos. Really good work.”
    I drove Carlos home, both of us deep in thought. I was thinking about the bitter damage gangs inflict on families. Maybe he was, too.
    I dropped him off on Serrano.
    “Really, thanks,” I repeated.
    “Any time,” he answered. His forehead creased. “Do you think I’ll ever see Sofia again?”
    “I don’t know,” I said. “I really don’t.”
    He opened the car door. An ear-splitting Armenian mishmash of electric guitars and wailing horns blasted from one of the third-floor balcony apartments. Carlos straightened his shoulders and walked inside.
    I had another potential clue, but I was out of ideas. As I headed up the 101 North, I called Bill. He sounded out of breath.
    “Martha and I invested in an elliptical,” he said. “Let me turn this thing off before I kill myself.” After a moment, he said, “All yours.”
    “So, Bill,” I said.
    “Uh-oh,” he answered.
    I explained, in broad strokes, what had been going on. I left out the specifics of a certain backpack that was in my possession. No need to go crazy with the honesty thing.
    “Let me get this straight, Ten. Your missing person, who may or may not exist, may or may not be related to Mac Gannon’s maid, who may or may not be involved with a member of an