Naked Tao (11 page)

“Having a cup of coffee with Buddha." - Padma

I hoped it wasn’t the same SUV that tried to run us over in the parking garage, but of course it was them.  The passenger side head lamp was smashed in and there were streaks of green paint on the SUV’s front bummer. I just wished I knew who I was dealing with. 

Since the damaging file memos seemed to trigger this messy chain of events, they were probably thugs working for Pathogen. Speaking of the memos, who had left the documents in my office and why did they give them to me? There were a lot of unanswered questions, but right now I needed to do something about the SUV. 

There were several options. I could try to lose them in traffic, but River Road doesn’t have much traffic to speak of, unless you include the occasional biker enjoying his favorite scenic byway. I didn’t think the old truck would outrun the SUV. So that was out. In the movies, they run traffic lights or make last minute turns, but neither would work here since there are very few traffic signals and a last minute turn would most likely end up in the river. Trying to lose them just wasn’t a good option. 

We could stop and confront them, but the last time I tried to do that they shot at me. I did have a .357 magnum under the seat of the truck, but a wild-west shoot out in a residential area did not seem like the best option.  The last encounter we had with the SUV was in a parking garage. It’s possible they would be less likely to shoot on a public road, but I didn’t want to risk it. There were homes along this street and I didn’t want an innocent bystander to get hurt. 

We could set a trap. I liked the sound of that option best. I just needed to figure out how to do it and we were less than ten minutes from Uncle’s Jim’s house. Since they didn’t know where we were headed, I could use that to our advantage. Uncle Jim is an ex-marine sniper who knows how to set a trap better than anyone, so I called him and told him we were being chased by some maniac in a SUV and asked him for his help. I knew I could trust him with my life and he didn’t let me down. He told me to get everyone to his house as soon as possible. 

My dad died in a motorcycle crash when I was eight years old. Mom was on the bike with him. A hit-and-run driver ran them off the road and left them to die in a ditch. Mom survived, but she was incapacitated by a serious brain injury.  Her brother, Jim, took me in after the funeral, but it wasn’t easy. 

Some know-it-all social worker wanted to place me in foster care. She kept telling the Judge I needed the positive influence of a woman in my life. The social worker didn’t like the fact that Uncle Jim had lived all over the world, mostly on military bases, and she was suspicious that he had never married. She was convinced that a single man knew nothing about raising a son. 

The social worker picked the wrong man to attack. Uncle Jim knows a few things about winning a fight. The Marine Corps trained him for some hush-hush special ops unit that he never talks about.  A legal battle is no different than any other fight and Uncle Jim put up a tough fight. He convinced the Judge that it was in my best interests to be with him.  As far as I’m concerned, the Judge made the right decision. What kind of crazy person would think foster care is better than a loving family member? 

I kept an eye on the SUV as we made our way into Prospect. I wasn’t sure what Uncle Jim had in mind for them, but I was about to find out. It was only a few more blocks until we reached his street.  The SUV followed close behind as we turned into his upscale subdivision, but stopped short when I made the last turn onto Uncle Jim’s quiet cul-de-sac. 

Uncle Jim lives in a red brick two story on the cusp of the circle. As I pulled into his driveway, I felt a little uneasy about leading the SUV to my Uncle’s home, but Uncle Jim knows what he is doing. We found him sitting on his covered porch dressed in his usual faded jeans and Harley t-shirt. His bare feet were crossed at the ankle and his right hand held a smoldering Cuban cigar. Don’t ask me where he gets them. Lying across his lap was a hunting rifle intended for large game. 

A hand carved staff he uses when an old injury is acting up was leaning against the brick wall. He managed to escape the Gulf War unharmed, but fell rock climbing in the Red River Gorge a few years back. He survived the fall, but broke his back and lost an eye. The doctors said he would never walk again. Uncle Jim proved them wrong of course. 

Thanks to a lean muscular frame, he looks younger than his age. His hair is more pepper than salt, with only a touch of a receding hairline. He wears an eye patch over the missing socket like a proud pirate. The remaining blue-grey eye was locked onto the SUV idling on the street corner. I thought it looked like a dangerous beast that couldn’t make up its mind whether it should venture into the cul-de-sac or not. 

Uncle Jim waited.  The tension was thick. I wondered what would happen next. Of all the things I imagined, it sure wasn’t what happened. A splash of rainbow descended from the heavens, squawking “Death from Above”, and splattered bird shit all over the SUV’s windshield. It was my dad’s crazy macaw. That’s all it took for the mighty beast to tuck tail and run. Of course, the sight of Uncle Jim’s high powered rifle might have had something to do with it too. 

I suspected we weren’t finished with the SUV, but it was a welcome relief to see it leave. Uncle Jim flashed his Cheshire cat grin and shouted Generalissimo. I stuck my left arm out the window and waved. 

Ginny poked me in the side. It really hurt the broken rib, but there was a smile in her voice as she said, “Generalissimo.” 

“He says I might be a reincarnated Civil War general…he just can’t figure out which one,” I said sheepishly. “He’s partial to Grant.” 

“Grant or Lee,” she murmured. “But isn’t your last name spelled Li?” 

My mom’s family is a distant relative of U.S. Grant on her mother’s side. She and Uncle Jim had different fathers. He is lily white in a Nordic sort of way and every bit the Viking. My mom is half African-American.

Dad was Chinese and always said we were related to a famous internal martial artist who lived a ridiculously long life. It was someone named Li Ching-Yun that the New York Times reported to have lived to be 256. I think my dad believed the crazy long life nonsense to be true just because it was in the newspaper. This very interesting bloodline explains my somewhat exotic, foreign look. 

I was about to explain the nuances of my mixed heritage to Ginny, but was distracted by a flash of color and a screeching, “Aaawk, Grant’s a peckerwood.” 

It was dad’s macaw with his usual greeting. The bird flew across the hood of the truck, up the windshield, and landed on the top. Hanging upside down he stuck his head in the driver’s side window and looked around. 

“I love you too bird,” I grumbled. 

He cocked his head at me. “Aaawk, get a life,” said Bird. 

“Dad loved this bird,” I said. “He belongs to me now. He hates me.” 

“Aaawk, I belong to no one. Hate will be the death of us all.” 

Ginny looked mystified and said, “Did he just respond to what you said? I thought birds only mimic speech.” 

“Aaawk, such a pretty girl.” 

Ginny cooed, “Oh such a flirt. I like him.” 

“Aaawk, give us a kiss.” 

“How cute, he just winked at me,” said Ginny. “What’s his name?” 

“Bird,” I answered. 

“No really,” said Ginny. “What’s his name?” 

“Dad always called him Bird. I’ve never heard him called anything else.” 

“Humph.” Clearly she wasn’t satisfied. 

“Aaawk, my name is Senor Juan Ponce de Leon.” 

Ginny asked, “Did he just say he is Ponce de Leon?” 

“Aaawk, the one and only, pretty girl.” 

“It’s news to me,” I said. 

Uncle Jim limped over to the truck. He handed Bird a peanut and said, “That’s enough Bird.” 

Then he opened the truck door, pulled me out, and gave me a bear hug. I winced as pain shot through my ribs. Uncle Jim doesn’t miss anything. He felt me stiffen from his embrace. He leaned back until I was at arm’s length and looked me in the eyes to make sure we were good. 

Satisfied, he looked me up and down, only pausing a moment to take in the blood stains. He knew I was there for a reason, but waited for me to begin an explanation. 

“We should talk before we call the police,” I said. 

He nodded his head and then shifted his one-eyed gaze to Ginny. A slow easy smile spread across his face. 

“Don’t pay any attention to that crazy fluff of feathers,” he said. “I’m Jim.” 

“Aaawk, not crazy.” 

Uncle Jim took a lazy swipe at Bird, who flew off squawking, “Aaawk, PETA alert! Someone call 9-1-1.” 

Ginny smiled at Uncle Jim and said, “I think you hurt his feelings. I’m Ginny.” 

“Don’t let him fool you,” said Uncle Jim. “That bird is tough as nails. Girl, you look just like your father.” 

If Ginny was surprised that Uncle Jim knew her father she didn’t let on. Instead she said, “Well except for my dark hair, green eyes, and assorted girl parts.” 

Uncle Jim flashed a wolfish grin and said, “Your girl parts are welcome in my home. Who’s your friend there?” 

“This is Padma Ganesha,” said Ginny. “He’s my guest. I invited him to America to talk about his book. He was speaking tonight at the Kentucky Center for the Arts when someone tried to kill him. I think he was just about to reveal a secret about living a long life when it happened. We barely escaped with our lives thanks to Grant.” 

If Uncle Jim was surprised by any of this, he didn’t show it. Instead he gave Padma a long appraising look before saying, “I just lit the grill. Come on out back and have a bite to eat. Grant, come inside for a moment, so I can take a look at that wound. Then, we can talk about your adventure over a cold drink.” 

He and I went inside where he cleaned the shallow gash with peroxide, and then protected it with gauze and first aid tape. I had told everyone it was just a scratch, but it was a little more serious than that. 

Uncle Jim is fond of telling people he has everything he needs in his own back yard.  He is most proud of a 1970’s style barbeque pit he built himself. Every evening the barbeque sends puffs of smoke into the sky as he grills burgers and sips cold beer. Its distinctive smell is a like a call to prayer for friends and neighbors, who heed the call religiously. 

Folks wander in from all four corners of the neighborhood. Gathering around the grill, they talk about the day’s events and watch meat sizzle over hot coals. Later they sit in Adirondack chairs grouped under an ancient oak tree and watch the setting sun paint the clouds coral and blue.  These are simple salt of the earth people sharing simple pleasures. There are no fences separating them. They move freely from yard to yard, house to house.  It is a community in its truest sense. 

As promised, Uncle Jim led us to the back yard where we settled into comfortable chairs and watched a squirrel gather acorns for the winter. Up and down the tree he went, never venturing onto the low hanging branch with the bug zapper. The distinctive sound of the zapper’s grim work was balanced by the refreshing sound of bubbling water coming from Harrods Creek bordering the rear of the property. 

The creek deepens enough at its mouth to provide a safe haven to area boaters who like to idle and party before emptying into the Ohio River.  However, at this location it looks more like a mountain stream as it runs white over large flat rocks. This familiar scene calmed my nerves and the day’s events began to feel surreal. 

Uncle Jim disappeared into the house and then returned a few minutes later with tall glasses of Jim Beam and coke. He flashed his trademark confident smile and told Ginny it was for medicinal purposes only. She returned his smile, saying she could use all the medicine she could get. 

Uncle Jim looked at me and winked. “Grant”, he said, “this one’s a keeper.” 

Ginny beamed at Uncle Jim.  I took another sip of the bourbon and relaxed into the scene playing out before me. 

We sat quietly for a few minutes and listened to the evening’s sounds. It felt good to not talk for a while, but then Uncle Jim spoke up. It was the last thing I wanted to talk about, particularly in front of Ginny. 

“Grant, you want to tell me what’s going on?” 

I stiffened and felt the first twinges of a headache. Rubbing my temples I said slowly, “I don’t know where to start.” 

“Do you remember calling me last night?” he asked. “You must have been about halfway through a bottle of Patron. You said you had won a big case for Pathogen yesterday, but it didn’t sound like much of a celebration. Instead, you got yourself fired. Your boss hung himself. Ch’ing, your martial arts master has gone missing and you showed up here being chased by gangsters with guns. Does that about cover it?” 

“Actually, no, but I’m too wrung out right now to elaborate,” I answered. 

Uncle Jim looked like he wasn’t about to let it go, but Ginny asked me about my law practice. I think she was trying to help by changing the subject. 

I was grateful she was trying to change the subject, but didn’t really want to talk about it.  “Corporate defense litigation,” I answered reluctantly.