The First Rule of Ten (31 page)

José was working on his third beer, which told me he was drinking for a purpose. This made me glad; drunk people will tell you damn near anything. The trick is to figure out how much of the “damn near anything” is true.

I said to him, “You look like you’ve had a long night.”

“
Sí
. Long.”

Olivia jumped in. “That’s why I quit Burger King. Why take home fifty bucks for an eight-hour shift from hell when I can make two hundred in the parking lot easy, four clients, in and out?”

I could think of several reasons why I’d pick Burger King over In-N-Out, but that’s just me.

José fished a bill out of his pocket and gave it a glum stare. “He is terrible, my boss. I am working my
cojones
off all night making him rich, and he give me a fifty. That’s just wrong, man, you know?”

Olivia eyed the bill and moved her stool a little closer to José’s.

José kept going. “That cheap
hijo de puta
, he be making millions.” He stuffed the money back in his pocket.

I shook my head in brotherly solidarity. “He’s making millions and giving you fifty? What a jerk!”

“
Verdaderamente
,” he said, draining his beer.

I called for another round, though my first draft sat untouched. “What’s your boss got going that’ll make him millions?”

José cast bleary eyes up at me, suspicion forming somewhere deep in his anesthetized brain.

“You a cop?” he asked.

I laughed. “No way. I’m a private investigator.” I reached into my wallet and counted out five $100 bills. Olivia let out a little moan. I fanned them across the bar like a deck of cards. “I buy information,” I said. I watched José carefully to see if he was going to bite.

He bit. “What you want to know?”

I was too tired to be bothered with a preamble.

“How’s Barsotti going to make his millions?”

The bartender set down two more drafts, and a bottle for Olivia. I gave him two twenties.

“Good-bye” I said.

He grunted and moved off.

José took a swig and licked the foam off his upper lip. “He ask me to drill his land, until I make the water flow again.”

“How’s that going to make him millions?”

“The water, she is no good.”

I pushed a hundred over to him. He blinked at it: Really? Free beer and a hundred bucks for that? The bill disappeared into his pocket.

Welcome to the Information Economy, José.

“That’s interesting,” I said. “Why does he want to pump toxic water?”

“He suing the government.
Por mucho dinero
. For a lot of money.”

“Why would the government care?”

He went silent on me. Quick learner.

I slid two more bills over. “Holy Mother of God,” Olivia said. José’s pocket fattened.

“Why, José?”

“The government, they bury some kind of nuclear pipes in the land. Long time ago. Never told nobody about it. My boss, he think he can get a million an acre for they do this. He say the same thing happen in Utah.”

“How many acres does he own?”

“Maybe twenty, but he thinking he have more very soon. I hear my boss talking with his friends. They say they getting maybe five hundred acres.”

And five hundred million dollars
.

My son is working on a real estate deal for me.

The stakes were finally high enough to justify Florio Sr.’s presence.

I had to think this through. But first things first.

“I want to talk to you in private, José. Can we go outside?”

He watched me pick up the remaining two hundreds.

“Por que no?
”

I walked him away from the flashing sombrero, into the shadowy corner of the parking lot. I kept my voice light.

“How much did you get paid for mugging the old guy at the bank?”

His eyes blinked rapidly at this new twist in the conversation. “Barsotti gave me a hundred bucks,” he mumbled.

“A hundred dollars, huh? That’s your price for hurting an old man who never hurt you or anyone else?”

He started backing away from me. “Guess what?” I said. “I’m going to do it to you for free.” I drove my right fist deep in his groin.

He doubled over and projectile-vomited five and a half beers across the asphalt. He stayed down, clutching his belly and moaning.

I said, “That old man is a friend of mine, and he had just gotten, guess what, a hundred dollars out of the ATM when you rolled him. So you got his hundred, plus a hundred-dollar tip. You need to make reparations.”

He looked up at me, confused.

“Give me two hundred back and we’ll call it even.”

He dipped into his pocket and fished out two of the three bills I’d just given him.

“You crazy, man,” he said.

I tucked the money away. I’d give it to John D later.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Olivia had followed us into the shadows.

“Karma,” I said. I gave Olivia my last two hundreds. “Take the rest of the night off.”

Olivia smiled. “I like karma. I’m going home. Get me some sleep.”

It sounded like a good idea all around.

C
HAPTER
29

I dragged my limping carcass out of the Mustang and up to the house. It was eight in the morning, and I hadn’t really slept for 36 hours. Julie’s car was parked in the driveway.

Tank.

I ran inside. She had left a note on the kitchen table.

I read “Eucalyptus tree” and knew exactly what had happened. I grabbed my stepladder from the garage and lugged it down to the tree, where Julie stood, looking up. I followed her gaze. A fuzzy blue tail flicked back and forth, from a very high branch.

“How did you find him?” I said.

“I looked and looked. Finally I just gave up, and sat on the deck. He must have spotted me from his perch, because he meowed.”

“Tank
meowed
at you?”

I felt an actual stab of jealousy. I really needed to get some shut-eye. I was losing it.

I climbed up the ladder and reached across for Tank. He gave me the eye, but I was just able to grab some loose neck skin and tug him toward me until he gave up and walked over. I clasped him close, and he let me, all the way down the ladder and back into the house.

Once inside, Tank executed a high-wire leap from my arms to his food dish. He buried his face in the awaiting feast of sautéed liver and tuna, compliments of Chef Julie.

I watched him eat, my own throat suspiciously thick.

“Ten?”

I turned. Julie walked up to me. She touched my split lip, and traced the bruises on my throat.

“Bill told me everything. I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“Julie.” I started to take her in my arms, but she pressed her finger on my lips. She moved away a few steps.

“Let me finish. I thought I wanted a fling, Ten. Turns out I’m not so good at flings.” Her eyes brimmed over, and she swiped at the tears with the back of one hand. “Anyway, I quit my job. It just wasn’t for me, you know? I’m going back home to regroup. I just … I wanted to thank you. Because after the last guy, I didn’t know if I could ever open up my heart again. But I could. I mean, I did. Spending this time with you reminded me I have this huge heart, and the willingness to give it to someone else absolutely. I just picked a guy who wasn’t ready.”

She gave me a quavering smile. “I’m sorry.”

I stared at her. A rush of hot panic flooded my body. Old. Familiar.
How can you do this to me? After everything I’ve done for you, how can you leave me? Please don’t leave me.

“Anyway, I baked you some almond cookies,” Julie said. “Nontoxic, I promise.”

“Is that supposed to be funny? A cute little joke?” I shot back, my voice still hoarse, only this time with feeling. “Is that supposed to make everything okay?”

I couldn’t look at her.

Julie’s reply was calm.

“No, not funny, Ten. True. Bitter almonds can kill you if you don’t process them properly.”

She touched my shoulder. I met her eyes. “As pissed off as you’ve made me, I don’t wish you dead.”

She kissed me once, lightly on the lips.

“’Bye.”

And then she left.

I moved to the window and watched her drive away. Tank lifted his head from his dish and gave maybe the second meow of his life.

The agitation slowly drained out of me, leaving bone-deep exhaustion in its place. I staggered to the kitchen and sat for some time, flattened by the sudden, total absence of her.

Finally, I ate one cookie, washing it down with hot tea.

It was delicious, and it made me very sad.

I crawled into bed.

Warm sun, bathing my eyelids, woke me up. It was just after one o’clock in the afternoon. I stretched my sore limbs, testing my muscles here and there. For a moment, I felt pretty good. Then the loss-of-Julie pain hit. I felt it start to drag me into its undertow, too deep and familiar to only be about Julie.

Valerie.

I took several deep breaths.
In, out
.
In, out
.

I had felt this before. Survived it before. I would survive it again. I had to. I had a lot left to do.

My phone chirped.
Julie.

Mike’s skewed face grinned at me from the cracked screen.

I answered.

“Ten, I found the mother lode. I had to hack into thirty-eight different systems, but I finally found all the policies. What a nightmare. Forty-two cult members insured by dozens of companies. Plus that other guy, Norman Murphy—there’s a policy on him, too.”

“You’re kidding.”

“And guess who’s the beneficiary of every policy?”

“TFJ & Associates,” I said.

“Elementary, my dear Watson. I’m talking about the silent partner. The one no one else will ever find, because I’m just that good.”

The King.

“Thomas Florio Senior.”

The line went very quiet.

“Boss, you really know how to take the wind out of a person’s sails, you know that?”

The kaleidoscope re-formed into a picture, a spider web of sorts.

A father knows, you see. This time, I have taken a vow not to protect him.

I made a big pot of coffee while I ran through what I knew. There were still some pieces missing. I took a steaming mug over to my office area and sat down. My eyes lit on the little makeshift Zen garden.

I started rearranging the stones. I set down a round stone representing Florio Sr., first. To his right, I aligned Barsotti, Tommy Jr., and O’Flaherty, with Tommy centered next to his father. Norman, the land surveyor, was centered on their other side. What connected them all? I went in the kitchen and returned with a few whole beans of coffee.

In went José, between Barsotti and O’Flaherty. In went Roach, between O’Flaherty and Florio Sr. In went Zimmy, between Florio Sr. and O’Flaherty. And in went me, between Florio Sr. and Tommy Jr. I stared.

I was looking at a shamrock … or maybe a prison structure.

Well, somebody else’s luck was running out.

I went back to the kitchen and poured myself a second mug of coffee. I had the motives. I still needed the means.

I reached for an almond cookie to dunk.

Nontoxic.

I ran back to my computer and spent another 45 minutes writing up and printing out my report, based on what I knew. I slid it into my canvas carryall and put in a call to Florio Sr.

I got his voice mail, as I knew I would. No cell phone use in the Jonathan Club. I told him I had some things to report, but I was feeling old-fashioned and preferred to do it in person. This afternoon, in fact. Then I left Barsotti and Tommy Jr. their own messages, each one tailor-made to suit my plans.

I pulled on my going-to-the-Club outfit, still flung over the back of a chair in the bedroom. The striped shirt was a little wrinkled, but I wore it anyway. It still smelled faintly of Julie. Finally, I called Bill and told him to meet me in his office.

I fired up the Mustang and pushed it hard all the way downtown. I could have used the valet parking at the Jonathan Club and walked the mile between Figueroa and North Los Angeles Street, but the 4-minute drive takes 20 to walk, given the lack of sidewalks in this fine city.

I parked at the Five Star and jogged to the Death Star, forgoing the slow elevator to take the stairs two at a time to the ninth floor.

Bill was ready and waiting. We gave each other everything we needed, and I was handing my keys to the Jonathan Club parking lot attendant at 4:00 on the button.

I did one last gut-check. My gut said
Go
. Either I’d be right, or I’d be done.

A different concierge led me inside and upstairs. As we crossed the hallway to the Library, he reminded me cell phone usage was not allowed.

He didn’t say a thing about Wilson Combat .38 Supergrades.

Inside the Library, he motioned me left again, past the urns. This time, however, he closed the tall sliding wooden doors that separated the stacks from the main Library behind me. I stood for a moment, scanning the empty room.

“Hello, Tenzing,” Florio said from my left. “I got your message.”

He was seated in one of four red brocade chairs, set around an antique table of polished oak. His leather briefcase lay at his feet. He was studying a beautifully appointed chessboard of dark and light wood. The heavy chess pieces were of carved marble, black and white, some of them as tall as eight inches. The two armies were locked in battle. Thomas Florio, Sr., appeared to be at war with himself.

“Do you play?” Florio asked, gesturing at the game.

“No.”

“Pity,” he said. “I find chess a wonderful way to focus my mind. Perhaps a bit like your meditation. Do you mind if I continue to play while we talk? I’m almost done.”

“Please. Go ahead.”

He picked up a white piece and used it to replace a taller black one.

“Check,” he said.

He turned to me. “You’ve been a busy young man since we last spoke, haven’t you?”

I acknowledged that I had.

“I want to thank you,” he said. “You did me a big favor, albeit inadvertently.”

“Which was?”

He picked up the biggest black piece on the board, and knocked over the white piece.

“Checkmate,” he said, smiling to himself. “You eliminated a business partner with whom I no longer wished to be in business. I refer of course to Mr. O’Flaherty. In my life I’ve found it necessary to work with the occasional unsavory associate. I wish that all of them could be disposed of so efficiently.”