The First Rule of Ten tnm-1 Page 2

  “Homework time,” I said. “Anything we can learn from all that?”

  “Here we go.” Bill rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched in amusement. After any kind of heat goes down, I like to think out loud, ask myself if there’s anything useful I can learn from the situation. Call it an old habit from my monastery days. The goal is not to assign blame, but to glean any learning that will help me handle it better next time.

  Bill humors me, especially when I’m buying.

  “Here’s one,” he said. “How about, ‘Wait for backup’?”

  “Touche.” We each took another swallow. Bill said nothing as I sorted through the mix of reactions, giving them time to settle.

  “There’s nothing like getting shot to make you start asking the big questions,” I finally said. “Even more so when you’re sitting in the ER as someone stitches up your temple-which is, by the way, the most fragile portal to your brain. You tend to wonder, ‘Why? What’s the point? What’s the real message here?’”

  “And did you come up with anything?”

  I focused on my glass, staring at the amber liquid.

  “Yeah, I think I did. The way I see it, certain incidents are like cosmic alarm clocks, you know? They jolt us into awareness. ‘Wake up!’ they scream. ‘The time is ripe for your job karma to change!’ We ignore such moments at our peril.”

  Bill was silent.

  “The truth is,” I continued, “I’ve been ignoring too many mornings where I wake up filled with dread at the idea of going in to work. Wishing I had a cold, so I could call in sick. Taking unnecessary risks, once I got there. I’ve been pushing my luck, Bill, just like I used to do at the monastery. And today my luck almost ran out.”

  “I don’t love where this conversation is heading,” Bill said.

  I met Bill’s eyes.

  “It’s time for me to move on. Like the cookie says, destiny is calling.”

  “I don’t get it, Ten. It makes no sense. You’re already the best detective we’ve got and you’re barely thirty years old.”

  “It’s not about that, Bill. It’s about the job moving in one direction and me moving in another.”

  Bill dropped his head. A wave of sadness passed between us. After a moment, he looked up.

  “Okay, then, partner. Okay. Better to get out now before this work starts killing off your brain cells.”

  Regret laced his voice, and I realized it wasn’t just about me leaving. It was about me leaving and him staying. Bill’s put in almost 20 years on the job. A couple more years and his pension will kick in, big time. That’s important, especially since the twins came along six months ago. Twenty years of trying, and he and Martha finally got lucky with the in vitro. Enter Maude and Lola. Enter crazy babyland and over-the-moon parents. Bill, a lifelong Dodgers fan, immediately outfitted the tiny newborns in blue Dodgers caps with MAUDE and LOLA emblazoned across the fronts. I’m surprised he didn’t get them mitts.

  My heart always twinges at the thought of those babies. The idea of parenthood does that to me, part longing, part terror. Mostly the latter.

  Anyway, their family joy came with a price tag, just like everything else in this world. With each day that passed, I’d sensed the growing split in my partner between Bill-the-detective and Bill-the-dad. For months now, halfway through every shift, he’d started checking his wristwatch, as if already counting the minutes until he could get home. I don’t blame him for wanting to be with his beautiful family. But I also can’t help but notice he’s never the first guy through the door into the field anymore, and always the first to volunteer for assignments that keep him around the office. Bill’s heading for a desk job, and he knows it. He knows I know it, too, and it has cast a light pall over our partnership.

  The truth is, I’d already lost my partner. My message came courtesy of a stray bullet, but maybe Bill’s twisted ankle carried a message of its own.

  I set down my beer and turned to face him. “I’m putting in my papers first thing next week. I’m done.”

  Bill held out his hand. I shook it.

  “Congratulations,” he said. “I still don’t like it, but I think it’s the right move.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that,” I said, and meant it. “Anyway, rumor has it they’ll be promoting you to Detective Three before too long.”

  “Yeah. But you and I both know what that means….” He trailed off, gloomily contemplating his desk-bound future.

  I touched the bandage on my temple.

  “Change is hard,” I said. “But inevitable.” I held up my glass. “To change.”

  “To change.”

  We clinked.

  CHAPTER 2

  “No way,” the Captain said. He’d paged through my reports, finally reaching my letter of resignation.

  “So you effed up, Norbu. Don’t eff it up more by having a full-blown tantrum here.”

  I shifted awkwardly, trying not to look down at him. He hadn’t asked me to take a seat yet, part of my reprimand.

  “I just can’t hack the other stuff anymore, sir.”

  The Captain snorted.

  “Not good enough, Norbu. What are you, three years old?”

  He pitched forward and glared hard at me across the mountain of files on his desk.

  “You cannot quit, Ten,” he said. “Not now. Oh, Christ, take a seat, will you? You’re doing that monk-stare. Gives me the creeps.”

  I sat down and softened my eyes-I guess I’d been focusing so intently I was forgetting to blink.

  “You could run this place someday. You could be sitting right here. You know that, right?”

  I felt the walls press closer and my heart rate accelerate, which was unfortunate. Panic does not lend itself to tactful responses.

  “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” I said.

  The Captain’s skin acquired the hue of red brick. Oops. Looks like I pushed the wrong button on someone’s emotional dashboard. I scrambled to recover, pointing to the mound of paper on his desk.

  “Look, sir, you’ve obviously found a way to handle the administrative part of this job. I just haven’t.”

  His eyes flared hot with rage. Not helping, Ten.

  “Goddamn it,” he bellowed, banging his fist on a teetering pile of files. “You think I like this crap? Hell, no, I don’t like it. But that’s what it takes to keep the show running, so I just by God deal with it.”

  I held up my hands in a vain attempt to slow his rant, but he’d already built up a major head of steam. Soon, he was unloading a familiar litany of protest: his victim-hood in the face of the demands of the mayor’s office; the idiotic requests from the Police Commission; the fact that he can’t even effing drop an effing eff-bomb anymore without somebody putting it on effing YouTube; the impossible budget constraints; the growing demands for personal and financial disclosure. All of us in the squad had heard variations on this particular theme dozens of times, another reason I wanted out. I sure as hell didn’t aspire to be this guy in 20 years, sitting at my desk, braying a daily aria to self-pity and resentment.

  I relaxed, took a nice deep inhale and exhale, and tried to listen for any cracks in the wall of bombast, any clues to help my cause.

  His complaint veered onto a slightly different track.

  “And with this boneheaded governor’s new austerity budget and his chickenshit solution to kick all the inmates back down to us, which means overcrowding, which means earlier releases, I’m looking at higher crime rates, escalating costs, and no effing fat to trim.”

  He paused to take a breath, and in that pause, I met his eyes briefly. Bored in. He squinted back: What? Then I saw him rewind a few lines. Actually hear himself. Start to do the math. I decided it was safe to help a little with the calculating. I moved my gaze to the window, to keep it casual.

  “IA reviews. They’re not cheap, are they?” I ventured.

  He grunted. I took that as a sign to keep going.

  “And I’d be on paid leave until the
y were done investigating me? What’s the average? I’m betting six months, at least?”

  Another grunt.

  “At the end of which, you and I both know you’d be reinstating a detective who is starting to hate his job, and is getting sloppy because of it. Taking unnecessary personal risks …”

  I stopped there. Waited. Gave him all the space he needed. The Captain may be volatile, but he’s also wily like a fox.

  He took off his glasses and polished the lenses with his tie. Straightened a few stacks of papers. Leafed through my reports one more time. Then he picked up my letter of resignation and tore it into precise halves, then quarters. He dropped the pieces into the circular file under his desk. He stood up.

  “Congratulations, Norbu. You are hereby officially laid off, due to the fact that we’re probably looking at adding a minimum ten percent to our costs this year, and due to the other fact that your salary alone will keep at least two eager, fully committed patrol officers on the street where they’re needed. It’s a tough decision, but that’s why I’m here.”

  I met his gaze. His eyes were steely. But his mouth allowed the ghost of a smile.

  “I guess that means the state will have to pay me unemployment for a year, sir,” I said.

  His smile broadened.

  “Bet your sweet monastic ass it does.”

  I cleared my cubicle, turned in my badge, gun, and security key card, and picked up my final paycheck. I took the elevator to the first floor, crossed the spacious lobby, and walked down the narrow hallway to exit my workplace one last time. I wanted to get out of there fast, to avoid all the explanations, all the prolonged good-byes. I checked my gut for any regrets.

  I couldn’t drum up much nostalgia for the police headquarters itself, impressive though it was. It had only been open for business 16 months. The windows gleamed, the helipad worked, and the tenth-floor rooftop patio, dubbed the stogie stage, was a boon to all the smokers. I found it ironic that smoking occurred right next to the memorial to our fallen brothers. I also found the whole place a bit sterile.

  Unlike its predecessor, the Parker Center, the new headquarters had so far eluded an official moniker. Apparently in this era of political correctness, no one past or present passed muster as a namesake anymore. Despite that, the building quickly acquired the nickname “Death Star”-a nod to its monolithic mass, its angled, glassy face, and the sense that at any moment it might open its maw and zap you with a super-laser.

  I stepped into the afternoon sunshine, letting my eyes adjust. I noticed the public “lawn” finally had some grass poking through. The entire site was originally earmarked to be a neighborhood park, but the powers-that-be decided it was a much more civic idea to spend over $400 million on a fancy new home for the brass. They did thoughtfully reserve one lone acre of sod for the public, but promptly tented it over for their annual fundraiser two months in, killing off any and all vegetation.

  Late last month, I showed up at Second and Main to help local volunteers clear weeds, trim overgrown feather grass, and bag up heaps of the usual municipal flotsam and jetsam, from Starbucks cups to discarded needles. Personally, I thought it was pretty ballsy of my superiors to take over land that was designated as a downtown community park, build their new headquarters, then ask that same community to landscape the remaining meager patch of neglected soil-you know, now that the LAPD couldn’t afford the upkeep.

  No, I wouldn’t miss the Death Star.

  I would miss the people, though. I’m an isolator by nature, so the structure of a job, with its enforced social interaction, helped keep me a part of the human race. I’d miss my fellow detectives. Most of all, I’d miss working with Bill.

  On cue, my hip pocket buzzed. I didn’t even have to check the screen of my cell phone. This kind of thing happens to me all the time.

  “Hey, Bill.”

  “Hey, Ten. The Edison. Seventeen hundred hours. We’re holding a happy hour wake.”

  “Who’s it for?”

  “You.”

  I was flattered. The Edison was our high-end after-hours haunt, saved for special occasions. Then again, it was Wednesday, meaning payday, so everyone was feeling flush. I decided to leave my Mustang in the lot and walk. I’d come back for it later. Save on parking, now that I was unemployed.

  Tucked in an alley halfway between the Death Star and Disney Hall, the Edison was an easy stroll. I enjoyed stretching my legs. We’d had a lot of rain and the air felt prewashed, and crisper than usual. I ducked into the little corridor off Second Street, between Main and Spring, and was waved right inside. In a few hours, the line would stretch around the block.

  I headed down the steep flight of stairs, enjoying the sensation of stepping back in time. A century ago, the Edison was a glorified boiler room, a municipal power plant buried in the bowels of downtown. Now, reincarnated as a blend of art deco, speakeasy elegance, and exposed industrial pipes and girders, it generated a different kind of power, the power of “it,” of the place to be. Detectives love coming here. It’s close, and it’s classy. The dress code-no flip-flops, torn jeans, or muscle tees-means no riffraff. And the 35? charge for the first happy hour cocktail, a prohibition drink at prohibition prices, makes it seem like a bargain.

  The trick, of course, is to stop at one.

  I headed for the Generator Lounge. Cops tend to congregate there because it has its own exit and is wedged into a back corner, flanked by two walls facing outward. We love to face out. We’re like the Mafia, that way.

  As my eyes adjusted, I found Bill and six or seven fellow detectives from Robbery/Homicide, most of them lifers, already digging into a platter of hot-and-sour shoestring fries. Bill handed me a stein of ale.

  “This one’s on me,” he said. “Now you owe me big time.”

  “Right. Now I owe you thirty-five cents.”

  Sipping, I tasted honey, apricots, and a kiss of hops. Chimay White, one of my favorites.

  “Bless you,” I said to Bill. “And bless those industrious Belgian Trappist monks.”

  Marty, who came up with me at the Academy, clinked on his glass with a knife to get everyone’s attention.

  “To Hizzoner Tenzing Norbu,” he said. “First to get in, first to get out.” His face was a little ruddy. He was already into the $12 second drink.

  He gave an exaggerated bow.

  “Damn, Ten, when you showed up for training, bald as a cue ball and shyer than spit, I thought, ‘Hallelujah, this weirdo’s going to anchor the curve, he’s going to make me look goo-ood.’”

  He turned to the group.

  “For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out how he kept kicking my butt so bad, mine and everyone else’s. He was a Buddhist monk, for Chrissake. I actually considered taking a break from the horizontal mambo myself, just to level the playing field.”

  “Celibacy is overrated,” I said.

  A volley of bad bedroom jokes and raunchy stories followed, all of which I’d heard a thousand times. My mind drifted to those early days, the intensive six months of training, cruising the streets as a newbie patrol officer, then moving up the ranks until I achieved Detective I, then II. I could still recall the heady sense of anticipation back then, the excitement that propelled me into each morning. Like being in love.

  A shout of welcome interrupted my reverie. A long-limbed redhead, wearing a diaphanous gown, sparkling green wings, and not much else, rolled a wooden cart into our midst. It held a glittering array of neon elixirs in individual glass bottles.

  When Prince Siddhartha, the Buddha-to-be, sat in deep meditation under the Bodhi Tree, the demonic shape-shifter Mara appeared in the form of seductive women to test his mettle. Here at the Edison, temptation came in the form of the Absinthe Fairy.

  “Libations, anyone?” she crooned. “You get to keep the bottle.”

  Marty was all over her like a rash. He pulled out a roll of bills, happy to pay top dollar for his next round of distilled relief.

  I looked over at my ex-partner. Bil
l caught me catching him peeking at his watch. He looked a little sheepish, but I tipped my chin toward the exit. I’d already reached my limit of small talk. We said our good-byes and aimed for the door.

  “Hey, Ten!”

  I turned. Marty again. His cheeks were flushed from the absinthe. “So what’s next?”

  “Not sure,” I said, playing for time. I was afraid actually voicing my lifelong aspiration, inspired by long, late nights with Arthur Conan Doyle, might cause it to evaporate into thin air. “But I’m thinking, maybe, private investigation”

  With that, one of the older detectives launched into some sort of musical chant, a series of Dunh, dunh, dunh, dunh’s. The others joined in. I looked at Bill helplessly.

  “It’s the theme song from an old television series, Magnum, P.I.,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Grow a mustache,” I heard Marty shout after me as we headed out the door, followed by hoots of laughter.

  Bill walked me to my car.

  “So,” he said.

  “So.”

  “I got you something.”

  Bill fished around his pockets and pulled out a small evidence bag. He opened it and tipped the contents into the palm of my hand.

  “Think of it as a little reminder to look before you leap.”

  I stared down at the misshapen slug. My lucky charm.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Now I owe you another ten cents.”

  “Watch your back out there,” Bill said.

  I put the bullet in my pocket. I was certainly planning to try.

  CHAPTER 3

  Home. Free.

  I skated the dry mop across my floor, enjoying the light grip of fingers on handle, of bare feet on smooth, hard wood. The back-and-forth, back-and-forth rhythm transported me to predawn in Dharamshala, performing my morning job of sweeping the meditation hall before the swarm of lamas descended on it. It was my favorite time of day, a few moments to be alone with my thoughts before the mandatory schedule kicked in, the prayers, the practices, the painstaking rituals and endless dry debates. The constant worry that I was breaking yet another obscure rule by, say, scratching my nose before noon, or tying my robe under the wrong armpit when a woman was passing by on the road.