The Fourth Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (A Tenzing Norbu Mystery series Book 4) by Gay Hendricks Page A
Authors: Gay Hendricks
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mama leave them money when she die, too. Horace say they never been self-supporting and never will be as long as someone else there to pay.”
The net gain to Angus and James was $16,666.00 each. Was that enough money to contest Horace’s wishes? Sure it was. I’d seen people killed for a lot less. Once, when I was still a rookie on patrol, I’d arrived first at a scene to find a pair of dead bangers bleeding out on the floor of a Mexican restaurant. Double homicide and messy enough to make you swear off salsa forever. According to the bartender, they’d gotten into an argument about who was going to pick up the tab. Banger One apparently thought Banger Two had eaten more than his share of carne asada. When the homicide investigators emptied their pockets, they found rolls of $100 bills—a combined total of close to $10,000.
The unpaid bill came to $12.39. That was the first time I truly understood the insanity of the mind’s attachment to being right.
In this case, though, the culprit at first glance was pure and simple greed. Didn’t explain everything, but at least I had an initial clue.
“Can I keep these for now? I’ll need to make copies for my file.”
“’Course.” G-Force stood up. “Think you can get me my money?”
“I’ll try my best.”
“’Preciate that.” I’d forgotten how big G-Force’s hands were. He held out a paw, and I allowed my knuckles to be crushed.
As we walked outside, I had to ask.
“G-Force?”
“Yeah.”
“Why Eskimo? ”
G-Force crossed his arms and leaned against the Pacer, smiling slightly. “It’s like this. Brother walks into a bar, says to the bartender, ‘No such thing as God.’
“‘Why you say that?’ says the bartender.
“‘Last year,’ man says, ‘got sent to Alaska on a job. Three days in got caught in a blizzard, worst one in a hundr’d years. Buried to my neck in snow, no food, no idea where I was at. So I prayed to the man upstairs, prayed my butt off, said I’d never do wrong again if on’y He save my freezing ass. But He lef’ me there to die.’
“Bartender just stares.
“‘What?’ brother says.
“Bartender says, ‘You here, ain’t you? You ain’t dead.’
“‘Yeah, well, ten seconds after I quit praying, here come an Eskimo. Give me food, take me to his igloo so I have somewhere to sleep.’
“Bartender shake his head. ‘You even dumber than you look.’
“‘What? I’m jus’ sayin’, God didn’t save me. Eskimo did!’”
G-Force punched my arm lightly. “Heh-heh-heh. Horace told me that story first time he come to Pelican Bay to visit. That Horace, he something else.”
As I breezed along the 101 North toward Conway Associates, I offered up my own petition to the Great Beyond: please, let this ridiculously good Friday afternoon traffic hold until I get to Westlake Village. Then I passed a pleasant, jam-free half hour identifying and appreciating all the Eskimos in my world. Chief among them was Bill Bohannon.
C HAPTER 8
The long, narrow building, set behind a newly constructed industrial complex just off Agoura Road, was of pebbly stucco—squat, one-story, painted an uninspiring beige, and fronted by an equally long, narrow parking lot. Unlike its gleaming neighbors, this drab structure had been here for some time. In the distance, a sad little ridge of drought-scorched hills pretending to be mountains made for a depressing view. I parked my Neon at the far end of the lot. It was almost five o’clock, and I was exhausted. I swallowed a huge yawn as I scanned the immediate area for possible caffeine franchises. Not a one, not even a Starbucks. My plastic Starbucks gift card, a thank-you gift from a happy client, was burning a $100 hole, minus one Caffè Americano to go, in my back pocket.
Maybe on the way home.
Each individual business in the building was marked by a faded awning with stenciled numbers denoting the office address. I didn’t see any surveillance cameras, high tech or otherwise.
The net gain to Angus and James was $16,666.00 each. Was that enough money to contest Horace’s wishes? Sure it was. I’d seen people killed for a lot less. Once, when I was still a rookie on patrol, I’d arrived first at a scene to find a pair of dead bangers bleeding out on the floor of a Mexican restaurant. Double homicide and messy enough to make you swear off salsa forever. According to the bartender, they’d gotten into an argument about who was going to pick up the tab. Banger One apparently thought Banger Two had eaten more than his share of carne asada. When the homicide investigators emptied their pockets, they found rolls of $100 bills—a combined total of close to $10,000.
The unpaid bill came to $12.39. That was the first time I truly understood the insanity of the mind’s attachment to being right.
In this case, though, the culprit at first glance was pure and simple greed. Didn’t explain everything, but at least I had an initial clue.
“Can I keep these for now? I’ll need to make copies for my file.”
“’Course.” G-Force stood up. “Think you can get me my money?”
“I’ll try my best.”
“’Preciate that.” I’d forgotten how big G-Force’s hands were. He held out a paw, and I allowed my knuckles to be crushed.
As we walked outside, I had to ask.
“G-Force?”
“Yeah.”
“Why Eskimo? ”
G-Force crossed his arms and leaned against the Pacer, smiling slightly. “It’s like this. Brother walks into a bar, says to the bartender, ‘No such thing as God.’
“‘Why you say that?’ says the bartender.
“‘Last year,’ man says, ‘got sent to Alaska on a job. Three days in got caught in a blizzard, worst one in a hundr’d years. Buried to my neck in snow, no food, no idea where I was at. So I prayed to the man upstairs, prayed my butt off, said I’d never do wrong again if on’y He save my freezing ass. But He lef’ me there to die.’
“Bartender just stares.
“‘What?’ brother says.
“Bartender says, ‘You here, ain’t you? You ain’t dead.’
“‘Yeah, well, ten seconds after I quit praying, here come an Eskimo. Give me food, take me to his igloo so I have somewhere to sleep.’
“Bartender shake his head. ‘You even dumber than you look.’
“‘What? I’m jus’ sayin’, God didn’t save me. Eskimo did!’”
G-Force punched my arm lightly. “Heh-heh-heh. Horace told me that story first time he come to Pelican Bay to visit. That Horace, he something else.”
As I breezed along the 101 North toward Conway Associates, I offered up my own petition to the Great Beyond: please, let this ridiculously good Friday afternoon traffic hold until I get to Westlake Village. Then I passed a pleasant, jam-free half hour identifying and appreciating all the Eskimos in my world. Chief among them was Bill Bohannon.
C HAPTER 8
The long, narrow building, set behind a newly constructed industrial complex just off Agoura Road, was of pebbly stucco—squat, one-story, painted an uninspiring beige, and fronted by an equally long, narrow parking lot. Unlike its gleaming neighbors, this drab structure had been here for some time. In the distance, a sad little ridge of drought-scorched hills pretending to be mountains made for a depressing view. I parked my Neon at the far end of the lot. It was almost five o’clock, and I was exhausted. I swallowed a huge yawn as I scanned the immediate area for possible caffeine franchises. Not a one, not even a Starbucks. My plastic Starbucks gift card, a thank-you gift from a happy client, was burning a $100 hole, minus one Caffè Americano to go, in my back pocket.
Maybe on the way home.
Each individual business in the building was marked by a faded awning with stenciled numbers denoting the office address. I didn’t see any surveillance cameras, high tech or otherwise.
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