The Second Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (Dharma Detective: Tenzing Norbu Mystery) (8 page)

Mike finally started talking. “Right, so I looked into Marv Rudolph, like you asked. Interesting story. He came out of nowhere in the early seventies and was making a fortune within ten years. His business model was pure genius. Find little gems at foreign film festivals, get them for a song, turn around and remake them for almost nothing, with stars who want respect in the form of little gold statues called Oscar, rack up nominations, sell lots of tickets, and use the profits to buy more little gems at foreign film festivals. The guy had a nose for the winners, too. Where other people smelled crap, he smelled gold. It was his zone of genius, you know? He should have stuck with it.”

“Go on.”

“Well, he must have gotten bored, or greedy, or something. He sold his library to Warner Brothers for a nice piece of change and spent the next decade putting the profits into all sorts of things he knew nothing about: five-star restaurants, high-end nightclubs, luxury apartments, stuff like that. Then the recession hit. Bottom line? He lost his shirt and virtually disappeared from the Hollywood scene. Hang on, I need to take a leak.”

My coffee maker beeped. I leaned over the coffee pot and inhaled the rich, earthy scent of freshly brewed Sumatra. I poured the coffee and took my first sip. Delicious.
May I live with ease, and may I always be able to afford good coffee.

“Okay. Where was I?” Mike asked.

“Marv went bust.”

“Right. Big time. So fast-forward five years. He still had a little cash in the coffer. His name started popping up here and there. Perez Hilton. Nikki Finke, just a mention or two. He was hawking a new little indie movie he wanted to make,
Loving Hagar
. Word was the script was edgy. A hard sell, but brilliant. Romeo and Juliet, only instead of Montagues and Capulets, it was Jews and Palestinians, you know, granddaughter of holocaust survivor falls for West Bank refugee. This was surefire Oscar material if it ever got that far—and classic Marv Rudolph. The heat from the script alone led to Marv beating out everybody in town for the option on a bestselling thriller called
Stung.
Marv took another chance, and let the author adapt his own novel. Then he landed the biggest fish of all. With Keith Connor signed on as the lead, suddenly Marv was back, you know?”

I thought about our interview with Arlene yesterday. “So what happened to the other one, to
Loving Hagar
?” I asked.

“I’m still trying to find out,” Mike said. “According to Nikki Finke, two years ago Marv was all gung-ho and full speed ahead, with guaranteed backing from that billionaire Rosen. Julius Rosen.”

“Hang on.” I moved to my desk and shuffled through the printouts until I found myself looking at Rosen’s benign smile. “Okay. Go on.”

“Marv’d already cast an unknown for the Hagar role, Tovah Field, make that Fields with an ‘s,’ and was in the process of looking for another unknown to play the dude. The plan was to surround two up-and-coming stars with a bunch of big names for the supporting roles. Then, suddenly, there was talk of rewrites happening. Never a good sign. Then more rewrites. Then, nothing. Marv was all
Stung,
all the time.”

“How the hell did you learn all this in twenty-four hours, Mike?”

“Oh, you know, start with IMDB Pro, cross reference some data, check the trades, this and that.” Whenever he got cagey, I got less curious. With Mike, some things are better left unknown.

“Thanks. This is really helpful,” I said. “Listen, I hate to ask, but can you look into . . . “

“. . . Julius Rosen. Already did, boss. I’m busy with gigs the next two nights, so lucky for you I’m trying to clear my plate. Rosen’s somewhat of a recluse these days, hard to find, but I dug up an old feature
Architectural Digest
did on his compound and put two and two together. Once I had an actual location, I was able to track down his digits. I’m texting his phone number and address to you now. Oh, and I’m e-mailing you photos of some of the other major players in Marv’s life for the past five years or so.” His voice took on the accent of a gangster. “See? I’m schmart! I can do things!” I heard Tricia giggling.

“What?” I said. “What’s so funny?”

“I’m doing Fredo. Godfather Two. Jeez. Word to the wise. If you’re going to tango with the big boys in Hollywood, you’d better start streaming Netflix. Later, Terminator.” He hung up.

I looked over at Tank. “Mike thinks we’re culturally deprived,” I said. “What do you think, Tank?” He rolled to one side and closed his eyes, as if the notion of “streaming” anything exhausted him. “My feelings, exactly.”

I called the number Mike had texted me. To my surprise, it was Julius Rosen’s personal phone—his voice mail picked up after five or so rings. I listened with attention. Rosen’s voice was clearly that of an older man, but the tone was strong and warm. I identified myself, somewhat vaguely, as a detective, and said that I needed to come by, hopefully this morning, to ask him some questions regarding the late Marv Rudolph. I left my number.

I took a glass of orange juice, a bowl of Greek yogurt topped with almond-date granola and sliced banana, and my pile of Marv Rudolph reading material to the deck. My phone stayed silent, as I steeped myself in the further adventures of Marv. Much of what I had downloaded yesterday confirmed what I had just learned from Mike. Good. I was finally getting better at using the Internet. I’m schmart, too.

It was 10
A.M.,
and still no reply—not from Rosen, not from Bill. Time was a-wasting. I decided to drive over there. From what Mike told me, Mr. Rosen was likely to be home. I checked the address on my phone. Big surprise. I was going back to Beverly Hills.

I also called Bill, but his voice mail picked up as well. He was sure to be neck deep in in-laws and Martha’s birthday plans. I filled him in, and gave him Rosen’s address, just in case.

“Oh, and tell Martha happy four-oh, and I’ll see her tonight,” I finished.

I exchanged my sweats for my best pair of jeans and added a nice long-sleeved cotton shirt. I checked the mirror for any obvious faux pas.

I’m almost five-ten, and weigh about one-eighty. I guess you could say I caught a few genetic breaks from my sturdy Tibetan father and my willowy Midwestern mother. Some days I look Asian, others, American, with more than a dash of European brio thrown in. I got his muscles and her height, his dark brown eyes and her high cheekbones, his tawny skin, her full lips. My hair seems to have come from a place all its own. It’s thick and black and ridiculous if it’s more than a few inches long. One time I tried growing it out, but the guys in Robbery/Homicide started calling me Magic Marker. I went back to my near buzz right away.

I looked okay. Nothing stuck in my teeth.

I printed the photographs from Mike, made sure Tank had food and fresh water, looked longingly at the locked gun safe in my closet—I hate going anyplace new, where I don’t know what’s waiting, unarmed—and climbed into my Mustang, with only my scintillating personality for protection.

As I headed down Topanga, I thought more about Mike’s comment. He was right. I did have a lot of gaps in my Western cultural education. Neither my mother nor my father had believed in television. To my hippie mother, commercial entertainment was a corrupting influence and sure to lead to rampant consumerism. To my austere father, it was distracting and sure to lead to delusion. Neither of them gave a thought to where such an extreme upbringing might leave a little boy, swinging back and forth between Paris and Dharamshala.

Then my mother died, ironically you might say, of over-consumption—too many drugs and too much alcohol in one sitting. I was sent to live with my father and entered the cocooned life of a Tibetan lama-in-training full time. Not a lot of Hollywood breached those walls. By the time I arrived in Los Angeles, at the age of 18, I was a full-on cultural misfit. Once there, I’d played catch-up with books, basically reading everything I could get my hands on. But as far as television and movies went, well, it seemed hopeless. I’d never catch up, so why even try?

Truthfully, I’d maintained a certain amount of pride in my media naiveté. I’d even been known to hold forth myself on the subject, labeling commercial entertainment as both corrupting and distracting.

Hmm. Something to think about
.

I opened up the throttle, keeping my eye out for patrol officers as I sped along the coast highway.

No, my childhood entertainment took a different form. Every night, right after evening chants, and right before the monks sent us off to bed, we’d get a “dharma talk,” some tale revealing some helpful or not-so-helpful hints as to why we shouldn’t stray off the path to self-realization. The Buddha’s way was our life purpose, and these talks helped guide us. How else would we learn how to apply the Eightfold Path to daily life? While kids on the other side of the world were streaming Netflix, or whatever the equivalent was back then, I was streaming dharma.

I stopped at the Sunset traffic signal. The ocean was spectacular this morning, dark green, with little snowy caplets dancing across the swells. The light changed, and I turned left, snaking north.

One night, a special visitor, Serje Rinpoche, came into the hall to give us boys a talk. The whispers had swirled when we’d caught a glimpse of him at dinnertime. He was special to His Holiness, one boy said. Visiting from America, another added. I kept the fact that he and my father were close friends to myself. It was hard enough fitting in when your father was one of the three head abbots running the monastery.

Serje Rinpoche had walked up to the front of the hall and taken a seat, facing us. He sat very still, and soon the room settled.

“Namo Buddhaya. Namo Dharmaya. Namo Sanghaya,”
he chanted. “I take refuge in the Buddha. I take refuge in the Dharma. I take refuge in the Sangha.” He smiled, looking out over our little sangha, a sea of small bald-headed boys, seated in rows on round meditation cushions. I was close to the front, but I could feel the electricity all around and behind me: We never got Serje Rinpoche all to ourselves like this.

“Imagine water everywhere,” he said, “water as far as you can see in every direction. Huge. Without limit.” He waited. The room itself seemed to grow and swell with the image he was painting. “This is the ocean. Can you feel how vast it is?”

I had seen the ocean. I nodded.

“Now picture an ancient turtle that lives deep, deep in this ocean.”

I pictured the turtle, his snout scaly, his neck a tight mass of wrinkled folds.

“There is something strange about this turtle. This turtle only rises to the surface for air once every one hundred years.”

A hushed “ooooh” rippled among us. Serje Rinpoche knew how to tell a good story.

“So once every century, up, up, up he swims, until his head pops to the surface. He takes a deep sniff of air and down he dives again, back into the depths, not to return for another hundred years.”

I found myself taking a deep lungful of air.

“Now, on the surface of this same huge ocean floats one small, round life preserver. Do you know what that is? Children in America wear them around their waists, so they can float in the water.” He curved his arms, to show the size and shape. “Year after year after year, one lone life preserver. Floating in the vastness of the ocean. Can you imagine that?”

I pictured the tiny, bobbing thing. I nodded shyly.

“Oh, I almost forgot!” he smiled. “The turtle is also blind.” His smile widened. “Yes, the poor old turtle cannot see a thing. It simply must feel its way up to the surface as best it can.”

Another long pause, as he let us absorb this new fact. Then he leaned toward us, his voice gathering power.

“Now, I wonder. How many times do you think this blind turtle must come to the surface, how many hundreds and thousands of times, and years, must pass, before it happens to push its nose up through that life preserver?”

I remember shaking my head. I didn’t know how many years. Definitely a whole lot.

“The odds are great, so great as to be almost impossible. But they are no greater than the odds against a soul landing in a human incarnation. And
you
,” Rinpoche was staring right at me, “
you
have beaten those odds. And so I ask you, what are you going to do with this opportunity?”

No pressure, right?

I checked my iPhone and turned north on Benedict Canyon, past the perfectly tended lawns and gardens of the Beverly Hills Hotel, climbing the hills, merging with San Ysidro, then Summitridge Drive, climbing and climbing to a crest with a spectacular view.

It’s about persistence, I thought. Just showing up and doing the work. Keeping your eye on the task at hand and letting go of whether or not it leads exactly where you want to go. If you do that, the Buddha says—if you just keep working with passion and attention—auspicious coincidences are bound to occur.

In other words, even a blind turtle comes up in the right place once in a millennium.

A high stucco wall, its fortlike presence slightly softened by some sort of creeping vine, appeared on the road to my left, delineating a massive property that took up the better part of the street. I was here. I stopped at a small stucco guard house attached to a pair of ornate black, wrought-iron gates.

Sun glinted off the mirrored sunglasses of the gate guard as he stepped forward. His eyes raked my car, and he motioned for me to lower my window. I was glad I hadn’t come in my Toyota beater.

“May I help you?”

“I’m here to meet with Julius Rosen,” I said. “My name is Tenzing Norbu. I believe he’s expecting me.”

He stepped back inside and made a call. He talked, and then listened, nodding a couple times. I figured I had at least a 50-50 chance of pulling this off. Better than a blind turtle, anyway. He hung up and leaned out the little doorway.

“Just take the driveway to the top of the hill. Someone will be waiting for you.”

The gates swung open, and I made my way up a long, steep, curving lane lined on either side by twisted California sycamores, a drive long enough to make me wonder if I’d missed a turn. Sprawling private estates are common in Beverly Hills, but even so.