I fell silent, remembering how hard I tried to be a good teacher of the Dharma, and how hypocritical I felt. Young Los Angeles seekers took one look at my robe and shaved head and set me on a spiritual pedestal that bore no relation to my actual inner world.
I may have felt rebellious at the monastery, but here, I felt like a sham.
“I was adequate as a meditation teacher,” I said. “But inside, I was dying. Still, I thought I was hiding it well, until one day one of the team leaders, a psychologist, took me aside and asked me an important question, one I had never dared to ask myself: what did my heart truly long to do?”
“Another guardian angel.”
I smiled. “I guess you could say that. Anyway, the instant he asked, the answer flew out of my mouth: ‘A detective. I want to be a police detective.’”
Julie nuzzled my neck. “I’m loving this, but can we take it into the kitchen? I’m starving.”
“Almost done,” I said. “I kept teaching meditation, but at the same time, I got my GED, and somehow landed a part-time summer job as an administrative aide at the Parker Center-that’s the old police headquarters downtown. It was a revelation, you know?”
Julie pushed up on her elbow to watch my face.
“In the monastery, elders would regularly throw major tantrums if we didn’t wear our robes just so. At the Parker Center, I watched uniformed cops meet terrible, sometimes even life-threatening, situations on a daily basis with grace, patience, and gritty humor. I learned more about practical spirituality in the real world during one summer in law enforcement than I ever had in the monastery. The week I turned twenty-one, I turned in my robe and entered the police academy.”
“And here you are,” Julie smiled.
“And here I am.” I felt a little tug of discomfort.
“What are you thinking?” she said, picking up on it.
“I was just wondering if Rinpoche knew I’d end up here.” I took in her naked curves. “Well, not here, here, but you know, that I’d end up in law enforcement.”
“You never asked him?’
“Not really. A few years ago I found out he was coming to Los Angeles to give a public lecture in a big church in Pasadena on ‘Buddhism and Democracy.’ I worked up the courage to go. The church was packed, but he spotted me in the audience, I know he did. Whether he recognized me is another thing. I was six years older, in uniform, and my hair was grown out.”
I smiled, remembering Rinpoche’s quick, knowing grin before he continued with his lecture.
“So, what about your father?”
My smile died. “What about him?”
“What does he have to say about your new life?” Her words lanced my good feeling with shocking speed. I felt betrayed by the question. My voice hardened into flint.
“My new life is none of his business. And my father is none of yours.”
Julie’s cheeks reddened. She got out of bed and started pulling on her clothes, avoiding my eyes. I reached for my own jeans and shirt.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “Sore subject.”
“That’s okay,” she said, but I could hear in her voice that it wasn’t.
“Do you want some coffee?”
“No, thank you,” she said. “I need to get home. I’m working again tonight.”
I followed her to the front door.
“I’ll call you, okay?” I said.
“Okay,” she said.
I hugged her. Her body was rigid. She left without another word. As she drove off, Tank stiff-walked past me, into the kitchen. Even his tail was indignant.
“I messed up,” I told him, but he’d already ascertained that. It wasn’t the first time, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.
CHAPTER 21
I had invested in a new pair of binoculars, Barska Gladiators with a built-in zoom, and I could see individual droplets of sweat dripping off the forehead of the farmworker I had in my sights. I’d taken up position on a hilltop across from both the pig farm and the cult. For the past 20 minutes, the worker had been engaged in the highly challenging task of washing Barsotti’s car.
His green one-piece coveralls were tucked into steel-toed rubber boots the color of caramel, or brown muck. The tips were pale yellow, like they’d been dunked in clotted cream. I took out my digital camera and clicked as the worker scrubbed at the globules of mud under the wheels.
It must have rained here last night, and the road up to the farm was full of muddy potholes. Under today’s blazing sun, steam rose visibly off the ground. I didn’t want to think about how bad that steam must smell-the only thing worse than working on a pig farm on a hot day must be working on a pig farm on a hot, humid day.
I closed my eyes, willing my mind to stop dancing around the subject I so wanted to avoid. I had hurt Julie’s feelings this morning, and if I wanted to see her again, I probably needed to figure out why.
But, but, but she had no business …
No, Tenzing. No buts. This is an old pattern, my friend, and you need to take responsibility for it.
I snapped off a few more shots of the farm from different angles. Then I turned and did the same with the Children of Paradise yurts.
I swapped back to the binoculars. The Mercedes gleamed like polished onyx, once again spotless. It must be nice to have people wash your cars for you. I watched as the worker dumped his cleaning materials into the back of a dusty green Chevy pickup. Back to the camera: Click. Click. Click.
I should cook for Julie next time. Maybe dumplings are the way back into her heart.
Vince Barsotti bustled out of the building and circled his car, inspecting it. He must have liked what he saw, because he handed over several bills. The worker bowed and scraped, so I was guessing they were tens, maybe even twenties. Then Barsotti started talking, windmilling his arms for emphasis. He wagged his jaw for several minutes, and his employee kept nodding, mouthing Si, si, si. Finally, like a Roman emperor deciding a gladiator’s fate, Barsotti bestowed a definitive thumbs-up gesture on his employee, and climbed into his gleaming chariot.
Barsotti kept it pretty slow leaving the parking lot, carefully avoiding the muddy potholes on the pitted lane that led to the main road. I expected him to turn left, toward the freeway. He turned right, taking the narrow dirt road up the hill to the Children of Paradise.
Well, well, well.
Barsotti parked at the fence and tapped his horn a couple of times. Brother Eldon came out of his yurt and lumbered down the hill to the car, only today’s Brother Eldon had ditched the robe. His T-shirt was tight across the chest and loose over his jeans. I focused my sights on his exposed linebacker neck, with its distinctive tat. There was an old ex-con who lived in a shoe. Thanks to Mike, I’d been brushing up on my nursery rhymes. I moved to the ink on Brother Eldon’s arm, the crude sword with its swirling, leafy scrollwork.
Barsotti suddenly opened the car door and got nose to nose with Brother Eldon. Both appeared spitting mad. I tried to read their lips, but they were too far away. After a few moments, things cooled down. Barsotti got back in the car, leaned across the seat, and opened the passenger door. Brother Eldon climbed in next to him.
This was not good. I stuffed my gear in my backpack, ready to make a mad dash to my car. But they didn’t go anywhere. My expensive new binoculars were useless. I cursed the hot sun, tinted windows, and Barsotti’s airconditioning.
After ten minutes, it was over. Brother Eldon jumped out and stomped up the hill. Barsotti drove back to the pig farm. I stayed where I was, squinting under the hot sun, completely in the dark.
So they knew each other. Big deal. For all I knew, Barsotti was just relaying my own interest in the cult, like any good neighbor might. Beyond nothing, I now had zip.