Angry Buddhist (9781609458867) (25 page)

 

T
he master bath is Kendra's domain and she regards it from the large white sunken tub inlaid with Spanish tiles. Six massage jets shoot powerful streams of water toward her submerged body as she gazes at the twin porcelain sinks with brushed steel fixtures, the large shower with steam capacity, and the bidet she had insisted on. Here, she has whiled away relaxed hours. But she is hardly relaxed right now, despite the dependably therapeutic effects of the warm water thrusting toward her beneath the surface of the bath and the George Winston music wafting out of the iPod dock she has parked on the toilet lid. Were it not for the Ativan she ingested half an hour earlier, Kendra would be thrumming like a jet engine.

Unofficial though it may have been, the prickly law enforcement reality of Jimmy's visit further unsettled her. Although she eventually arrived at the conclusion that he knew nothing, this did little to ameliorate her anxiety since a female police detective called a few hours later and scheduled an interview for tomorrow.

The area of second thoughts is a bad neighborhood into which Kendra is unwilling to voluntarily venture, so she is trying to stop ruminating on Nadine's fate. The effort is not going well. Nadine had slipped into that fourth dimension occupied by ex-lovers who might have played a central role in her life at one time but were now consigned to a dim corner of the memory bank. That she has burst forth with all the subtly of a Mardi Gras float is becoming an ongoing source of consternation. So as Kendra lies in the bath, she tries to stuff Nadine back into the place she occupied prior to the meeting at Melvyn's. But she refuses to go back there. While Nadine herself has become a void, this does nothing to vitiate the power of her memory, or her spirit, or whatever it is that is causing the disquiet Kendra is experiencing.

Soaping her arms for the third time, Kendra assures herself that the United States House of Representatives needs Randall. If Nadine had the poor judgment to threaten his position, why should Kendra worry about it? Guilt is as pointless as the Pope in Tel Aviv. She will move on. Eventually. She's not sure how. But she will. This is what Kendra is thinking as she climbs out of the tub and dries herself with a thick towel.

The bathroom scale. As forbidding as Dracula's castle. Unerringly accurate, it beckons her, dares her to get on and confront the ramifications of her body mass. Pushing thoughts of Nadine away she considers her ass. The relationship Kendra has to her weight is fraught and has only become more complicated since she began suspecting her daughter might have an eating disorder. She doesn't want to set a bad example by being weight-obsessed, but worse than a bad example is being fat. Now she steps on to the digital scale and stares at the numbers as they scramble and then come to rest. It is with a combination of satisfaction laced with deep unease that she realizes she's dropped three pounds since yesterday. She suspects this precipitous weight loss is attributable to stress she is feeling as a result of the series of events her actions have set in motion. She considers the possibility that regret might be infecting her system and it might flower into something far more discomfiting at a later date.

The windows of Randall and Kendra's ground floor bedroom are open and a dry breeze rustles the diaphanous white curtains. Randall, dressed in loose, cotton pajamas is propped up on a pile of pillows, half glasses on the end of his nose, eyes focused on a personal reading device. The soft glow of a bedside lamp creates a nimbus of light around him. He does not look up when Kendra enters, her face shiny from skin cream, hair slick with moisture. She has put on a matching pink satin camisole and sleeping shorts. Kendra arranges the pillows, lays back, stares at the ceiling and waits for Randall to say something. After a few seconds go by, she looks over and sees him scrolling down.

Finally, Randall says: “I'd pay to find out who this Desert Machiavelli guy is.”

“Maxon couldn't find out?”

“No flippin idea. The other day he called me another in a long line of snake oil slinging shit peddlers.” Kendra isn't sure how to respond to that so she asks him how it went on the campaign trail today. Randall tells her Maxon showed him the latest poll numbers and the election is too close to call.

She assures him he will win but he does not respond, just continues to read. Lowering her voice to where it is little more than a rattle in her throat, Kendra says, “Tell me no one is going to jail.”

“Unlikely.”

“Have you talked to Jimmy since he was here?”

“Me hassling him about coming to see you will only make him wonder what we've got going on.”

Again, she waits for him to say something, to reassure her, to quiet the racket in her head that has been building since she climbed out of the bath ten minutes earlier.

Again, he is no help.

“Doesn't this affect you at all?”

“I compartmentalize.”

“Could you at least put down what you're reading for a second and talk to me?”

Making a show of placing the reading device aside, Randall focuses on his wife's cream-smeared face. “Maybe the situation didn't go exactly the way we wanted it to but nothing's going to happen. I promise.”

“How am I supposed to sleep?”

“Are we out of Ativan?”

“I already took four today. And I almost drank an entire bottle of wine tonight. Is that safe?”

“I think a horse tranquilizer's safe for you tonight.”

“But the police . . . ”

“You're a person who went on a Mexican vacation with someone who was killed in a random act of violence. There's nothing to connect you to what happened to that poor girl. Nothing at all. Be yourself. They'll love you. And don't forget to ask the detectives if they're voting for me.”

 

Tired of lying on his side staring at the wall, Jimmy gets out of bed a few minutes before midnight and turns on his computer. Over the past few days he's photographed a Cocker Spaniel, a Labrador Retriever, and several mixed breeds and he uploads their pictures from his cell phone into his laptop, prints them out and places them in the Book of Dogs as Bruno watches from the corner. The work calms him down but it doesn't make him any sleepier. He draws a glass of water from the tap and sits on the couch. Thinks about turning on the television, but decides against it. Drops his face into his hands and rubs his temples. Feels the day's growth of stubble against his soft palms. Maybe he'll grow a beard. The Desert Hot Springs Police Department has regulations against that but he doesn't think the D.A.'s office does. He'll have to ask Oz Spengler. Wonders why he's thinking about beards, never been a beard guy before. Is it a disguise, a yearning for a new identity? Or is he just too lazy to shave? No, it's not that. He's not lazy, he tells himself. He may have a lot of faults, but sloth isn't one of them.

He needs to get away. He could quit his job, leave the desert, get out of California and start somewhere new. It looks to Jimmy like Hard Marvin isn't going to get that chance. Jimmy knows Hard to be the human equivalent of a cactus but doesn't think he has murder in him. Why would Hard, the man in law enforcement for over twenty years, have left a trail of breadcrumbs to his door? Hard no nuclear physicist, probably can't fill out a Soduku puzzle as far as Jimmy can tell. But, still. Yes, revenge is a plausible motive here, Hard on the warpath over his dead dog. But to kill that woman? And the clerk?

The path from Hard leads to Randall, the only other person who could possibly benefit from the crime scene at the Super #1. Jimmy did not believe Randall to be a moral paragon, but neither did he think him capable of engineering what had occurred that night. It is nonetheless curious that Kendra's friend was found dead right before an election. The encounter with Kendra only piqued his curiosity. She looked terrible, drawn and jittery. Was this a normal reaction to the death of an ex-friend? And how close were the two women?

Jimmy bears no love for Hard, yet his essential sense of fairness gives him a rooting interest in seeing that justice is done. If meditation is supposed to bring about clarity then it's done the job. When it comes to Hard, Jimmy clearly sees one thing: he despises the man. And he takes a certain pleasure in envisioning Hard's confinement in a max prison. The tough guy would probably spend the rest of his life in protective custody for fear of being simultaneously disemboweled and raped by a massive shank-wielding fiend already serving consecutive life terms for butchering his relatives with an axe. Unless his lawyer could prove he didn't do it, a difficult task given that he had more or less told Nadine he was going to kill her a day before she turned up dead. It would be so easy to sit back and let the train pull out of the station with Hard on board, so easy.

Although it is now the middle of the night, Jimmy has the urge to communicate with Bodhi Colletti. He logs on to his computer. Behind tired eyes, in the frontal cortex of his brain fireworks of gratitude quietly explode when he realizes she is on-line.

 

AIM IM with [email protected] – 11:58
P.M.

Jimmy Duke

Hi Bodhi. Is this a good time to chat? How are you?

[email protected]

Thanks for asking—I'm ok and am happy to chat with you.

Jimmy Duke

So here's my question—there was a double murder that happened here over the weekend. It's not my case but I can't stop thinking about it. When I try to meditate, that's all I think about. How can I stop this?

[email protected]

We've talked about this before—meditation isn't about getting rid of things—trying to get rid of a thought, an emotion, a physical sensation that isn't the point. The point is to bring a gentle awareness to what's happening in your mind and body, if you're able to do that then a few very interesting and important things start to happen

Jimmy Duke

Is it good or bad that I care about this situation? And how can I stop from caring?

[email protected]

I wish that I had a simple answer for you—did you ever read The Angry Buddhist?

Jimmy Duke

What's that?

[email protected]

It's a book that was written by a guy a lot like you. The author was westerner, a divorced guy, problems with his family, nothing had any meaning for him and this made him frustrated and angry. He looked everywhere, tried every religion and spiritual practice he never got any closer to sorting it out and this made him more and more angry. But he didn't give up. He found teacher after teacher and he always asked the same question and none of the answers were satisfactory. It took him years but he finally met this one Buddhist teacher and when he asked this guy the question, the teacher said Googolplex. What the teacher was trying to convey was that there is an infinite number of answers to this question, and that the answer that the angry guy wanted could be found inside of him, and not inside of any teacher because the answer is different for everyone.

Jimmy Duke

So the answer is a non-answer?

[email protected]

The answer is a process it's not an absolute—

Jimmy Duke

Okay, riddle me this: how is it possible to practice non-attachment if you have a moral perspective on the world? How do you not attach to what you think is good?

[email protected]

The answer lies in a way of being in the world where you see the connections between everything, you see that we're not separate, you see the whole. Non-attachment doesn't mean that you don't have discernment—that you can't tell whether one action is more or less wholesome than another.

Jimmy Duke

What is the way of the dharma when you think someone close to you might be involved in a serious crime?

[email protected]

Only you know that. The answer is already here right inside of you—you just need to clear your perspective a bit to find it.

Jimmy Duke

That kind of sounds like a cheesy movie line.

[email protected]

Profundity can be found in the strangest places. Everyone makes fun of fortune cookies. I don't know why.

Jimmy Duke

Last question: What would Buddha do?

[email protected]

Buddha would practice beginner's mind. Remember when I told you about that? Buddha would take off his shoes and socks, put on a pair of sweatpants, and sit in a quiet place with as few distractions as possible—always mindful he would breathe in, always mindful he would breathe out and that process would take him—did take him—wherever it was he had to go and bring him into a direct experience with all his demons, with all his strengths and with the answers to all of his questions.

Jimmy Duke

You make it sound easy. I'll meditate on that.

[email protected]

Try to rest in a moment of emptiness with nothing but curiosity and compassion to guide you.

 

Jimmy logs off and thinks about his conversation with Bodhi for a few minutes. Then he gets the best night's sleep he has had in months. When he wakes up he's not sure this represents the end of suffering to which the Second Noble Truth refers.

But it's a start.

 

 

T
he day before the polls open and Maxon can barely contain himself. Election Day is like a massive shot of heroin for a junkie. He wakes at dawn and dressed in his pajamas and a green silk robe puts a pot of coffee on. At his kitchen table he checks the Internet while he waits for it to brew. The first thing he reads is the Machiavelli's blog where the speculation about Hard Marvin's arrest gets his hopes up. Then he breezes through the political news on the websites of the big dailies and quickly checks his stocks.

The sun is barely over the horizon and the light from the louvered windows creates a pleasingly geometric play of soft shadows on the kitchen wall. He goes to the refrigerator and takes a carton of eggs out. He'll scramble a couple and make some toast when he's had his first cup of coffee. The last polls showed Randall with a slight lead, but fell within the margin of error. Maxon briefly entertains the idea that his man could lose. It would be surprising but not unprecedented. Mary Swain is an unusual opponent. She has something ineffable, something Maxon deeply admires: her ability to connect with ordinary people. Randall has it too, but he's been distracted lately. Maxon could hardly blame him, though. Things popped up that you couldn't anticipate. How well a politician dealt with the unexpected; that was what prolonged a career. One survives turning up in a hooker's black book, another gets re-elected after a car accident kills a woman with whom he was returning from a tryst. Yet padding the office budget and siphoning the excess end the career of a less deft official. You have to be light on your feet.

Maxon is about to crack an egg when the doorbell rings. When he opens the front door, Jimmy Duke asks if he can spare a moment. Maxon notes what he's wearing, dark slacks, coat and tie. This is a work call.

Jimmy apologizes for stopping by so early in the morning. Maxon tells him not to worry about it, offers a cup of coffee. Jimmy accepts and the two of them sit at the kitchen table. Maxon hits the sleep button on his laptop, inclines the screen at a forty-five degree angle to the keyboard and smiles at Jimmy, who says nothing. He doesn't touch his coffee either. A full thirty seconds pass. Maxon feels Jimmy's eyes on him and knows he cannot look away since the other man might think he is not able to meet his gaze. He could pretend to be distracted—this is, after all, the day before the election and there are countless details to be dealt with—but whatever it is Jimmy wants, it is better that he address it right now.

Finally, Maxon says: “I'd love to sit here all day.”

His relief is palpable when the visitor begins speaking.

“I don't want to lean on Randall right now but I need to tell you something.” Jimmy pauses here, makes sure he has Maxon's full attention. “I know he wouldn't blow his nose without running it by you.”

“You flatter me. Your brother's his own man.”

“Yeah, well, I'm not saying he was involved in the Nadine Never business, but having her dead didn't hurt him, did it?” Jimmy can't possibly know anything, can he? Has he gotten something out of Dale? The thought occurs to Maxon that he should have shipped the youngest Duke brother out of town the moment the plan went off the rails. “And I'd appreciate you don't play dumb since I know Randall and you most likely already discussed it.”

“Did you really just say that?”

“I'm saying Randall is lucky, he's always been lucky, and he probably thinks his luck's gonna hold.”

“Jimmy, it's nice having this visit, but I'm not really sure why you're here.”

“If you know anything about what happened to Nadine Never, you ought to think about telling me now.” Maxon looks at Jimmy as if he's lost his mind. Although he has attempted to convey the idea that this line of inquiry is completely out of bounds Jimmy presses on. “If there's any kind of . . . I don't want to say conspiracy, you understand, because that's kind of a heavy word, but if you know anything and we find that out . . . ” He doesn't bother to finish the thought.

Maxon stares at him. His gaze is steady. He feels his heart rate increase. The residual taste of coffee in his mouth is bitter. Then he quietly says: “Your brother saved your ass once already. He is a member of the United States Congress. That police chief killed those people, Jimmy. Is there something wrong with you?”

“We already know Nadine Never communicated with Kendra in the past week.”

Maxon looks away from Jimmy, shakes his head. His eyes pan the kitchen, the neat counters, the gleaming appliances, everything in perfect order.

“So you think there was a conspiracy to murder the woman? Jimmy, that is so ridiculous I don't know what to say.”

Maxon notices the way the light from the louvered windows is rendered as bars on the kitchen table. Jimmy's coffee sits in front of him, untouched. Maxon senses that Jimmy is waiting to see if he will elaborate. He chooses not to. Why protest too much?

“You don't have to say anything. You can take your chances. The police like Marvin for the murders. He threatens the victim, she turns up dead, circumstantial evidence wrapped around his neck like a damn noose.”

“But you don't think he did it?”

“No one's that thick.”

“You think that's going to be Marvin's defense?”

“I don't know what strategy his lawyer's going to pursue. I'm telling you for your own edification.” Maxon nods. He's waiting for Jimmy to bring this to a close. He'd like to throw him out, but that would likely be taken the wrong way. “Let me ask you a question.”

“Go right ahead.”

“Do you think anyone could be that stupid?”

“Anything's possible.”

“The detectives are gonna take Kendra's temperature. We'll see how she does.”

“Jimmy, this is ludicrous.” Again, Jimmy just stares at Maxon, waiting. “I have a lot to do today, so unless there's something else to discuss . . . ”

“When you talk to Randall, I want you to keep one thing in mind: he'll kick you to the curb in a second. I'm not saying Randall's involved, and I'm not saying there's a conspiracy. I'm just giving you the benefit of my professional advice.”

Maxon walks Jimmy to the door, opens it for him. The smile he delivers is practiced and empty. “The victory party's at the Cahuilla Casino. Come celebrate.”

Jimmy emits a hollow laugh as Maxon closes the door behind him. In the kitchen he opens a bottle of water and takes four quick gulps. Then he showers and gets dressed. He skips breakfast since his appetite has vanished.

As Maxon is leaving, he hears a voice behind him, calling his name. It's Dale. He has rolled himself out of the guest bedroom. Seated in his chair in his underwear, he regards Maxon suspiciously. “You leaving without saying goodbye?”

“I was about to stick my head in your room. I thought you liked privacy. You missed Jimmy.”

“What you think, I'd come out here and say hello? No need to talk to him right now.” Dale sounds no more bitter than usual. Maxon braces himself for whatever it is he plans to ask for next. “How am I supposed to get to work?”

“I think you better take the next couple of days off, maybe just hang around here and watch television. You can call in sick. There's food in the refrigerator.”

“And the money?”

“We're going to have to wait until the election's over, okay?”

It is almost impossible for Maxon to comprehend that after what Dale has engineered, he has the audacity to hound Maxon for money to bail himself out of his self-created mess. Maxon supposes that he would have to bring this financial matter to Randall eventually, but not for a few days yet. In the meantime, he needs Dale to remain scarce. The delaying tactic works and Dale agrees to tell his boss at the RV dealership the campaign needs him today. When Maxon leaves, Dale is seated in front of the television in the living room, a bowl of cereal on his lap.

 

Early afternoon and Kendra is in the powder room near the front door of her house checking her makeup. With a practiced hand she has applied foundation, berry stain lipstick, and a touch of blue-gray eye shadow. She reaches into her makeup bag for a mascara pencil and deftly applies it. If she is able to cry, the mascara will run. She is counting on that.

The yellow sundress she wears has been selected to convey respectful cooperation without too much formality. Her delicately painted maroon toenails are set off against gold thong sandals that she hopes are not too flashy. Her hair is arranged in a chignon. She weighed herself again this morning and has dropped another pound. It is with no small degree of satisfaction that she imagines herself looking thinner in Randall's victory pictures.

Kendra is fixing a tiny smear on her cheek when the doorbell rings. Randall had told her it would look less suspicious to a couple of police detectives if she did not have a lawyer present during their visit, so she is alone in the house when she opens the door for Detectives Cali Pasco and Arnaldo Escovedo. Detective Pasco had called her a day earlier and asked if she and her partner might drop by after lunch. Kendra had inquired whether the detective could tell her what this was about and was informed that there was an ongoing murder investigation and they hoped she could shed some light on the victim. After feigning what she hopes is the correct degree of concern, Kendra tells her visitors she will do whatever she can to help.

Now she leads them to the living room. As the detectives admire the view of the San Jacinto Mountains Kendra asks if they'd like some iced tea but the offer is declined. She excuses herself to go to the kitchen and pours a glass for herself. Upon her return she gestures to the steel and vinyl sofa, and the detectives take seats next to one another. Kendra sits on an Eames chair perpendicular to them. She leans back crossing one thigh over the other, her elbow resting on the back of the chair. The picture of relaxation she paints is attributable more to the two large glasses of Zinfandel with which she fortified herself prior to the detectives' arrival, than any actual sense of ease.

They make small talk for what feels to Kendra like half an hour but isn't more than a minute, how long have you lived here, isn't the desert beautiful this time of year. Three chatty people. She nods when Detective Escovedo apologizes for dragging her into what he calls “this nasty business.”

Jimmy was right. He had done her a favor by visiting. It had been a dress rehearsal.

“Detective Pasco told you about the situation at the convenience store,” Detective Escovedo says. Kendra nods, affects what she hopes is the correct level of sympathetic, non-neurotic concern.

“How well did you know Nadine Never?”

Kendra inhales through her nostrils. She spent some time considering how to play this question, too. She could be honest. That would help. Her lines would be easier to remember.

“Nadine was my daughter's tennis coach for a few months.”

“Was she a good coach?” Detective Escovedo asks.

Kendra says yes, she was. “I didn't know her that long.” Kendra entwines her fingers and places her linked hands on her lap. She hopes she is conveying the reticence appropriate to the wife of a Congressman, the exact degree of degradation and chagrin congruent with being involved in something as sordid as a murder investigation, and a sincere desire to perform her civic duty, however painful that might be at this difficult juncture.

“When did you two meet?” Detective Pasco asks.

“Nearly two years ago,” she says.

“Did you have a falling out?” Detective Pasco asks.

“No, nothing like that,” Kendra says.

“At the time of her death were you still friends?” Pasco again.

“Not really.”

“Mind if I ask why not?” Pasco once more.

“We didn't have that much in common.”

“But you went to Mexico together,” Pasco says.

Kendra wonders if they are expecting a reaction to this revelation. She does not give them one. Instead, she says, “Didn't you ever have a friend and after a while you just kind of stopped being friends?”

“It happens,” Detective Escovedo says.

“I have to ask you a personal question,” Detective Pasco says, “So I hope you don't get offended.”

“I'm a big girl.”

“Were you lovers?”

Kendra takes a moment before answering. This is intended to suggest modesty, discretion and most of all embarrassment.

A long pause, then: “Yes.” Unsure if they were expecting her to lie, she had discussed it with Randall and he had advised her to not hide this since they might be able to figure it out anyway and if they caught her in a lie it could indicate a pattern of lying that would not help the cause. “Briefly. I ended it. But I certainly didn't wish anything bad on her.”

“Your husband know?” Escovedo.

Kendra allows another lacuna to occur in the conversation, during which she tries to silently convey the ongoing pain in her marriage and the valiant effort she is making to deal with it. From the sympathetic look on the male detective's face, she surmises that this is a good performance.

“That was not a fun conversation.”

The detectives pause in their questioning for a moment. Kendra senses they're embarrassed on her behalf. She hopes that will make them more sympathetic to her plight.

“How did the relationship end?” Detective Pasco asks.

“It wasn't a big thing,” Kendra says. “We fooled around a few times, went down to Mexico, kind of a mistake.”

“Why?” From Escovedo.

“My husband and I were trying to work on our marriage. I deeply regret my conduct.”

“And there you are in a murder victim's computer.” Escovedo again.

“I guess I'm just lucky,” Kendra deadpans. Her voice does not waver. She delivers the line off-handedly, as if rehearsed. Which it is. She knows the detectives are going to establish the parameters of the discussion early and several responses have been readied. The one she delivered is the most tossed-off. She does not want to project an uncaring mien—two people, after all, have been murdered—but insouciance strikes her as the strongest tactical position to take. The two detectives exchange a glance without moving their heads.