I stepped into the dappled driveway and started with an easy jog down Topanga Canyon Drive. I veered left onto Entrada Road and picked up the pace, running the mile or so to the Trippet Ranch entrance into the park. I was nowhere near Barbara’s campsite, but I felt a prick of sadness nonetheless.
I did a weave and sprint up Musch Trail until I had a good sweat going. Then I stepped off the trail and did 30 reps each of push-ups, curls, leg lifts, and lunges. Used a tree branch for another 30 pull-ups. There weren’t any wooden horses to vault, or chain-link fences to climb, so I turned around and ran home. I calculated time and distance as I jogged into my driveway. Seven-minute miles. Good. I might not be a cop anymore, but I still more than met the physical requirements to qualify. I planned to keep it that way.
I addressed my inner health with 20 minutes of mindful awareness on the meditation cushion. Mostly I was aware of endorphins. Fine by me. Sometimes running works better than sitting.
Food next-an avocado, mesclun, and sprouts salad with cherry tomatoes and toasted pine nuts. Iced green tea. I was Mr. Virtuous today.
I had one more job to do. I went to the bedroom closet, unlocked my gun safe, and pulled out three cases, one wooden, one aluminum, one of sturdy gray nylon. I took all three outside and set them on the deck. I opened the wooden case first-my gun-cleaning kit-and set up my station with the care of a field surgeon. I pulled out the gun mat and spread it out on the deck like a tablecloth. Then I lined up oil, solvent, cotton swabs, rags, toothbrush, and a polymer pick with a hex-shaped shaft. I added two chamber-cleaning bores, one for my duty gun, a standard 9-mm Glock, and the other for my passion piece, a custom-made Wilson Combat.38 Super. Supergrade. Super reliable. Super cool.
I was glad my brothers in Dharamshala couldn’t see me. They’d find it hard to understand my fascination with guns. I find it hard enough to understand myself.
Three things in my life present an ongoing challenge to the practice of nonattachment: my cat, my car, and my classic Supergrade.38. I live in fear of losing them, even as I know that someday, one way or another, I will. But it’s like my body-I may not control the expiration date, but I can certainly influence the quality of the shelf life.
To that end, I set about cleaning the two guns patiently and with intention, another meditation of sorts. The urban warrior’s, maybe.
I started with the Wilson. I hadn’t had an opportunity to dry-fire the little beauty, much less take it to the range, for over a month. I ejected the magazine and emptied the chamber, double-checking that the magazine well was clear. As I fieldstripped the weapon, I paused to feather my thumb across the checkered mainspring housing and slide. As always, I marveled at the precision and sheer beauty of each component, from the cocobolo wood grip to the throated and polished five-inch barrel.
There are eight elite master gunsmiths in the United States. Four of them work at Wilson Combat. Superior craftsmanship is what drew me to their custom-built firearms-that, and the fact that they are family owned and operated. When you don’t have family to speak of yourself, mom-and-pop organizations hold a special draw. No pun intended.
I wiped, scrubbed, picked, bored, lubricated, and swabbed, until the reassembled piece glowed inside and out. I stood up. Racked the slide and pulled the trigger. There was a satisfying click. Everything was back where it should be. The Super.38 serves me perfectly, like a trusted comrade. I’m not a tall man, but I’m solid. Same thing with my hands. My standard-issue service Glock was more than adequate-a big improvement, in fact, over the pre-Bratton-era Beretta. I figured I was set, weapon-wise. Then I borrowed a buddy’s Wilson.38 at the practice range. Hit a four-inch grouping at 25 yards. Twice. I was in lust. I had to have a Wilson for myself. Within the year, I did. Mind you, if I ever go back to Dorje Yidam for a visit, my love of guns is yet another thing I won’t discuss with my father.
Tank slalomed between my legs, then pawed at my ankle. I looked down. Something was trapped between his jaws, something he’d caught and wanted to show off to me. I squatted on my haunches to take a closer look.
It was a hummingbird, and it was still alive. Tiny wings fluttered furiously, but that bird was going nowhere.
“Let her go, Tank!” Instinctively, I tried to pry open Tank’s jaws, but his own instincts kicked in, and he tightened his toothy clench.
Wrong strategy, Tenzing.
I looked around to assess the situation. Nobody was here, nobody but me, my cat, and his struggling prey. So I changed course, moving onto our little secret superpower, Tank’s and mine. The one I would take to my grave. I looked my pet straight in his chartreuse eyes.
“I honor you as a hunter, but as a favor to me, would you please let the bird go?” I said. Tank blinked once. Not good enough pal. So I pulled out the big guns, psychically speaking, and sent Tank a clear mental image, a picture of him gently opening his jaws, allowing his prize to fly away.
A split second later, he did it. He opened his jaws. The hummingbird dropped, wet and stunned. Maybe already dead. Tank and I waited. Then the little bird rose straight up like a helicopter, darted left, and hovered nearby, no doubt giving thanks to whatever hummingbird-deity they call on in such situations.
Tank was pretty smug about the whole incident. I tried to reinforce this by praising him vociferously for allowing a fellow sentient being to live.
As I zipped my Wilson inside its nylon pistol rug and retrieved the Glock from its aluminum case, I took note of the irony. Here I couldn’t bear for a hummingbird to die, but I was making sure my handguns stayed good and lethal for fellow bipeds.
On the other hand, as far as I know, hummingbirds don’t turn homicidal.
I repeated the entire cleaning process with my service gun. Then I tidied up and locked both weapons and the cleaning kit back in the safe. I paused for a moment by the closet, sensing the weight of my feet pressing against the floor, enjoying the flow of air expanding and contracting my lungs…. For the first time in days, I felt centered, ready for my new life.
My ancient fax machine emitted a strangled squawk from the other room and beeped haltingly before spitting out pages. A quick glance told me it was Zimmy’s legal document, as promised. I made myself a fresh pot of coffee and sat at the kitchen table to read.
Florio’s contract was a simple two-page agreement, granting permission for the law firm TFJ amp; Associates to seek unpaid royalties owed to Zimmy by several record companies. Benign, at first reading.
I reread, slowly, pausing to underline any passages that confused me. A couple of dubious clauses earned that privilege.
The first: If royalties are recovered, TFJ amp; Associates shall be entitled to 35 percent of said moneys. The number seemed high to me, but what do I know? I made a note to check on similar contingency-type legal efforts.
A second passage also caught my eye: TFJ amp; Associates shall be entitled to reimbursement for legal fees and expenses incurred during the recovery effort, said reimbursement to precede division of royalties. No mention of a cap on the fees and expenses. I’m not a lawyer, but this seemed to me an open invitation to skim off the top, big time, leaving Florio and Company licking cream off their whiskers, and Zimmy no better off.
But the capper, the red flag flapping wildly in the breeze, was the final section, stating that TFJ amp; Associates would purchase a “Key man” term life insurance policy in the name of Zimmy Backus. If Zimmy should die before royalties were recovered, guess who was named as sole beneficiary? Hint: it wasn’t baby Burroughs.