Don Winslow - The Trail to Buddha_s Mirror

Maybe I imagined the whole damned thing, he thought. Then he remembered the sight of Li Lan standing naked on the deck wearing only that smile, and he could hear the sound of that bullet like it was through a headset, and he knew he hadn’t imagined anything. Someone had tried to take him out of the game permanently, and he didn’t have a clue who or why. He waited for another half hour to see if anything more interesting developed. It didn’t, so he let himself down from the tree.

Well, he thought, they suckered me with the oldest combination known to man, booze and a woman. I guess I put one over on them: They wasted their money on the booze.

He moved cautiously but at a steady pace, using the sides of the streets to walk from tree to tree. He knew it would get trickier as he got closer to town, and standing at a phone booth would be the riskiest part, but that was a chance he had to take. He remembered that there was a convenience store on the other side of town, and he headed there. His route would take him through Terminal Square and right past the bookstore and the gallery. It was too much open ground, so he cut north of the square and worked his way toward the sound of running water. He let himself down into the creekbed and followed it south. There was more creek than bed, so he spent most of the walk sloshing through ankle-deep running water-or falling into ankle-deep running water-and it took him an hour to make it to where he thought the convenience store was. He crawled to the edge of the creekbed and peeked out. He had overshot the store by about a quarter of a mile, but there, glistening in the modest parking lot, was a phone booth.

Neal walked back up along the bed, came up to the lip again, checked that the road was empty, and crossed over to the telephone.

He dialed the number he had found in his wallet.

A grumpy voice answered on the eighth ring. “What!”

“Crowe?”

“Who else?”

“It’s Neal Carey. I need your help.”

“Are you having an aesthetic crisis?”

“Sort of.”

Crowe’s Porsche 911-black, of course-rolled into the parking lot just before sunrise. Neal, huddled and shivering in the wet grass on the edge of the creekbank, scrambled across the road and jumped into the passenger seat.

“Drive,” said Neal, “and turn the heat on.”

Crowe put the car in gear, pumped up the heat, and glanced at Neal’s black clothes and black face.

“I can understand a philistine like you trying to emulate Crowe, but do you think you have perhaps taken it a bit too far?”

“Crowe, how do you feel about harboring a fugitive?”

“Are you in trouble with the law?”

“The cops are probably looking for me.”

Crowe’s face broke into a huge grin as he shifted the car into high gear. “A fugitive from the law seeking refuge in the Crowe’s nest! And we thought the Sixties were over! What are you doing?”

Neal crouched down on the car floor. “Hiding. At least until we get over the bridge.”

“Far out.”

Crowe’s Nest occupied the top floor of a three-story house overlooking the Bay from Telegraph Hill.

“A pleasant stroll,” the artist explained, “for Crowe to visit the cafes, bistros, dim-sum places and Italian restaurants that contribute to the overall splendor of Crowe’s existence.”

Neal sat down in a canvas deck chair beside a gigantic sculpture created from the remains of a 1962 Plymouth Valiant, the tailpipe of which was positioned in a fairly impressive phallic display. The walls were decorated with masks-African masks, Chinese opera masks, harlequin masks, even hockey goaltenders’ masks. The walls, the carpet, and all the furniture were stark white.

“The monochromatic color scheme makes Crowe stand out all the more,” said Crowe. “Now please go and cleanse yourself lest you sully the snow-white purity of your present and, may I add, exalted, surroundings.”

Neal took a wonderful, hot shower, scrubbing away all traces of black pancake makeup, mud, and sweat. Then he wrapped himself in one of Crowe’s huge white towels and found that Crowe had laid a white terrycloth robe out for him.

He was further surprised to find that Crowe had used the time to start making breakfast: Texas-style French toast, grapefruit, coffee, and champagne. Crowe motioned Neal to sit down at the table beside the picture window. White tablecloth, white linen napkins.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” Neal said.

“Neither did you know that Rubens could paint.”

“Makes a great sandwich, though. Interesting table.”

“Of course. Nineteen fifty-five Renault drive shaft and windshield glass.”

“Do you always have champagne with breakfast?”

“Every day, since corporate America began to recognize Crowe’s surpassing genius.”

“The French toast is wonderful.”

“When Crowe creates, he creates wonder.”

“What do you want to know about my situation, Crowe?”

“Only how I can help.”

“You’re doing it.”

“Then that’s what I need to know.”

After breakfast, Neal took a cab to the Hopkins. He figured that whoever had tried to shoot him didn’t have a way to connect him to the hotel and, in any case, wouldn’t try to take him out there. Besides, he needed to make a private phone call and pack his stuff.

What he needed to do was talk to Graham. He dialed his number, let it ring three times, and then hung up. He waited thirty seconds and dialed it again.

But Graham didn’t answer. Ed Levine did.

“Where’s Graham?” Neal asked.

“Neal Carey, my favorite fuck-up!”

“Where’s Graham?”

“In the old country, probably slumped over a table in some dirty pub. I’m handling his caseload.”

“I only talk to Graham.”

“I’m sure he’ll be touched to hear that, asswipe, but he’s on vacation. You’ll talk to me.”

Vacation? Neal had known Graham for ten-plus years and had never known the man to take a day off. “Are you kidding?” Graham had asked him. “My job is lying, stealing, and cheating. How much more fun could I have?”

“Neal? Neal, sweetheart?” Levine was saying. “What are you calling for? Have you fucked up the job yet? Maybe paid Pendleton to stay in Frisco and put the hooker on a plane to AgriTech, something like that?”

Something is wrong here, Neal thought. Something is very strange. Careful now.

“I haven’t even found him yet,” Neal said. “He’s not where you guys said he would be.”

“Neal, you couldn’t find your arm in your sleeve.”

Witty, Ed. This was the guy who had once given Joe Graham one glove for Christmas.

“Where is Graham?” Neal asked again.

“Jesus, cut the cord, will you? What is he, your mommy? Seeing as how he had to go to England to change your diaper, he decided to take the ferry ride to Ireland and visit the home of his ancestors. He’s probably at the Dublin Zoo, all right?”

No, it’s not all right. Graham had told him a hundred times that he never wanted to go to Ireland: “We got rain and whiskey right here in New York.”

“Yeah, all right,” Neal said.

“Lighten up, college boy,” Levine said. It was a continuing source of resentment: Friends had put Neal through Columbia, Levine had put himself through night school at City. “Come home. The job is over. Pendleton came back all by himself. Called a little while ago from Raleigh airport, and he’s on his way in to the lab.”

“Swell.”

You lying sack of shit.

“So go back to your little cottage, pack up your shit, and get your ass back to New York. We might just decide to make you work for a living.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“What’s the matter, Neal? Pissed off because the job ended before you could be a big hero? Cheer up. At least you didn’t kill this one.”