Don Winslow - The Trail to Buddha_s Mirror

Graham grabbed him by his silk lapel and pulled him in tight, trapping the guy’s right arm under his own artificial one and pressing hard. He saw a glimmer of pain and fear appear in the punk’s eyes and held him tighter. See if the fuckers want to shoot now.

“Listen, asshole,” Graham hissed. “This isn’t over. It’ll never be over until I get that kid back safe.”

“Let go of me.”

“I’ll bring an army in there.”

“You do that.”

Graham shoved him hard and the punk fell against his buddies. One of them leveled his pistol at Graham.

“Do it, chickenshit. Do it.”

Honcho grabbed his boy’s wrist and started to back away.

“Go home, old man,” he said.

They left Graham standing there. He didn’t stand there for long. He went off to get an army.

The kweilo pushed the rice bowl away and pointed to the opium pipe. Old Man sighed-it was the same argument every day. The kweilo wouldn’t eat unless you gave him some opium, and when you gave him the opium, he didn’t want to eat. Old Man signaled the usual compromise, holding up the index finger of each hand. One serving of rice for one rock of opium. The kweilo nodded and wolfed down half a bowl of rice.

Neal sucked his reward down and grabbed his chopsticks to get the next mouthfuls of rice over with. He did this four more times and then he was flying out of the room again. The pain, the cramps, the aching loneliness, the fear, the godawful boredom stayed on the ground with his body as his mind flew to join Li Lan in her paintings. It never lasted long, never long enough, but it was a little bit of heaven in a whole lot of hell.

So he was real pissed off when the door came swinging open and Honcho walked in. Honcho was always a pain. Honcho didn’t want him to do too much opium. Honcho wanted him complacent, not completely stoned. Neal wanted to be completely stoned.

Honcho had his clothes.

A shaft of pure fear penetrated Neal’s opium haze.

I’ve been sold.

He saw the buyer come through the door.

“Oh, God,” Neal murmured. “You’ve come to get me.”

Then he broke down into racking, uncontrollable sobs. He was still crying as they took the pipe from him, got him dressed, and took him to the door.

Neal stopped at the doorway and stuck his stoned, teary face into Old Man’s.

“You are,” Neal said, “the Unpredictable Ghost.”

The old man nodded happily as Honcho hauled Neal out the door.

Sergeant Eddie Chang stood aside as two of his men kicked in the door. He had ten other officers with drawn guns backing him up, so he leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette.

He was pissed off. He’d spent half his life scrambling around to get out of the Walled City, and he didn’t like coming back for any reason. Especially business.

But the word had been sent from New York. And the word had come from a former Hong Kong police sergeant who had skipped out ahead of the prosecutors with only the clothes on his back and six million dollars in cash. And this old cop had bought himself a couple of new suits and the entire New York City Triad organization, so if he gave the word to give this one-armed guy anything he asked for, that’s what Eddie Chang was going to do, even if it meant paying a visit to the old neighborhood.

The old neighborhood was giving him some pretty dirty looks, too. He could feel them coming down from the tenement windows, from the alleys, and especially from the young stud who was lying face down in the dirt with his hands behind his neck and a machine-gun barrel jammed against his head.

“Pick him up,” Chang ordered.

The officer hauled the kid to his feet. Chang lit another cigarette and stuck it into the kid’s mouth.

“You’re pretty far from your turf,” Honcho said.

“I’m here from Big-Ear Fu, so shut your mouth.”

The door gave way and the two cops burst inside. The little one-armed round-eye was right behind them.

“He’s not there,” Honcho said to Eddie.

“Where is he?” Graham asked the old man who was huddled in the corner. “Where is he?!”

Graham looked around in disbelief. The place was impossibly filthy and it stank to high heavens. He looked up at the hollowed-out loft and saw the handcuffs.

It was a bad moment for Eddie Chang to bring Honcho in, because Joe Graham was going nuts. He grabbed the cuffs and swung them in a wide arc that ended abruptly at Honcho’s neck.

“Where is he?!”

“He’s gone.”

“Where?!” The cuffs hit Honcho’s face.

Eddie Chang stepped in and moved Graham away.

“He told me your friend’s an addict. Opium.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Nothing’s impossible here.”

Graham broke away and got himself a little space. Neal smoking opium? Neal a junkie like his old lady?

“Where is he?” Graham repeated.

“They sold him to some Chinese,” Chang said.

“When?” Graham asked.

Honcho smiled. “You just missed him.”

Graham grabbed Chang by the elbow. “Let’s get going. We can catch them.

“There’s no way,” said Chang. “He could be anywhere in the world by now.”

“You know junkies,” said Honcho. “Maybe he just flew away.”

Chang threw Honcho to the floor, then pulled his pistol from its holster and pointed it at Honcho’s head.

“Yes?” Chang asked, looking at Graham.

Graham thought about Neal Carey being held a prisoner here, being force-fed dope, being sold off to some Asian brothel. He looked down at Honcho.

“No,” Graham said. He had enough blood on his conscience and other things to do. Like look all over the world for Neal Carey.

Neal woke to the rattle of the cup on the tray. The waiter made the noise intentionally as he set the breakfast on the side table by the bed.

“Good morning, Mr. Frazier. Breakfast,” the waiter said before padding softly out of the room.

Neal rolled over under the starched white sheets and turned toward the sound. He could smell the strong coffee in the pot, the scrambled eggs under the platter, and the warm mantou-a large roll of steamed bread. The dish of pickled vegetables that he never ate made its stubborn appearance on the plate, along with a small bowl of shelled peanuts. There was also a glass of orange juice, a bowl of sugar, and a small pitcher of milk. It was the same breakfast they had served him for the past two weeks, and the same breakfast he had relished each morning, eating it slowly and savoring every taste, texture, and smell.

For the first… what had it been, a week?… they hadn’t given him any solid food, just herbal tea and later some weak soup. And they had jammed needles into his unresisting body. Not hypodermics, but those acupuncture needles he’d always thought were purest bullshit until the dysentery started to get better. The cramps stopped, the horrendous diarrhea didn’t return, and pretty soon he was eating solid food again, including the more-or-less American breakfast that they went to such pains to cook him.

He sat up, propped himself against the heavy wooden headboard, and poured a cup of coffee. Jesus, he thought, the heady joy of simple pleasures, such as pouring yourself a damn cup of coffee. The first sip-and he sipped carefully, experience having taught him that they served their coffee hot-brought almost overwhelming pleasure. He swished the coffee around in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. Then he got up, tested his shaky legs on the floor, and wobbled to the bathroom. He was still weak, still thin, but he enjoyed the ten-foot trip enormously. It represented great progress in his self-sufficiency.

The bathroom was immaculate. Neal figured that even Joe Graham would approve of its shining porcelain and gleaming tiles. Neal used the john-no small joy after his months of shackles and buckets-then let the water run from the tap until it was steamy hot and scrubbed his hands.