Don Winslow: The Trail to Buddha_s Mirror

He took in a fresh gulp of air as he checked out the view from the observation terrace, which was as stunning as he remembered. The whole bay stretched out in front of him. Off to his left he could make out a small section of the Golden Gate Bridge as it touched Marin County, and above that he could see the southern slope of Mount Tamalpais. Down and to the right of Mount Tarn he could see Sausalito, and scanning farther to the right he saw small sailboats dancing on the sapphire blue water around the plump, notorious little island of Alcatraz. To his right he could see the whole span of the Bay Bridge as it led to Oakland. A huge freighter was plying its way up the bay toward San Mateo.

He had about five seconds to enjoy all this splendor before he turned to see Benchpress shuffling to the base of the walkway. Neal saw a homicidal look in the security guard’s eye and wondered if he was about to get beaten to the proverbial pulp.

This is no big deal on television, where the private eye hero gets trashed by three guys twice his size, because when you see him after the commercial he has some beautiful woman tending his wounds and he’s up and about, so to speak, one roll-cut later. But real-life beatings hurt. Worse, they injure, and the injuries take a long time to heal, if they ever do. Neal just wanted to avoid the whole experience.

He put his back up against the railing and one of the binoculars on his left side as Benchpress reached the observation terrace and began to move toward him.

“Are you going to make me chase you down the hill now?” Bench-press asked as he edged along the railing toward Neal. He was breathing hard, stalling to catch his breath.

“I don’t know, would it work?”

“You’re an asshole. You know where I live? Chinatown. Sacramento Street? Clay Street? California Street? You know what they are?”

I’m an asshole all right, Neal thought.

“Hills,” Neal said. “They’re big hills.”

“I’ve been walking up and down those streets since I was a kid. You think you’re going to shake me on a hill? Get real.”

“You’re right. I apologize.”

“That’s okay. Now what’s your story? What did you steal?”

“Nothing.”

Benchpress was taking his air through his nose now, timing his breathing and slowing it down. He shifted his eyes around to see if they were alone. They were.

He pulled his security guard’s badge out and held it up for Neal to see.

“Let’s make this easy now,” he said.

“I was looking for something.”

“PI?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“ID?”

Neal couldn’t handle any more initials, so he held out the torn hundred-dollar bill.

“You can relax,” he said. “You did your job. I didn’t steal anything. You ran me down. Take the prize.”

He stuck the bill behind the coin slot of the binoculars and started to back away.

“You’re offering me a bribe?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t have anything against the concept, I’m just checking it out.”

“Basically, I’m paying you not to beat me up to defend your honor.”

He smiled, accepting Neal’s craven surrender graciously.

“Where’s the other half?” he asked.

“It’s under a tree down there somewhere.”

He was one quick fat man. His right foot shot out and kicked the air twice, face-high, before Neal could even break into tears.

“I’m not playing hide-and-seek for half a bill that probably doesn’t exist.”

Neal edged farther along the railing away from Benchpress as he said, “Here’s how it’s going to work. You take the half-bill here and start walking down the path. I stay right here where you can see me. The tree is within sight. When you’re, oh, let’s say twenty steps away, I’ll start giving you directions-you know, ‘you’re getting warmer, you’re getting colder’-until you find the other half.”

Benchpress thought about it for a few seconds.

“There are only two paths down from here,” he warned Neal.

“I know.”

“If you try to screw me, I can catch you.”

“I know that, too.”

“If I have to do that, I’ll break your ribs.”

Enough is enough, thought Neal, even for a devoted coward like me. This gig might bring me back onto this guy’s turf again, and I’d need some status to make a deal. We have to get on a more equal footing here.

“Maybe,” Neal said. “I’m carrying, Bruce Lee.”

That stopped Benchpress for a second. He hadn’t considered the possibility of this goofball having a gun.

“Are you?” he asked, studying the contours of Neal’s jacket.

“Naaah.”

But you’re not sure, Benchpress, are you? Neal thought. That’s okay. That’s just fine.

“Do we have a deal?” Neal asked.

“I think we can work something out,” Benchpress said. He reached out slowly and took the bill from the coin slot. Then he fixed Neal with a hard-guy stare and started to back away.

Neal counted to twenty, slowly and loudly, and then started to give Benchpress directions. The game went on about a minute before Neal saw him reach under the rock and come up with the other half of the bill.

“Okay?” Neal shouted.

“Wait a minute! I’m checking the serial numbers!”

Smart guy, thought Neal. Next time I come back, he’ll have an office job.

“Okay!” hollered Benchpress. “Now what?”

“I don’t know! I’ve never done this before! You have any ideas?”

“Why don’t I just walk away?”

“How do I know you won’t be waiting for me at the bottom?”

“You have an ugly and suspicious mind!”

“Tell me about it!”

Neal was debating with himself whether to trust him, when Benchpress yelled, “Do you have a dime?”

What the hell?

“Yeah!”

“Okay! I’ll go to Pier Thirty-nine! You wait fifteen minutes and then put the dime in the binoculars. Look down to Pier Thirty-nine and I’ll be standing there waving at you.”

Interesting concept, Neal thought. He shouted, “Right! That gives you a good ten minutes to sneak up the other side and then kick my head into the Bay!”

“You don’t trust me?”

No, Neal thought, but I don’t have a choice, do I? Unless I want to stand on this hill for a few days.

“You can’t walk to Pier Thirty-nine in fifteen minutes!” Neal shouted.

“I’m going to take a cab, asshole!”

There was always that.

“Okay, okay. Just get going!”

“It’s been nice chasing you!”

“Nice being chased!”

Neal watched as Benchpress disappeared beneath the trees. He checked his watch. It was ten-forty-five, but felt to him like it should be a lot later. He spent the time catching his breath, slowing his heartbeat, and enjoying the view. He waited twelve minutes and then put his dime in the binoculars and focused in on the pier. Benchpress must have found himself a hell of a cabbie, because it was not quite eleven when Neal saw him standing on the pier, looking up toward Telegraph Hill, smiling and waving.

I love a man who takes an honest bribe, Neal thought.

Neal took his time getting down Telegraph Hill. He strolled down Greenwich Street onto Columbus Avenue, stopped to admire the Cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul’s terra-cotta towers, and took a seat on a bench in Columbus Square. He shared the bench with two old men who were chatting amiably in Italian. The seat gave him a nice view of the park, where he saw young mothers pushing baby carriages, older Chinese people doing t‘ai chi, and still older Italian women, dressed in black, tossing bread crumbs to pigeons. He liked what he saw, but he liked what he didn’t see even better: no Benchpress, no small groups of Benchpress’s friends and associates searching for a young white guy in a blue blazer and khaki slacks. Trust is one thing, he thought, stupidity is another.