The Trail to Buddha's Mirror

by Don Winslow

  “Do you wish an escort?”

  “I know the way.”

  Zhu stood up. “Will you be joining us for dinner?”

  “I am afraid I do not have the time.”

  “I shall have the cooks prepare something for you. You can eat on the way back to the city.”

  “You are very kind.”

  “And for your driver, of course.”

  Zhu left, and Xao finished his cigarette before walking outside. The late afternoon was pleasantly warm, and he enjoyed walking along the dike between the broad rice paddies. Dwaizhou was an ordered miracle of neat fields, fishponds, and mulberry trees stretching along the broad Sichuan plain seemingly forever, or at least up to the mountain range that rose faint purple on the western horizon. Maybe when it was all over, when he had completed his work, he could retire here and spend his days raising carp and playing checkers. A dream, he thought. My work will not be finished in a thousand thousand years.

  He walked two li before coming to the small concrete building on the edge of the wood that Zhu had let stand to harbor rabbits for hunting. The building had a corrugated tin roof, a metal door, and a single barred window. The guard stood at attention in front of the door, and Xao realized that Zhu must have sent a runner, some fleet child, ahead of him, to warn the guard.

  He motioned for the guard to unlock the door, then gave the nervous young man a cigarette and told him to take a walk, out of earshot but within sight. When the guard was far enough away, Xao ordered the prisoner to step outside.

  She never changes, he thought. How long had it been? Ten years? Eleven? She still wore the Maoist clothes, the baggy green fatigues and the cap. But no red armband—those were gone with the Red Guard. Her hair was tied in two pigtails held with red ribbon—her sole affectation. She was still lovely.

  She bowed deeply.

  He did not return the bow.

  He said it before he could lose his nerve. “I am going to release you soon.”

  He saw her eyes widen in surprise. Or was it dismay?

  “You cannot release me.”

  “It is within my power.”

  “I mean that I am a prisoner of my own crimes. No one can release me from them.”

  Perhaps that is true, he thought. Indeed, I have tried and tried, and I have been unable to forgive you. And it is eleven years, not ten. How could I have forgotten?

  “Your release does not come from my mercy, it comes from my need.”

  “Then I am grateful to serve your need.”

  “How long have you been a prisoner?”

  “Eight years.”

  “A long time.”

  “You have been gracious enough to visit often.”

  Gracious, he thought. No, not gracious. I have visited you to struggle with my own soul. To see if I could overcome my own hatred. I have kept you as a mirror in which to view myself.

  “My needs may require you to exercise some of your former skills. Can you?”

  “If it serves you.”

  “It is dangerous.”

  “I owe you a life.”

  Yes, he thought, you do. He studied her closely, studied her as he had so often. He wanted to reach out to her, to share the pain, but instead he stiffened and said, “Be ready, then. I shall call.”

  She bowed. He turned on his heel and signaled the guard to lock her back up, lock up this woman who had killed his wife.

  12

  Ben Chin watched the gorgeous Shaolin nun beat up on the evil mandarin and then got up from his seat. He would have watched more of the film, but his neck still hurt from when that bitch had tried to kick his head off, and besides, it was time to get back to work.

  He didn’t have to look behind him to know that his new crew was following him up the aisle. His old crew, the useless old women, had been demoted to running errands, and now the Triad bosses had sent him a sleek, new gang of stone killers straight from Taiwan. They’d also given him an assignment: Go into the Walled City and do the job right this time. Do what you have to do. Use money, drugs, fists, knives, or guns, but get it done.

  Fine. He was looking forward to the reunion. And it was close, so close. Almost two months of hard work—two months of well-placed bribes, of threats, of dangerous reconnaissance missions into the Walled City—had finally yielded a reward. Getting in was another problem, getting out a bigger one yet. But the job itself would only take a minute: have one of his new boys make the buy, then take the merchandise into an alley somewhere and put one in the back of his head. It wouldn’t be as good as slicing up the bitch, but still …

  His crew was following him as he hit the street and the goofy little kid got in his way.

  “Superman twenty-fifth anniversary issue? Very cheap?” the kid asked, holding some raggedy-looking comic books in Chin’s face.

  “What the—?”

  The kid threw himself to the sidewalk, and Chin saw the car across the street a half-second before the rounds from the AK drilled through his chest.

  His body toppled to the pavement. The neon of the theater marquee flashed on his blood soaking into the covers of Superman, Batman, and The Green Hornet.

  Simms shook the cylindrical can until a prayer stick fell out. He took the stick, wrapped a crisp American hundred-dollar bill around it, and handed it back to the old monk in the booth.

  It was costing him a hell of a lot of money to locate Neal Carey, but it was worth it. There was no telling what could happen if somebody else got to him first and heard the story he had to tell. Simms didn’t know what Neal did or did not know, and he wanted to be the first to ask him. Then he would make sure Carey disappeared for good, and report his sad demise to those white-trash Yankee sons of bitches in Providence.

  The monk came out of the booth and led Simms into the temple, to a statue of a grotesque old man carrying a bar of silver. The monk pointed to the silver bar and then pointed to Simms.

  Simms didn’t tell the monk that he spoke perfect Chinese, thank you very much, he just reached into his wallet and pulled out another C-note. The damn Buddhists were worse than the Catholics for soaking you for money.

  The monk took the bill, disappeared briefly into the booth, then came back in a few minutes and led Simms through a door and down into some sort of tunnel. Simms was glad he had the piece with him, even though he had no intention of going all the way into the Walled City. The deal was that they would bring Carey halfway into the tunnel and turn him over as soon as they counted the cash.

  Honcho stepped into the hovel, poured himself a cup of tea, and sat down to strip the AK. The old man glared at him.

  “Where have you been?” the old man asked.

  “To the movies,” Honcho answered. He looked up into the cage at Neal. “He still in the clouds?”

  “Where is the boy? I need help here, you know.”

  “I don’t think he’s coming back. The last time I saw him he was chasing a car. He didn’t catch it.”

  That much was true. One of Chin’s shooters had woken up enough to pop a couple into the kid as he was running up Nathan Road.

  “Not much help anyway,” the old man said.

  “Not much of a boy.”

  “How longer will the kweilo be here? If much longer, I want a new boy.”

  “Not much longer.”

  “You found a buyer?”

  Honcho pulled a wad of bills from his pocket.

  “Four buyers,” he said. “Well, three now.”

  “How do you sell something three times?” the old man asked.

  “Practice.”

  Simms waited in the tunnel. He figured he was underneath Lion Rock Road, which made sense if they were going to bring Carey out from the Walled City. He wished they’d hurry the hell up, though. Water was dripping from the ceiling onto his suit and the tunnel was like a steambath. Why couldn’t they behave like white people and just deliver Carey to a civilized hotel room?

  He heard footsteps coming down the tunnel. Four sets. He made out the face
s through the steam. Not a pair of round eyes to be seen.

  Simms edged his back up against the wall and waited for their leader to get closer. The leader was easy to pick out—slick dresser, sly leer.

  “Did you forget something?” Simms asked.

  “Maybe you’d like a nice Chinese boy,” Honcho answered.

  “Maybe I’d like what I paid for.”

  “Vietnamese? I have a ten-year-old you’d like.”

  “I want the American,” Simms said, more out of principle than anything. He knew when a deal had gone south. Now it was matter of getting out.

  “Sorry,” Honcho said. He didn’t have to worry about a kweilo faggot stupid enough to walk into a tunnel all by himself.

  Simms just smiled as two of the lads edged up alongside of him. The third stood behind the leader’s shoulder.

  “Then give me my money.”

  “No cash refunds. Only merchandise.”

  “I’ll take my money.”

  Simms knew he wasn’t going to get any cash. But he needed a negotiating point. Something along the order of “You let me out of here and I’ll forget about it.”

  Honcho pointed his chin at the two guys who were pressing in on Simms.

  “Talk to the complaint department.”

  The kid on Simms’s left pulled a switchblade, flicked it open, and waved it in front of Simms’s face. Simms pulled a silenced pistol from his pocket, stuck it into the side of the kid’s knee, and squeezed the trigger.

  “I don’t think so,” Simms said.

  He stepped over the kid, who was flopping around like a fish in the bottom of a boat.

  “I’ll be leaving now,” said Simms.

  13

  Joe Graham stood impatiently on a narrow, cracked sidewalk on Lion Rock Road, outside one of the tenement buildings that ringed the Walled City like giant barricades. He shivered a little as he watched a “dentist” in a ground-floor stall dig into the tooth of one of his patients with a hand-powered drill.

  Graham was nervous for a lot of reasons. He was dangerously close to the infamous ghetto into which Neal Carey had disappeared; he didn’t have a gun; he was there without orders from the Man. But most of all he was nervous because the smart-ass Chinese kid was late for their appointment to trade the rest of the cash for Neal Carey.

  A couple of minutes later the guy showed up. He had a couple of buddies with him, but no Neal.

  What’s the scam, Graham wondered. What now?

  “So?” he asked the guy.

  “The deal’s off,” Honcho answered flatly. Fuck it. Let the kweilo work it out.

  The words hit Graham like a shot in the chest and he didn’t even flinch as the two helpers patted him down. He wasn’t carrying, anyway.

  “What do you mean?” Graham asked.

  Honcho shrugged. “What’s the difference?”

  “I want to know.”

  Of course. All the losers did.

  “You were outbid.”

  “I didn’t know I was in an auction.”

  “Now you know.”

  Graham felt himself getting hot all over. Maybe it was the wiseguy smirk—it was the same old smirk the wiseguys always had, didn’t matter what country you were in. Maybe it was the barrels of the pistols his two escorts were showing him. More likely it was the fact that he had lost Neal again.

  “I’ll top the highest bid.”

  “You must be awfully horny.”

  “I’ll double it.”

  “Sorry.”

  “How much? Name it!”

  “Too late.”

  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 cuf
fs 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.

  PART THREE

  The Buddha’s Mirror

  14

  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.