The Trail to Buddha's Mirror - Don Winslow [16]
The intellectuals playing chess at the outdoor wooden tables paused in their deliberations to stare at Neal’s neckwear. A couple of the older, kinder ones shook their heads in the sadness of a dim memory when they themselves had been similarly encumbered. Three teenagers who were sharing a joint suddenly developed a need to scamper to the trash barrel, which was painted a deep forest green. A winsome young lady playing a wooden flute stopped her warbling and hugged her instrument tightly to her breasts, as if afraid that Neal might snatch it out of her hand and use it to beat a kitten to death.
Neal wished he were naked—he would have felt less self-conscious. But there he stood, fully clad, in beautiful Mill Valley.
And it was beautiful, set in a hollow edged by steep hills made green with pines, cedars and redwoods. Houses built from these native woods blended into the slopes, and their cantilevered decks kept watch over the village. Coffee shops, restaurants, and art studios framed the main square, which was actually a triangle, the apex of which was occupied by the Terminal Bookstore.
The fast-running brook that bordered the west side of the village provided a natural air-conditioning effect; the air was cool and crisp—even cold in the shadows—and people found spots in the sunshine to sit and consider the world. The world seemed a pretty nice place from Mill Valley, as if its citizens had gotten the Sixties right, frozen the best parts of it here, and made them work. The world seemed pretty nice, that is, unless you were wearing a button-down oxford shirt, blue blazer, and polished black loafers.
Neal sought cover in a coffee shop across the street. It had floor-to-ceiling picture windows on three sides. The walls, floors, and counters were made of polished pine, and wooden stools were set by the wraparound bar. A middle-aged blond women smiled at him as he walked in, attractive wrinkles of laughter and sunshine crinkling around her brown eyes. She was wearing a fire-engine red chamois shirt over faded denims.
“What would you like?” she asked.
“One black coffee to go,”
She stared at him sympathetically.
“What kind?” she asked.
“Black.”
She pointed at a blackboard behind her on which about a dozen brands of coffee were written.
“Uuuuhhh,” said Neal, “Mozambique Mocha.”
“Decaf?”
He felt a sudden burst of courage and defiance.
“Caf,” he said. “Double caf, if you have any.”
She came back a few moments later and handed him a Styrofoam cup.
“You really should drink decaf,” she said as she looked pointedly at his attire. “Really. You looked wired.”
“I am wired.”
“See?”
“I like being wired.”
“It’s an addiction.” “It is.”
“Try herbal,” she said with great sincerity. It was clear to Neal that she was convinced he was dying.
“Herbal coffee?” he asked.
“It’s so good.”
“And so good for you?”
“You should meditate,” she said as she poured him his poison. “Unwind.”
“Nah, then I’d just have to get all wound up again.”
He took his black, caffeinated Mozambique Mocha and sat on a bench in the square. He sipped at his coffee and wondered what to do next. He had been in Mill Valley for at least five minutes and neither Pendleton nor Lila had shown up yet. Didn’t they realize he was on a tight schedule? Oh, well, he thought, when in Mill Valley…. He loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar, set his coffee down, and leaned back, raising his face to the late-afternoon sunshine. Maybe I should meditate, he thought. Maybe if I meditate hard enough I can make Pendleton appear. Better yet, Lila.
Her name wasn’t Lila, it was Li Lan. She wasn’t a prostitute, she was a painter. And she wasn’t as beautiful as she was in the snapshot. She was far more beautiful.
Neal stared at the two photographs of her on a poster at the Terminal Bookstore. The poster promoted a showing of her paintings at a local gallery called Illyria. “Shan Shui by Li Lan,” it read, and included black-and-white photos of several paintings: large, sprawling landscapes featuring