The Trail to Buddha's Mirror - Don Winslow [48]
Her answer was a variation on the “you didn’t ask” theme.
“Where did she go?”
“How would I know?”
“Let’s see if you can fly.”
The Doorman grabbed her from behind and put his hand over her mouth to stifle her shriek. Neal stepped in front of the window.
“Tell him to let her go,” he said.
“Stay out of it.”
“I’m paying the bill, I give the orders,” Neal answered.
“I’ll give you a refund. Now get out of the way.”
Neal slammed the window shut. He realized his knees were trembling and he knew that if Chin wanted to throw the woman out the window he could do it. Shit, he thought, if he wants to throw me out the window he can do it.
No real witty, intimidating threats came to him, so he settled for, “What could she tell us anyway?”
“Everything,” Chin said. “The old bag has probably been sitting downstairs for forty years. She sees everyone who goes up and everyone who comes down. If she hears someone fart, she knows what he ate for lunch.”
Chin stepped up to the woman and poked her in the chest. “Tell me.”
She broke into a long monologue.
“What man? What kind of man?” Chin asked.
The question inspired another soliloquy. When she was finished, Chin signaled the Doorman to release her. She sank to her knees on the floor and gasped for air, looking up at Neal with an expression of unmitigated hatred.
Chin wasn’t much friendlier when he said, “Okay, Mr. Gandhi. Old Woman Know-Nothing says your babe was here with a kweilo—a white guy—for just one day. Do you think this old hag wouldn’t notice that? Do you think that anybody on this whole block wouldn’t notice that? She says another guy came to visit both days. A Chinese. She says the three of them left together this morning, but she doesn’t know where they were going, and she had better be telling the truth.”
Neal plunked himself down on the windowsill. He was tired and angry and he didn’t like the smug look on Chin’s face.
“Okay,” Neal said, “so you got out of her that they were here, and now they’re not, and they left with a Chinese man. Hell, they should be easy to find now. All we have to do is find a Chinese man.”
Chin looked at him like he was thinking about the window again. Neal looked at the Doorman and pointed to the door. Chin nodded his okay and the Doorman left.
“And something else,” Neal said to Chin. “I don’t like the way you work. You’re on a job with me, there are certain things you don’t do—I don’t care if it’s your turf and your language. One of the biggest things you don’t do is you don’t rough up old women, or any women, or anybody unless you have to. And by ‘have to’ I mean only if we’re in actual, physical danger. Now if you can’t deal with that, fine—walk away right now and I’ll finish the job myself.”
The silence that followed was about as long as a “Gilligan’s Island” rerun.
“You don’t know how things work here,” Chin said quietly.
“I know how I work.”
“If you had talked to me that way in front of my crew, I would have had to kill you.”
Neal recognized a peace offering when he heard one. He had to give Chin back some face.
“I know. That’s why I sent him out of the room. To tell you the truth, I was pretty scared.” He gave Chin his most self-deprecating laugh.
Chin laughed back and the deal was done.
“Okay,” Chin said. “Your checkbook, your rules.”
“Okay. Now what?”
Chin thought for a second.
“Tea,” he said.
“Tea?”
“Helps you think.”
“Then tea it is. I need all the help I can get.”
Chin pulled a money roll out of his pants pocket, peeled a $10HK bill off, and handed it to the old woman.
“Deui mjyuh,” he said. (“I’m sorry.”)
She stuffed the bill inside her blouse and scowled at him.
“Cigarette!” she demanded.
He gave her the pack.
The teashop was more like an aviary. It seemed to Neal that every other customer in the place was carrying at least one cage with a bird in it.
“I feel so underdressed,” Neal said to Chin as they sat down at the small round table. The Doorman had gone in before them, secured the table, and left. The rest of the crew waited outside, patrolling the sidewalk