The Trail to Buddha's Mirror - Don Winslow [71]
Here and there holes had been punched in the lower walls, and people were burrowed into them. Neal could see them peeking out at him through iron grilles and bamboo screens.
He heard Pendleton mutter, “Jesus. Jesus Christ.”
And the sounds, the sounds were horrible. Amid the din of thousands of voices just talking, Neal heard babies crying, children screaming, old people moaning. In the distance ahead he could hear a pack of dogs growling, and from inside the walls around him he could make out the scurrying feet of rats.
Neal reached ahead and grabbed Li by the shoulder.
“Where are we?”
“The Walled City.”
“What is it?”
“It is what you see.”
She brushed his hand off and started ahead. He pushed Pendleton aside, grabbed her by the collarbone, and spun her around.
“What is it?” he asked again.
“It is the Walled City!” she screamed at him. “People—you would call ‘squatters’—live here. The gangs rule it. It is drugs, it is prostitutes, it is sweatshops. It is rats, it is packs of rabid dogs. It is children gang-raped and sold as slaves, it is people living in holes! It is filth. It is when nobody cares!”
“I never knew a place like this existed.”
“Now you know. So what?”
“What are we doing here?”
“We are hiding.”
“For how long?”
“Don’t you like it here?”
“For how long?”
She calmed down. He hadn’t seen rage in her before, and it scared him. Pendleton stood aside like a frightened, overgrown child.
“Until you can phone your Simms.”
“Can he get in here?”
“With the people he knows.”
“Gang people, Triad people?”
“Of course.”
“Are there telephones here?”
“There is everything here.”
She turned around and went ahead. She turned left into a slightly wider alley where people sat slumped against the walls in a doped-out haze. Then she turned right into a concrete tunnel, where they walked through muck, stepped over sleeping bodies, and ducked under dangling light bulbs and power cords. They stepped into another alley, narrower and filthier than the last.
“Jesus!” Pendleton gasped.
A pack of rats was feeding on the bare feet of a human corpse. Neal hunched over and finally vomited, trying hard not to touch the walls.
“Come on,” Li Lan hissed. “We are there soon. It is better.”
The alley led to a T-junction. They went to the left, then through a series of zigzags, then straight on and made two more rights.
We’re in a goddamn maze, Neal thought, and we can hardly see the sky. He suddenly realized that he wouldn’t stand a chance of finding his way out of there. Not a chance.
They came onto a small circular patch of bare din that formed a hub for five alleys.
Four teenage boys, dressed in sleeveless white T-shirts, baggy khaki slacks, and rubber sandals squatted in a circle, smoking cigarettes and rolling dice. It was clearly their turf. The boys stared at the newly arrived trio with amazement. An unexpected bonanza of rape and pillage had been dropped in their midst. The biggest one, the leader, rose to his feet and approached Li Lan. He gazed at her with frank sexual interest, stretched his face into an exaggerated leer, and made a comment to his buddies. They chirped with amusement and got to their feet. The leader pulled a knife from his pants pocket and held it up to Li’s face.
Pull the gun, Lan, Neal thought. This is no time to be a Buddhist.
She didn’t pull the gun, but said what sounded to Neal like two words. The boy’s grin crumbled into a frown of concern and his hand dropped to his side. He barked an order to the others and they took off running down one of the alleys. Then he launched into a monologue of obsequious friendliness. Neal didn’t understand a word, but knew shuffling when he heard it, and this kid was tapdancing for his ass. Li wasn’t buying it. She stood looking at him sternly, not throwing him as much as a crumb. The kid started to shuffle harder.
Ten minutes later, Neal saw why. The two errand boys came back escorting a guy who had “honcho” written all over him.