The Trail to Buddha's Mirror - Don Winslow [77]
“So you believe he’s a prisoner, Ed,” asked Kitteredge.
Ed got quiet for a minute, which made Graham nervous. Ed being quiet was never good news.
“Yes,” Ed answered. “Or he’s dead.”
“He’s not dead,” Graham replied.
“How do you know?”
“I just know.”
“Terrific.”
“Either way, gentlemen,” Kitteredge said, “we have to find him.”
“How are your connections in Chinatown?” Levine asked Graham.
“Not so good anymore. Things have changed, the old guys are dying out. It’s all kids now, and they’re all crazy. Gun-happy. But I’ll ask around, see if anyone can do some digging in Hong Kong.”
“With your permission,” Ed said to Kitteredge, “I’ll head over there, keep the heat on our friend Simms.”
“Good,” Kitteredge said. “I’ll make the appropriate calls to Washington to apprise certain people of our … sentiments in this matter.”
Swell, Graham thought. Maybe if we hadn’t been dicking around with certain people in Washington, we wouldn’t have to have any sentiments in this matter. Well, the Man can make the phone calls, but in the end it’s going to come down to somebody putting his feet on the ground and walking in and getting him. And guess who that’s going to be.
“Shall we be about it, gentlemen? Time seems to be an issue here.”
Joe Graham headed back to the train station and only had to wait about an hour before catching the Colonial back to New York. He’d visit a couple of the old boys on Mott Street, but he knew exactly what would happen. They would look somber, give him a bunch of assurances, and then do exactly nothing. He didn’t blame them; it wasn’t their problem, and the Chinese didn’t usually go around borrowing trouble. They had plenty of their own. No, Graham would go through the motions to make the Man happy. But then he was going to hop on a plane to Hong Kong and go find his kid. Walled City, hell … Joe Graham was from Delancey Street.
10
Neal thought about escaping at first.
It should have been easy—his guards were a lunatic boy and an ancient man. Neal came up with clever nicknames for them. He called the boy “Marvel” and the old man “Old Man.” Neal almost tried to bolt when they stripped him, when Marvel stood close by with the chopper raised as Old Man took Neal’s shirt, pants, socks, and shoes. Neal thought maybe he could grab the chopper, overpower Marvel, and make his break. But he didn’t expect that the old man would be that quick and he also didn’t expect the handcuffs—rusty bracelets that were comically large and looked like props from an old vaudeville bit. And he didn’t know that handcuffs could be so heavy. Cuffed, weighted down, and stark naked, he knew he wouldn’t stand a chance, so he went docilely back to the cave as the boy nudged him up the ladder.
He thought maybe he could wait it out. Simms must be poring over the city for him, tracking his steps, figuring out that he was somewhere in this no-man’s-land. Surely, any minute, the door would come crashing in, and Simms, leading a band of efficient killers, would rescue him. Any minute now …
Any minute turned to any hour turned to any day now as Neal tried to keep track of the time. It must have been during the second week when he got sick. He had taken to counting his days by the rice bowl, because they gave him one a day. It wasn’t exactly rice, either, but more like rice gruel, a runny, dirty mixture with some rice grains and God only knew what else floating in it. He had always had trouble with chopsticks, and with the handcuffs on it was a lot worse, especially since his wrists were raw from the weight of the rusty metal. But he forced himself to raise the bowl to his mouth and shove the food down. And he made himself use the bucket they gave him as a lavatory, the bucket that Marvel emptied once a day for him when he remembered.
So by counting rice bowls, he figured that it was the second week when his guts turned to napalm and the violent, uncontrollable emissions of the green, watery shit started. He couldn’t stop it, all he could do was double over from the fierce cramps,