The Trail to Buddha's Mirror - Don Winslow [85]
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 cuffs 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.
For the first… what had it been, a week?… they hadn’t given him any solid food, just herbal tea and later some weak soup. And they had jammed needles into his unresisting body. Not hypodermics, but those acupuncture needles he’d always thought were purest bullshit until the dysentery started to get better. The cramps stopped, the horrendous diarrhea didn’t return, and pretty soon he was eating solid food again, including the more-or-less American breakfast that they went to such pains to cook him.
He sat up, propped himself against the