The Trail to Buddha_s Mirror

12

Ben Chin watched the gorgeous Shaolin nun beat up on the evil mandarin and then got up from his seat. He would have watched more of the film, but his neck still hurt from when that bitch had tried to kick his head off, and besides, it was time to get back to work.

He didn’t have to look behind him to know that his new crew was following him up the aisle. His old crew, the useless old women, had been demoted to running errands, and now the Triad bosses had sent him a sleek, new gang of stone killers straight from Taiwan. They’d also given him an assignment: Go into the Walled City and do the job right this time. Do what you have to do. Use money, drugs, fists, knives, or guns, but get it done.

Fine. He was looking forward to the reunion. And it was close, so close. Almost two months of hard work-two months of well-placed bribes, of threats, of dangerous reconnaissance missions into the Walled City-had finally yielded a reward. Getting in was another problem, getting out a bigger one yet. But the job itself would only take a minute: have one of his new boys make the buy, then take the merchandise into an alley somewhere and put one in the back of his head. It wouldn’t be as good as slicing up the bitch, but still…

His crew was following him as he hit the street and the goofy little kid got in his way.

“Superman twenty-fifth anniversary issue? Very cheap?” the kid asked, holding some raggedy-looking comic books in Chin’s face.

“What the-?”

The kid threw himself to the sidewalk, and Chin saw the car across the street a half-second before the rounds from the AK drilled through his chest.

His body toppled to the pavement. The neon of the theater marquee flashed on his blood soaking into the covers of Superman, Batman, and The Green Hornet.

Simms shook the cylindrical can until a prayer stick fell out. He took the stick, wrapped a crisp American hundred-dollar bill around it, and handed it back to the old monk in the booth.

It was costing him a hell of a lot of money to locate Neal Carey, but it was worth it. There was no telling what could happen if somebody else got to him first and heard the story he had to tell. Simms didn’t know what Neal did or did not know, and he wanted to be the first to ask him. Then he would make sure Carey disappeared for good, and report his sad demise to those white-trash Yankee sons of bitches in Providence.

The monk came out of the booth and led Simms into the temple, to a statue of a grotesque old man carrying a bar of silver. The monk pointed to the silver bar and then pointed to Simms.

Simms didn’t tell the monk that he spoke perfect Chinese, thank you very much, he just reached into his wallet and pulled out another C-note. The damn Buddhists were worse than the Catholics for soaking you for money.

The monk took the bill, disappeared briefly into the booth, then came back in a few minutes and led Simms through a door and down into some sort of tunnel. Simms was glad he had the piece with him, even though he had no intention of going all the way into the Walled City. The deal was that they would bring Carey halfway into the tunnel and turn him over as soon as they counted the cash.

Honcho stepped into the hovel, poured himself a cup of tea, and sat down to strip the AK. The old man glared at him.

“Where have you been?” the old man asked.

“To the movies,” Honcho answered. He looked up into the cage at Neal. “He still in the clouds?”

“Where is the boy? I need help here, you know.”

“I don’t think he’s coming back. The last time I saw him he was chasing a car. He didn’t catch it.”

That much was true. One of Chin’s shooters had woken up enough to pop a couple into the kid as he was running up Nathan Road.

“Not much help anyway,” the old man said.

“Not much of a boy.”

“How longer will the kweilo be here? If much longer, I want a new boy.”

“Not much longer.”

“You found a buyer?”

Honcho pulled a wad of bills from his pocket.

“Four buyers,” he said. “Well, three now.”

“How do you sell something three times?” the old man asked.

“Practice.”

Simms waited in the tunnel. He figured he was underneath Lion Rock Road, which made sense if they were going to bring Carey out from the Walled City. He wished they’d hurry the hell up, though. Water was dripping from the ceiling onto his suit and the tunnel was like a steambath. Why couldn’t they behave like white people and just deliver Carey to a civilized hotel room?

He heard footsteps coming down the tunnel. Four sets. He made out the faces through the steam. Not a pair of round eyes to be seen.

Simms edged his back up against the wall and waited for their leader to get closer. The leader was easy to pick out-slick dresser, sly leer.

“Did you forget something?” Simms asked.

“Maybe you’d like a nice Chinese boy,” Honcho answered.

“Maybe I’d like what I paid for.”

“Vietnamese? I have a ten-year-old you’d like.”

“I want the American,” Simms said, more out of principle than anything. He knew when a deal had gone south. Now it was matter of getting out.

“Sorry,” Honcho said. He didn’t have to worry about a kweilo faggot stupid enough to walk into a tunnel all by himself.

Simms just smiled as two of the lads edged up alongside of him. The third stood behind the leader’s shoulder.

“Then give me my money.”

“No cash refunds. Only merchandise.”

“I’ll take my money.”

Simms knew he wasn’t going to get any cash. But he needed a negotiating point. Something along the order of “You let me out of here and I’ll forget about it.”

Honcho pointed his chin at the two guys who were pressing in on Simms.

“Talk to the complaint department.”

The kid on Simms’s left pulled a switchblade, flicked it open, and waved it in front of Simms’s face. Simms pulled a silenced pistol from his pocket, stuck it into the side of the kid’s knee, and squeezed the trigger.

“I don’t think so,” Simms said.

He stepped over the kid, who was flopping around like a fish in the bottom of a boat.

“I’ll be leaving now,” said Simms.