The Trail to Buddha's Mirror by Don Winslow Read Free Book Online Page A

cool and crisp—even cold in the shadows—and people found spots in the sunshine to sit and consider the world. The world seemed a pretty nice place from Mill Valley, as if its citizens had gotten the Sixties right, frozen the best parts of it here, and made them work. The world seemed pretty nice, that is, unless you were wearing a button-down oxford shirt, blue blazer, and polished black loafers.
    Neal sought cover in a coffee shop across the street. It had floor-to-ceiling picture windows on three sides. The walls, floors, and counters were made of polished pine, and wooden stools were set by the wraparound bar. A middle-aged blond women smiled at him as he walked in, attractive wrinkles of laughter and sunshine crinkling around her brown eyes. She was wearing a fire-engine red chamois shirt over faded denims.
    “What would you like?” she asked.
    “One black coffee to go,”
    She stared at him sympathetically.
    “What kind?” she asked.
    “Black.”
    She pointed at a blackboard behind her on which about a dozen brands of coffee were written.
    “Uuuuhhh,” said Neal, “Mozambique Mocha.”
    “Decaf?”
    He felt a sudden burst of courage and defiance.
    “Caf,” he said. “Double caf, if you have any.”
    She came back a few moments later and handed him a Styrofoam cup.
    “You really should drink decaf,” she said as she looked pointedly at his attire. “Really. You looked wired.”
    “I am wired.”
    “See?”
    “I like being wired.”
    “It’s an addiction.” “It is.”
    “Try herbal,” she said with great sincerity. It was clear to Neal that she was convinced he was dying.
    “Herbal coffee?” he asked.
    “It’s so good.”
    “And so good for you?”
    “You should meditate,” she said as she poured him his poison. “Unwind.”
    “Nah, then I’d just have to get all wound up again.”
    He took his black, caffeinated Mozambique Mocha and sat on a bench in the square. He sipped at his coffee and wondered what to do next. He had been in Mill Valley for at least five minutes and neither Pendleton nor Lila had shown up yet. Didn’t they realize he was on a tight schedule? Oh, well, he thought, when in Mill Valley…. He loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar, set his coffee down, and leaned back, raising his face to the late-afternoon sunshine. Maybe I should meditate, he thought. Maybe if I meditate hard enough I can make Pendleton appear. Better yet, Lila.
    Her name wasn’t Lila, it was Li Lan. She wasn’t a prostitute, she was a painter. And she wasn’t as beautiful as she was in the snapshot. She was far more beautiful.
    Neal stared at the two photographs of her on a poster at the Terminal Bookstore. The poster promoted a showing of her paintings at a local gallery called Illyria. “Shan Shui by Li Lan,” it read, and included black-and-white photos of several paintings: large, sprawling landscapes featuring mountains mirrored in rivers and lakes. The photos of Li Lan were arranged so that in one she appeared to be contemplating her work, while in the other she stared out at the viewer. It was this image that captivated Neal. Her face was open and unprotected. All the lines of sorrow and happiness were there for him to read. Gentleness lit her eyes.
    We never learn, he thought. We assumed she was a hooker because of who we are.
    He had only seen the poster because he had quickly become bored with meditating and wandered over to the bookstore to entertain himself. The bookstore turned out to be also a café and cabaret and who knows what else, and it had a bulletin board announcing local events, one of which was Li Lan’s show.
    The Illyria Gallery was right across the street, three doors down from the coffee shop. He had been looking right at it as he sat on the bench.
    He didn’t dick around browsing for books or consuming java or eating. Instead, he bought a copy of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, found a phone booth with a directory, and called the Asian Art Museum in San