“Can you take me there?” I asked, pouring.
“Does the Pope,” he asked rhetorically, “cross the road to shit in the woods?” Good question. I gave him the glass. He slurped ambitiously. “Pluto and Bluto,” he said. “They the guys with the muscle bumps hanging onto Charlie Wah. Eat steroids all the time. Go really batshit once in a while.”
“Anybody else?” I had to close one eye to keep him in focus, and I had a feeling I should have been taking notes.
Tran looked at me blearily. “Little one, wears his pants high? Ying. Think he's king shit, big Snake Triad guy. He the one Lo didn't kill. Zowie, you know zowie?”
“Which one is Zowie?” It sounded like an improbable name for a Chinese.
“No, zowie,” he protested. “Like, zowie, good wine.”
“Sure is.” I held the bottle up to the floor lamp. “About half dead.”
“Me, too,” Tran said, laughing. It was the first time I'd heard him laugh, except under torture. It was a very young and very innocent laugh.
“You'll be okay,” I said, “youth being wasted on the young, and all.”
“Pardon?”
“Nothing. What does the Snake Triad do for its money?”
“Don't know,” he said for what felt like the hundredth time. “Why tell me? But big money. Even for us. To bring Lo, one thousand. Five hundred for me and five hundred for. .” He faltered.
“For your friend,” I said.
He started to nod and then put his head on my shoulder instead. He was trembling violently. I heard him fight for a breath. It fought him all the way in.
I patted his shoulder, feeling big and useless. “We'll get them.”
“They killed her,” he said. “And I stabbed him,” he cried, suddenly pulling himself away from me. It was quite a feat, considering that his hands were bound behind him and he was drunk.
“No one knows what he will do until the time comes.” I sounded like Charlie Wah.
“She my cousin,” he said, and I shut up, completely and profoundly. For a moment I thought he was going to start weeping again, but instead he shook his head and said, “Wine.”
“No problem,” I said, but pouring it without spilling took all the concentration I had. “You made a choice,” I said, “between your cousin and your friend.”
He swallowed air twice. “Brother,” he said.
“Shit,” I said, gaping down into a yawning gulf of tragedy. I hadn't meant to say it. I drank the glass he'd asked for.
“Yes,” he said fiercely, displacing his grief, “shit. Shit triad.”
“I need names,” I urged. “You want them dead.”
He turned an unlined face to me. Up close, he looked younger than seventeen. “I can kill them.” It sounded like a new clause in the Boy Scout pledge.
“You can kill one or two, maybe. I can get them all.” I almost believed it. “The ones I can't kill, I can put in jail.”
“Taiwan,” he said bitterly, “you can put them in jail in Taiwan?”
“Give me names,” I said. If I couldn't get them all, I could die trying.
“Names,” Tran said mechanically. “Chinese guy. Peter Lau.”
“Who's he?”
“Newspaper writer. Drink, please.”
I looked at his wine-red face. “I really think it would be better-”
“You want to know about Peter Lau?” He opened his mouth, and I poured and extended the glass.
“Chinatown newspaper,” he said, when he'd finished. “Not with them, against them. They told us to frighten him, not one time. Two times. But we couldn't find him. He writes about them. He used to write about them,” he corrected himself, “but we couldn't find him.” He giggled.
“What's funny?” I asked.
“We found him, both times. But he paid us more than they paid us.”
“How much?” It wasn't what I needed to know, but I wanted to keep him talking.
“Five hundred. He used to write about them but they make big noise at the newspaper and talk about burn it down, and he got fired. We find him and he give us six hundred to say we didn't.”
Five hundred bucks, and he wrote about them, and Lo was worth a thousand. I lose certain abilities when I drink, but subtraction isn't one of them. “Where did you find Peter Lau?” I asked.
“Never same place, but always some coffee shop. Monterey Park. Moves around. Scared all the time.”
“And he paid you.”
“Scared to death,” Tran said, forcing a smile. “Six hundred just to go away.”
“Anyone else?” He looked at the glass and opened his mouth, a fish seeking the bait, and I gave it to him.
“Also old lady,” he said when he'd drained it.
“Old lady,” I said neutrally.
“Old Jesus lady, Jesusloveyou, Jesusloveyou, cometojesus.”
“Summerson,” I said, feeling like someone had just punched me in the face.
“Excuse me,” Tran said politely, turning his face back to mine. “Okay I throw up?”
I guided him to the toilet and, when he'd finished voiding his insides, back to the couch. He was singing along with Ray Davies, syllables only, not a recognizable word per line. “Listen,” I said after he'd settled himself, “you're not going to go anywhere, are you?”
“Where?” he asked dreamily.
“Right,” I said. “Nowhere. Because even if you walk out of here you'll be lost in the middle of the Santa Monica Mountains. It's miles to L.A. And you've got a hole in your shoulder and Saran Wrap around your arms-well, do you understand?”
He nodded and wiped his chin across his shoulder.
“Go to sleep, Tran,” I said, tucking the spare blanket around him. I picked up my gun and the cuffs, and he mumbled something and closed his eyes, and I went into the bedroom and folded down the remaining blanket and closed my own. It was pretty late, and I was pretty drunk.
Bravo came in and made the usual nuisance of himself, and I shoved him aside and tried to force my eyelids down again, and then I heard the sobbing. I decided to ignore it. Ten or fifteen minutes later I decided not to ignore it.
Mumbling to myself about nothing in particular, I grabbed my blanket and went into the living room and propped Tran up again so I could sit next to him. Then I threw the blanket over both of us and sagged to the left, with Tran leaning on me. Bravo joined us, on top of Tran, and Tran cried all of us to sleep.
12
I woke up with a spacious red headache, and I woke up alone.
My initial reaction-pure reflex, embarked on even before I'd begun to explore the margins of my headache-was to feel blindly around for Bravo. For some time now I'd been entering each day nasally, via Bravo's bravura pong, and my nose knew immediately that something was missing. It took me a few excruciatingly queasy moments and a couple of blind gropes with my right hand to discover that more than Bravo was missing.
“Holy shit,” I groaned. A memory bloomed, horribly bright through the red murk: I had unwrapped Tran. Since there appeared, under the circumstances, to be no reason ever to open my eyes again, I rolled over onto my side and resolved to sleep forever. Death sounded appealing. Better, at any rate, than facing Eleanor, or even myself, and admitting that I'd let the kid get away. With Horace still out there, no less.
Something said, “Ping.”
It did not engage my attention. A ping could have been anything, any kind of mocking reminder from the land of the living: a moth against a windowscreen, for example, or the tags on Bravo's collar, wherever the hell Bravo might be. I consigned all pings to hell and concentrated on the details of a comfortable death. I waited patiently for it to come, to spread its anesthetic wings around my head. It kept its distance. A comfortable death, it seemed, would require effort. I'd have to cure my headache first.