Read Online The Trail to Buddha's Mirror by Don Winslow - Free Book Online
Authors: Don Winslow
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Li Lan was standing in the kitchen, carefully stirring something in a sizzling electric wok. Dr. Robert Pendleton stood beside her, holding a platter full of diced tofu.
“Okay … now,” Li Lan told him, and he dumped the tofu into the wok.
“Two more minutes,” she said.
“That will give you time to meet our guest,” Olivia said. “Neal, this is Bob Pendleton.”
“Nice to meet you,” Neal said. Yeah, right.
Pendleton wiped his hands on a towel, pushed his glasses back up on his nose, then reached across the breakfast counter and shook Neal’s hand.
“Pleasure,” he said.
Not so fast, Doc.
“Now, where did Tom get to?” Olivia asked no one in particular.
“He went to fire up the hot tub,” Pendleton said. “Can I offer you a drink, Neal?”
“A beer?”
“Dos Equis or Bud?”
“Bud, please.”
“Bud it is.”
Neal watched him as he went to the refrigerator and looked for the beer. He was even thinner than he looked in his photograph, with a body that looked like it had never met a quart of chocolate ice cream. He was wearing a bright green chamois shirt and baggy khaki trousers, with a pair of brown moccasins that someone must have bought for him; they were much too laid back for a biochemist. His hair was a trace longer than it had been in the photo, and he looked older. Neal was surprised at his voice—it was low and gravelly—but didn’t know why he should be. Preconceptions again, he guessed.
Pendleton set a bottle of beer on the counter.
“Do you want a mug?” he asked.
“The bottle is great, thanks.”
“Get ready with sauce,” Li said. “Hello, Neal.”
She was preoccupied with preparing the meal, which was okay with Neal because it gave him a chance to stare at her. Her hair hung long and straight—the blue cloisonné comb had only a decorative function. She had put on light eyeshadow and red lipstick. Her black western shirt had red piping and red roses on the shoulders, and her black, pointed-toe cowboy boots were etched with blue designs. It was one of those outfits that could look either ridiculous or wonderful. It looked wonderful.
Neal was in the midst of this observation when Tom Kendall came in. He was short and plump, with prematurely white hair and a white beard. He was sporting a green chamois shirt that looked identical to Pendleton’s, and jeans with sandals. He had light blue eyes and a ruddy complexion.
What’s the bit with the lookalike shirts? Neal wondered. Who is Pendleton supposed to be in love with, anyway? Li Lan or Tom Kendall?
“The tub,” Kendall said in a soft, reedy voice, “will be hot by the time we’re ready. Neal—I assume you are Neal—when you are a Marin County shrink married to a woman who owns an art gallery, you are expected to have a hot tub. It wouldn’t do to violate an archetype.”
He smiled broadly and shook Neal’s hand. “I’m Tom Kendall.”
“Neal Carey.”
“I see you have a beer, which prompts the question: why don’t I have a beer? Why don’t I have a beer, Olivia?”
“I don’t know, sweetie.”
“You’ll have to get it yourself,” Pendleton said. “I’m in big trouble if I miss my sauce cue.”
“Big trouble,” Lan said.
“Some bartender. Bob and Lan are the official host and hostess tonight,” Kendall explained to Neal. “Bob can’t cook, so the deal was he would tend the bar.”
“Now with the sauce,” Li Lan said, and Pendleton poured a small bowl of red sauce into the wok. The sizzling stopped with a whoosh.
Olivia said, “Neal, please have a seat.” She gestured toward the sofa.
“Actually, I’d rather watch the cooking.”
“No, please sit,” said Li Lan. “Dinner should be surprises.”
Dinner was surprises.
The first round of drinks was a surprise. Having consumed his share of straight scotch in his time, Neal didn’t figure any little Chinese wine in a tiny black cup could get to him, but the clear, fiery liquid scorched his throat and
Li Lan was standing in the kitchen, carefully stirring something in a sizzling electric wok. Dr. Robert Pendleton stood beside her, holding a platter full of diced tofu.
“Okay … now,” Li Lan told him, and he dumped the tofu into the wok.
“Two more minutes,” she said.
“That will give you time to meet our guest,” Olivia said. “Neal, this is Bob Pendleton.”
“Nice to meet you,” Neal said. Yeah, right.
Pendleton wiped his hands on a towel, pushed his glasses back up on his nose, then reached across the breakfast counter and shook Neal’s hand.
“Pleasure,” he said.
Not so fast, Doc.
“Now, where did Tom get to?” Olivia asked no one in particular.
“He went to fire up the hot tub,” Pendleton said. “Can I offer you a drink, Neal?”
“A beer?”
“Dos Equis or Bud?”
“Bud, please.”
“Bud it is.”
Neal watched him as he went to the refrigerator and looked for the beer. He was even thinner than he looked in his photograph, with a body that looked like it had never met a quart of chocolate ice cream. He was wearing a bright green chamois shirt and baggy khaki trousers, with a pair of brown moccasins that someone must have bought for him; they were much too laid back for a biochemist. His hair was a trace longer than it had been in the photo, and he looked older. Neal was surprised at his voice—it was low and gravelly—but didn’t know why he should be. Preconceptions again, he guessed.
Pendleton set a bottle of beer on the counter.
“Do you want a mug?” he asked.
“The bottle is great, thanks.”
“Get ready with sauce,” Li said. “Hello, Neal.”
She was preoccupied with preparing the meal, which was okay with Neal because it gave him a chance to stare at her. Her hair hung long and straight—the blue cloisonné comb had only a decorative function. She had put on light eyeshadow and red lipstick. Her black western shirt had red piping and red roses on the shoulders, and her black, pointed-toe cowboy boots were etched with blue designs. It was one of those outfits that could look either ridiculous or wonderful. It looked wonderful.
Neal was in the midst of this observation when Tom Kendall came in. He was short and plump, with prematurely white hair and a white beard. He was sporting a green chamois shirt that looked identical to Pendleton’s, and jeans with sandals. He had light blue eyes and a ruddy complexion.
What’s the bit with the lookalike shirts? Neal wondered. Who is Pendleton supposed to be in love with, anyway? Li Lan or Tom Kendall?
“The tub,” Kendall said in a soft, reedy voice, “will be hot by the time we’re ready. Neal—I assume you are Neal—when you are a Marin County shrink married to a woman who owns an art gallery, you are expected to have a hot tub. It wouldn’t do to violate an archetype.”
He smiled broadly and shook Neal’s hand. “I’m Tom Kendall.”
“Neal Carey.”
“I see you have a beer, which prompts the question: why don’t I have a beer? Why don’t I have a beer, Olivia?”
“I don’t know, sweetie.”
“You’ll have to get it yourself,” Pendleton said. “I’m in big trouble if I miss my sauce cue.”
“Big trouble,” Lan said.
“Some bartender. Bob and Lan are the official host and hostess tonight,” Kendall explained to Neal. “Bob can’t cook, so the deal was he would tend the bar.”
“Now with the sauce,” Li Lan said, and Pendleton poured a small bowl of red sauce into the wok. The sizzling stopped with a whoosh.
Olivia said, “Neal, please have a seat.” She gestured toward the sofa.
“Actually, I’d rather watch the cooking.”
“No, please sit,” said Li Lan. “Dinner should be surprises.”
Dinner was surprises.
The first round of drinks was a surprise. Having consumed his share of straight scotch in his time, Neal didn’t figure any little Chinese wine in a tiny black cup could get to him, but the clear, fiery liquid scorched his throat and
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