The Holiday Inn was a mile from the Greyhound Terminal in Los Angeles, the last stop, just outside of Chinatown. Johnny checked in, tried calling Gee Man again. Nothing. Probably was out with the car.
He walked toward Chinatown, flexing the stiffness from his legs, feeling secure enough with the Ruger handy. He bought a Chinese newspaper, had coffee with cold dim sum. Then the picture in his head got huge, the headlines of the newspaper bringing sudden clarity: Revered Leader Murdered in New York. A two-page spread with color photographs of Uncle Four.
Mona, Johnny thought immediately.
Flow
Golo rubbed the pungent teet da jao, herbal liniment, into the bruise on his elbow until it was stained brown. He leaned over the sink and poured peroxide over the bloody gash on his left forearm, over the strawberry burns on his palm, scraped when he crashed down the stairs ducking the chaai lo's bullets.
Dew ka ma, fucker, he grimaced, applying white adhesive tape over gauze bandages.
He put on a dark suit for the funeral, and wondered how long it would be before the Red Circle inquired about their gold and diamonds.