Kim Oh 3: Real Dangerous People (The Kim Oh Thrillers) (18 page)

Curt looked over Elton. “Is that what you think?”

“This guy’s got a big mouth,” said Elton. “That’s what I think.”

“What about you?” Curt looked over to me. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know.” I backed myself up against the side of the motorcycle. “I didn’t . . . I didn’t know you from before.”

“Yeah . . .”

That was Earl speaking up. With the muzzle of Foley’s gun still pressed against his head, he looked over at Curt.

“He’s right,” said Earl. “I’ve seen it, too.”

“Like I told you –” Foley turned his gaze toward Elton. “You need to figure it out. Earl here’s got no other options. Either he sticks with us and waits around for Falcon to come up with some other plan for getting rid of us all, or he goes to Falcon and spills his guts. And then maybe Mr. Falcon gives him that little place he always wanted. Like Moretti had.”

“Is that true, Earl?” Curt looked at him. “Is that what you were going to do?”

Earl gazed straight ahead of himself, not saying anything.

“Don’t lie to me, Earl. Not now.”

“Yeah.” Earl nodded. “It’s true. Or . . . if it’s not, it might as well be.”

“Hey. Hey, it’s okay, man.” Foley eased up on Curt. “I’ll take care of it.”

“No –” Curt shook his head. “I’ll do it.”

I knew what was going to happen next. And it did.

Curt reached up and took the gun from Foley’s hand. His own hand was shaking as he kept the gun against Earl’s head.

“We go back a long ways.” Curt’s voice was low and soft. “A long ways.”

“Yeah,” said Earl. “I know.”

Curt squeezed the trigger of his gun. Earl crumpled to the sidewalk, one side of his head a red mess.

Steaming in the winter air, blood puddled around Curt’s shoes as he looked down at the corpse.

He handed the gun back to Foley. “You sonuvabitch –”

“You had to do it, man.”

“Screw that.” Curt walked back toward the car.

TWELVE

That whole business up in Albany, at Moretti’s place, had weirded me out. So much that when I got back into town, I didn’t head over to the Hilton to hook up again with Falcon and Karsh’s bodyguards.

I had pretty much expected that old Moretti wasn’t going to survive our meeting with him, so I had already gotten my mind wrapped around the notion of seeing him dead. But I had kind of liked Earl – at least he hadn’t given me any crap for being on the crew, the way Foley had. Or tried to get into my pants, like that horny redneck Elton. So I admit it, I got a little upset about seeing Earl get plugged. So sue me, already.

Instead, I headed home. I needed some rest.

Which I wound up not getting. But it was a good thing, anyway, that I went back to the apartment.

Soon as I got upstairs, I heard voices coming from our open front doorway. My spine went rigid as I froze in the hallway, one hand on the stair rail. There’d been some bad things that had happened before, when I’d come home and found I had some unexpected visitors. Maybe it was just about time for me to get my younger brother that gun he’d been asking for.

I listened and heard Donnie’s voice . . . and a woman’s. My heart sank when I recognized it.

“Well, hel-
lo
, Kim.” A professionally perky blonde looked over at me from the kitchenette table. She was sitting there with Donnie pulled up next to her in his wheelchair. “I’m so glad our schedules matched up.”

“Hello, Miss Thorpe.” I closed the door behind me. “It’s good to see you.”

Already I was lying my head off. I couldn’t stand the woman. Of all the social workers from the Child Protective Services, she was the worst. She had this totally demented way of smiling and twinkling while threatening to take Donnie away from me, as though she were doing us a favor or something.

“Just a little surprise visit, that’s all.” She had a fat leather portfolio, stuffed with papers, sitting on the table in front of her. “You know – just like always.”

“Yeah, that’s cool.” Instead of throwing my backpack on the couch the way I usually did, I carried it over to the closet and carefully set it down. Out in the hallway, I had taken my motorcycle gloves and wrapped the .357 in them, so there wouldn’t be any sign of it that she might spot. “I don’t mind.”

“Of course you don’t, Kim.” She smiled so much, I was always surprised her head didn’t crack open. “You’re always so good about these requirements.”

Now she was the one who was lying. There’d been one visit, a year or so ago, where I’d had to bite my tongue so hard I bled, to keep from flipping out.

“I was just telling her about the letter I got from Coach Gibbs.” Donnie held up the plastic binder sleeve with the paper inside it. “When I wrote him.”

“Honey –” I turned around from hanging up my leather jacket. “It came from the fan club.” The Joe Gibbs Racing Team was Donnie’s big favorite. “I mean, it’s nice and all –”

“He signed it.”

Well, somebody had. I wasn’t going to make a big deal out of it.

“Your brother’s really into NASCAR.” Miss Thorpe made some kind of note on one of the forms on top of her portfolio.

“Sure is.” I headed over to the stove. “Would you like some tea?”

“Thanks. But Donnie already fixed me a cup.”

I could see her giving my jacket the fish eye, as though it had Hells Angels patches stitched all over it. Actually, the only things that made it a motorcycle jacket were the reinforced elbows and the spine protector down the back.

“That’s good he’s developing new interests.” She set her pen down. “But . . . do you think that one’s really appropriate? For a boy his age, I mean.”

“I . . . guess so.” I fussed around with the water kettle. “I mean . . . like you said. He’s a boy. He’s that age. And it’s cars.” I looked over my shoulder at her as I peeled apart a tea bag wrapper. “What’s not appropriate?”

“It seems rather violent. All that crashing and cars flying through the air –”

“Not any more,” said Donnie. “With the new spoilers, you hardly ever see them flip these days.”

He wasn’t helping his case by sounding disappointed about that.

“Plus,” continued Miss Thorpe, “there’s the, um . . .
cultural
elements.”

“Pardon me?”

“You know, Kim. It’s a sport associated with . . . rural Southern Caucasians.”

Wouldn’t it have been easier to just say
crackers
? Maybe social workers were trained not to do that. Like a sensitivity thing.

“That’s not exactly,” she said, still smiling, “your background.”

“Well –” My mind was doing its own racing thing, trying to come up with right answer. If there was one. “Some of our foster parents – when we were kids; both of us, I mean – some of them were rural. And in the South. And – you know – white. At least, I’m pretty sure they were.”

“Yes, I do know, Kim. It’s in your file.” She patted her portfolio. “That’s all fine –”

“And they were real nice to us.” I blurted out the words as fast as I could. “There was this one family in Tuscaloosa, they were –”

“It’s okay, Kim.” She cut me off with a little wave of her hand. “But it’s something we need to be aware of. The department has certain guidelines regarding client ethnicity. Guardians – such as yourself, Kim – are required to respect that. And make certain accommodations.”

“Right. I know that.” Right then, I could’ve used a spoiler on my brain, to keep it from crashing and bursting into flames. “You left that pamphlet last time.”
Think
, I commanded myself. “And . . . that’s why my brother watches a lot of Korean music videos. On YouTube.”

“Those girls are
hot
.”

“Donnie.” I gave him one of my looks. “Please.”

“No, really –” He pushed himself up in the wheelchair. “I didn’t even know there were so many blondes and redheads in Korea until I started watching those videos.”

The look in Miss Thorpe’s eyes read something like,
There – you see
.

“I’ll get some books,” I told her. “From the library. About Korea.”

“That might help.”

I watched her make some more notes on the forms. My stomach felt like it was diving toward my feet. What was the radiation these people gave off, that always made me feel like ten pounds of mandrill crap? Inadequate mandrill crap, at that.

“Donnie –” She put her pen back down and looked over at him. “I need to talk to your sister about a few things. Just her and me. Is that okay?”

“Sure.” It was obvious he’d realized that between the two of us, we were screwing things up. “I got some stuff to take care of, anyway.”

Miss Thorpe and I watched Donnie roll himself back to his bedroom, then close the door behind himself. I turned to her immediately.

“I’m really sorry. Things have been a little crazy around here lately, And I –”

“It’s really not good, Kim.” She wasn’t smiling now. “In fact, it’s very disappointing. I’m not sure you’re providing him with an appropriate environment. An authentic one.”

“Yeah, but . . . if you took him away . . .” That was the big threat. That she and the other social workers were always hanging over my head. “I’m his sister. I’m the only Korean-type person he even knows. How would taking him away from
me
make
him
more Korean?”

“It’s not enough,” said Miss Thorpe. “The mere accident of your genetics doesn’t fulfill the requirements.”

Dig it – somebody with an MSW from Kansas State University was going off on how my butt wasn’t Asian enough to meet her standards.

And on the other hand, I couldn’t argue with her. She’d probably eaten more Korean food just while she’d been in Topeka than I had in my entire life. Our foster parents had all been nice people – mostly – but none of them had exactly known
bulgogi
from baloney. I remembered talking to Cole’s girlfriend Monica, back before he’d gotten killed, about how I didn’t even think of myself as Korean-American. Somebody like me was really just Feral-American – like an abandoned dog or cat. I didn’t know any of this Korean stuff. I didn’t know anything – I was just trying to make it up as I went along.

But that’s the way everybody was now. I didn’t know anybody who was any different. Nobody knows anything about how they’re supposed to be. So why was this social worker person ragging on
my
ass? Just unfair, far as I was concerned.

“But that’s not really the issue?”

“What?” I pulled myself up from my bleak meditations. “I’m sorry – I didn’t –”

“We can do a reassessment on the cultural issues later, if we need to.” Miss Thorpe pulled some other papers out of her portfolio. “That’s not why I came out here to see you, though.”

“Okay. Is there some other problem?”

“Yes, there is, Kim. I have some concerns about your financial situation. In terms of providing a stable home for your brother.”

“Oh.”

“For you to retain custody of Donnie, you need to provide evidence of a steady income, sufficient to meet the expenses that we’ve determined for the household you share with him.”

“Well . . .” I looked around the apartment, then back to her. “We’re getting by.”

“That’s not sufficient. The department was willing to overlook some irregularities in your finances, as long as we could see that you were working steadily for . . .” She checked the name on one of the papers. “Mr. McIntyre – is that right?”

I nodded. “I was his accountant.”

“But . . .” She looked up at me. “I understand he died.”

“Yes. He did.” Like I was going to tell her how that came about.

“So you weren’t able to keep that position?”

“No.” I shook my head. “I wasn’t.”

“Have you been able to find another one?”

“Actually – I have. I have a job.”

“Really?” One of Miss Thorpe’s overly plucked eyebrows raised. “What sort of work is it?”

“Uh . . . it’s . . . kind of in the human relations field.”

“I see. That’s good, Kim. I’m very glad to hear it. If you could just let me see a recent pay stub, or some other proof of employment, I’ll take it with me to the office and make a copy. I’ll be sure to get it back to you right away.”

“Well . . . that’s a little difficult.” I sounded as apologetic as I could. “It’s not a regular-type position. I mean . . . they’re sort of paying me under the table. So they don’t have to do all the government deductions. Same as when I was working for McIntyre.”