Seoul Survivors (15 page)

“I do my best,” Da Mi purred, “but I'm not the professional.”

“Me neither.” Sydney withdrew her hand and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Hey, dressing up is fun, but it isn't like what you do—well, I don't know what you do exactly, but it must be important: genes are the scene, that's for sure.”

Da Mi put her elbows on the table and placed her fingertips together at her lips. “A lot of it is just microscope drudgery, to be
honest—but it's true that we at GRIP are hoping to find real solutions for real people—and not just curing diseases. It may sound idealistic, Sydney, but imagine if we could alter our genetic code in a way that eliminated human greed, fear and aggression—wouldn't that truly change the world?”

The evening was as warm as a duvet, but the urgency in the scientist's voice made the goosebumps rise on Sydney's arms. “Gosh, Da Mi, can GRIP really do that?”

“Let me make you a honey drink. Then we can discuss GRIP's latest project, and how
you
can help humanity evolve.”

Da Mi took the dishes into the kitchen, and Sydney took advantage of her absence to pour out the last half-glass of wine. Ignoring the bottle of enzymes, she took the drink to the porch. The night air was still close, but she adjusted her dress to keep her skin at the perfect temperature. Sitting on the steps, enjoying the kick of the alcohol, she let her mind mingle with the shadows of bamboo leaves in the garden.

She was wearing a pair of Da Mi's guest slippers, so she decided not to walk out to the lily pond. Instead, when the music stopped, she got up to change the CD. As she crossed the floor, out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of something peculiar at the far end of the room.

Was it—a door? Yes, but it was only hip-high. How cute. At first she thought it must be a closet, but there was a woven mat beside it, and a stone statue of a tiger, as if it were the entrance to some small person's home. She took a step toward it, intrigued, then stopped. She didn't want to look like she was snooping around.

“You've discovered the
anbang
.”

Sydney started. Da Mi was at her elbow, a tray in her hands.

“I'm sorry—I made you jump. Come, sit down and I'll tell you all about my secret room.”

Sydney plumped herself back down on her cushion and waited as Da Mi made two hot honey drinks. The gleaming honey drizzled slowly from the lip of the blue bottle and hung, suspended in the candlelight, like a thin gold chain.

“How much alcohol have you drunk today?”

Sydney glanced furtively at her empty wine glass. “Just a martini in the cab . . . and, um, I finished the wine up too, it was just a bit, but I forgot to add the drops.”

“That's fine; I'll just give you an extra dollop of honey.” Da Mi finished pouring and put the bottle down. Then she untwisted the cap
from a small jar on the tray. “I usually have some colloidal gold this time of night.” She slipped a teaspoon of gold liquid into her drink and the honey water turned a shade darker beneath the surface's glimmering sheen.

“What does that do?”

“It relieves stress, balances hormones and enhances brain functions, including memory and IQ. It's excellent for late-night business discussions. Would you like to try some?”

“If it'll make me as smart as you, sure.” Sydney nudged her cup toward Da Mi and let her stir the colloidal liquid in. She lifted the cup and blew on the mixture, then took a sip. The drink slipped down her throat with a whispery aftertaste of desert sun. It was even nicer than the one Da Mi had made for her at the sauna. She closed her eyes and waited for the honey to slowly spread its wings inside her veins.

“Mmmm,” she found herself murmuring.

“I'm addicted to it myself,” Da Mi confessed.

Sydney stretched her legs, feeling the honey warming her muscles. “So what's this secret room? The ‘amban,' you called it?”

“The
anbang
,” Da Mi corrected, “is the inner sanctum of the traditional Korean home, the warmest place in the house in the winter, and the room where the women spent most of their time. In past times, babies were born in the
anbang
, in front of the fireplace, and old people returned there to die.” Da Mi paused, a faraway look in her eyes. Then, with a sad shrug, she continued, “Nowadays most people brick up the sliding walls of the outer room, the
maru
, and heat it with electric
onduls
, and they use the
anbang
as an extra bedroom. But I wanted to preserve the old ways.”

Sydney was a little embarrassed by the trembling look on Da Mi's face. She peered back at the entrance, so the doctor could recover her composure. “Is the little door traditional too?”

“In a way.” Da Mi was calm again now. “All over the world, ancient peoples would enter their sacred tombs through a low corridor—even the priests had to humble themselves to commune with their gods. When I started using the
anbang
as a creative space, I decided to lower the doorframe, and to pray to the threshold spirits to guide me when I worked.”

“It's like your sanctuary, huh?” Sydney took another sip of the honey and gold mixture. It was getting tastier by the second.

“Exactly. Shall I take you in there and show you what I've been working on lately?”

Sydney drained her cup. “Yes, please!”

Da Mi took a sheet of paper and a fountain pen from a cushion behind her and placed them on the table. “First, Sydney, I'd like you to read this. I am authorized by GRIP and our project partner to offer you the sum of one million
won
to ensure that nothing you see or hear in the
anbang
will go beyond the confines of this meeting.”

“Really? Wow.” Sydney picked up the piece of paper. It was a contract, basically: confidentiality required . . . in event of suspicion . . . GRIP authorized to review employment . . . monitor said disclosures . . . recover damages . . . blah blah blah.

“So basically, nine hundred dollars just to listen, and if I blab, you fire and sue me?”

“More or less.” Da Mi smiled.

“And what about this monitoring stuff?”

“In the event of disclosure, you relinquish certain rights to privacy and data protection. It's a standard corporate clause.”

Her body felt like a bolt of noonday sun. Sydney took the lid off the pen. “Don't worry about that; I'm not going to be telling anyone anything, Da Mi.” She dated the contract, and signed it with a flourish.

Da Mi offered her an envelope of money, presenting it with both hands, and Sydney accepted it in the proper manner and slipped it in her purse.

“Thank you, Sydney.” Da Mi regarded her gravely. “Now, please, it is my pleasure to show you my
anbang
.”

Wearing that same long coat, his fingers a shade more nicotine-stained than before, Rattail sat all screwed up in the front passenger seat, chain-smoking and getting on Johnny's nerves. “So you're sure your contact at the hospital is safe?” Johnny quizzed again. The convertible roof was up. He wanted privacy tonight.

“
Ye
,
ye
.” Rattail waved his hand airily, flicking cigarette ash over the dashboard. From the back, the Scalper grunted. The guy didn't speak much English and was fatter than John Candy, but he did a damn good job, he was cheap, and he kept his mouth shut—he knew he was instantly replaceable, that was why. There were more plastic surgeons in this city than there were
dukbogee ajummas
. Every second girl wanted to get her eyelids Westernized; every rich businessman wanted to buy new tits and ass for his hot young mistress. The docs would phone each other from the operating tables and compare figures—they had it made. This guy, the Scalper, Johnny had used for a couple of ConGlam witness-protection schemes. They'd hung out drinking one night and Johnny had seen the porno collection in the guy's briefcase, black and white shit from Germany mostly—he had a real sick appetite. So Johnny had insisted they use him, despite Kim's preference for someone more upscale—the Doc seemed to think ConGlam was a bottomless money pit. It had been good to win his first battle with her since Sydney's defection.

“I telling you, Mr. Joh-nee, he get the weird proposal all the time,” Rattail continued. “Some guys want do just anything with those girls once they cold, you know?”

“Not personally.” Johnny said curtly, though a shaving curl of curiosity ran through him at the thought. “I like 'em warm myself.”

Rattail smirked. “Sometimes they warm—you gotta get there quick though.”

“That stuff turn you on? That why you know this guy?”

“Too nasty for me. But he old friend of mine. You want, I set you up sometime. For you, special price.”

“Yeah, well, I'll keep it in mind.” You never know, such a service could come in handy with a client sometime. The place they all really liked, though, was the bathhouse with the girls who washed you
down in the hot-tub, then took you in a little room and licked you all over, head to butt to toe. A more thorough cleansing you never had. After he'd demolished his apartment he'd taken himself off there to relax and clear his mind. The stress had drained out of his body with his cum, leaving him lying there, flat out on the bed mat listening to the girls giggling to each other. He'd never met happier whores in his whole life. Maybe the johns' BO pissed the rest of them off . . .

He dragged his mind back to the road. Where the hell was Songbuk Gu? He didn't use SatNav, not when he was driving with work contacts—it made you look weak, following some computer-synthed voice around the city. But that meant sometimes you did get lost. “Is this the turn-off here?” he asked.

“I don't know, what turn you off?” Rattail flashed a pointy little grin.

“People who don't know how to give directions, that's what.”

“Oh, Mr. Joh-nee like taking direction, okay, I keep it in mind.
Ye ye
, next right.”

He might have guessed that Kim would set him up with the biggest smart-ass Korean gopher in the country.

But she was one stupid bitch if she really thought Johnny Sandman was finished with Sydney Travers. He'd contemplated his options at the bathhouse, and had decided to play things cool for the time being, bide his time. The next day he'd cleaned the apartment from top to bottom—strangely, that had reminded him of Veronica, of how he'd washed the blood from her face after he'd punched her that time, how he'd styled her hair to cover the patch where he'd pulled a hank out. He hadn't said sorry then, no way. He'd said, “You shouldn't have done it, Ronnie. You shouldn't have made me so mad.” And she'd agreed. He remembered how she'd sobbed, “I know, I know. I'm sorry, Johnny—I'm so sorry.”

Now
that
was the way a woman should talk to him. When he thought about Sydney Travers and Dr. Kim fucking Da Mi, that was his new Big Fucking Picture.

Songbuk Gu was smack-dab in the middle of the neon wastes of Northern Seoul. Despite the national clamp-down on the sex trade, thanks to corrupt local cops, the Gu still had a red light district: Miari Texas, a hopeless labyrinth of alleyways, each grimier and more garish than the next. Johnny had taken a few clients there over the years, to see the girls sitting out in windows, dressed in Western-style white wedding gowns, lifting their skirts to display
their panty-free zones. The Gu hospital saw a lot of girl-flesh, and not all of it got patched up and sent right back out where it came from. Some of it got sent ten foot under—unless, that is, Johnny Sandman got there first with a fistful of won. Johnny turned off at the hospital, a squat, stained gray building with no signs of life, death or near-fatal accident. The green neon cross mounted over the front doors was the only thing that distinguished it from a block of offices.

“Where's Emergency? How do we get in?” Johnny clenched his jaw. It was past midnight now and they were already behind schedule.

“Is round back—but we go underground parking. You turn here.” Johnny pulled into a narrow bay in front of the car elevator. Rattail hopped out and activated the code, then climbed back into the car as the horizontal metal doors yawned open. Johnny drove into the elevator and the doors closed silently behind them.

“What floor?” he growled.

“B4.”

Ratty was enjoying giving directions now, he could tell. Johnny unrolled the window, pressed the button and the descent began. What creeped him out about these things, aside from the paranoid thought of earthquakes, was the way you had to face the back while the cement foundations of the building rolled up behind you. Plus there was barely room for the car doors to open. Being trapped inside a metal cube with a shriveled-up Korean wise guy shedding dandruff all over his seats in the front and a grunting sack of lard in the back was not Johnny's idea of big-time fun on a Saturday night. He didn't breathe easy again until they reached the bottom, the doors opened and he had backed the convertible out into the garage.

The man waiting for them in the car park was short, fat and bullfrog-ugly. He, Rattail and the Scalper shared an unfunny joke in Korean while Johnny unlocked the trunk. The Doc's precious hatbox was in here, the contents kept on ice. The Scalper looked interested, but Johnny wouldn't let him carry it—he was in charge of this gig.

“Right. Which way's the morgue? I could use some cooling down.”

The morgue was chilly, all right, and saturated with that unmistakable smell of weird chemicals, the usual low note of putrefaction lurking underneath. Shiny instruments were laid out on drab green cloth, ready for the next round of autopsies. There was a sink,
a stand with a row of empty hangers; a couple of bins in the corner for used latex gloves and cotton smocks. And in front of him: the grid of drawers, six-foot trays of clammy goods.

Let's get this over with
, Johnny thought.

Bullfrog rolled a covered gurney out. A pair of brown feet, toenails painted bright red, peeked out from under the wrap.

“She just come in today,” Rattail said. “Stab wound in abdomen. Very clean, out of sight. You want see?”

Dead hookers in and of themselves had long ago ceased to interest Johnny, but he was paying for this one. No way was he forking over for a body even one inch off-spec.

“She'd better match the profile.”

“
Ye
,
ye
.” Ratty threw back the sheet.

The body was about the same height as Dr. Kim; they'd be able to share a wardrobe, no problem. The hooker would probably look better in the clothes; she wasn't as fucking bony as the Doc, who looked positively ghoulish some days. Even Sydney had more flesh on her than Kim. This woman's tits might be sagging now but they were big and cushiony, and her hips had seen a bit of squeezing too. Casting a professional eye down the body, Johnny noted with appreciation the tuft of black pubic hair shaved in a vertical line.

For a moment, Johnny felt almost nostalgic, remembering his first time licking Korean pussy—but hey, no time for that now. Anyway, this woman was roadkill. There was an ugly red gash in her left side, about three inches long, stitched up with black thread.

“So who was she? You sure she's got no next of kin?”

Rattail conferred with Bullfrog. “No,” he eventually replied, “she here two times before, broken ribs, black eye. Only pimp come, pick her up. Maybe pimp knife her, who knows? She in here late afternoon, die before she tell anyone what happen. Anyway, my friend get pimp phone number from file; he glad make money from dead girl. He gonna come in here six a.m., sign for release of body, no question, no problem. Everybody happy.”

“Great. Then let's get to it.”

Bullfrog wheeled over a high-powered lamp and a metal trolley. The Scalper opened his bag and started lining up his knives. Johnny, standing next to the tray of morgue instruments, found his eye attracted to their glinting blades and quickly, when no one was looking, he pocketed one.
What the hell; just a little souvenir
. The Scalper turned around and grunted at him, Johnny hoisted the hatbox onto the trolley next to the surgeon and lifted the lid.

Fucking hell!
It was real disturbing, seeing Kim's eyeless, expressionless face right there, an island of flesh resting on a fiberglass mold surrounded by ice. The lips were blue, the skin pale. Without make-up she looked—maybe not older exactly, but blander, flabbier. He had to give Kim credit though; otherwise the thing was the spitting image of her: same mole, same eyebrows, same lips. Apparently she'd grown it from a cell culture—like beansprouts on a piece of wet paper in a Petrie dish, Johnny thought, dimly recalling his high school science class.

The Koreans crowded in, overawed at first, then cracking vulgar jokes. He stepped back and regarded the three men suspiciously. He'd have preferred the surgery to take place at GRIP—these clowns would never manage to come up with any funny ideas individually, but together? You just never knew, did you? The germ of some prankish notion could pass through the intestinal tracts of their collective mind and shit could end up flying God knows where. But Kim had said there was a government inspection of the lab due this week, and insisted they do the job at the hospital: she obviously wanted to make extra work for him after he'd vetoed her choice of surgeon.

“So how long's it gonna take?” he demanded.

Rattail conferred with the Scalper. “Three, maybe four hour.”

“That long?” He grimaced. “Can your buddy there hand the Scalper the instruments? I got a sensitive stomach for this kind of thing.”

“
Ye, ye.
He very interesting to see how it work.”

“Is there a sofa I can crash on? You can wake me when it's done.”

“
Ye, ye
, right through here.” Rattail pointed at a gray metal door which led into a pleasant enough staffroom, for a morgue. The sofa was a bit short, but hell, he was the Sandman. He could sleep anywhere.