Seoul Survivors (25 page)

“Sure,” he said, getting his MoPho out of his pocket. He slid it next to hers on the table and they watched in silence as the phones coupled, waiting for the flash and burble of a small “successful upload” fusion tone.

Sydney followed Damien along the narrow sidewalk of Insadong's main drag, passing antique shops and galleries, mulberry
paper vendors and calligraphy shops dripping with brushes as big as her head. She was feeling irritated with herself. The meeting had hardly gone to plan. She'd felt ridiculous in the tearoom, earnestly discussing ovaries and sperm—Damien clearly thought she was an idiot. And now they were heading toward Jae Ho's wife's gallery; on this street, Jin Sok had said. She'd invited Damien to Insa Dong partly so she could see it without having to walk past it by herself, but right now she was in no mood to confront Jae Ho's perfect wife and perfect life, let alone him. She'd left him still sleeping in her apartment, but who knows, he could be down here already, helping his wife, or even having coffee with Jin Sok. She just wanted to get home as quickly as she could.

Damien didn't know that, of course. He stopped in front of a large gray and white canvas hanging in a window. “Hey, isn't this by the same guy who hangs in Gongjang?”

Sydney's heart floundered in her chest. “Yeah, must be,” she said, as casually as she could manage.

The canvas was emblazoned with a tarry black cross, a plus sign to balance the minus sign at the nightclub. The background was an aerial map of Seoul, roughly painted over with thick, viscous brushstrokes. Jae Ho had scratched at the paint, scoring the outlines of buildings, bridges, streets—and the occasional suggestion of people drowning in a sick and rotting sea.

“Ground Zero. Floods.” Damien remarked. “I wonder if he painted it since London.”

“Looks like a dirty window to me.” Sydney peered past the painting to the gallery within, all gleaming hardwood floors. There were some ink drawings on the walls, and a tall Korean woman in a sleeveless dress was talking on the phone behind a desk, her face obscured by a huge bouquet of flowers.

“He's a friend of yours, isn't he, the artist?”

She had thought about that question already. “He's a friend of Jin Sok's. Cool guy—doesn't speak much English.”

“Do you want to go in?”

“I'm bushed. Maybe another time?”

Damien was heading over the river to teach, so they parted company at Chongno with a quick kiss. Sydney got a cab back to Hongdae. It was an uncomfortable ride. Damien thought she was a freak and wouldn't return her calls; Da Mi would be disappointed in her, and the start-date for the Peonies would be delayed. Plus, it had
been horrible, looking into the gallery, wondering if that elegant woman at the desk was Jae Ho's wife. She got stomach cramps just thinking about it.

But there was nothing she could do about any of that right now. She was dog-tired. She wanted only one thing now, and that was her bed.

She wasn't expecting Jae Ho to still be in her apartment, but his boots were lying in the hallway where he'd kicked them off the night before, and inside the studio room, he was still asleep. She slipped off her clothes and curled around him on the
yo
. He stirred, opened his eyes, ran his hands over her body. She waited for him to ask where she'd gone, but he just yawned, picked up her alarm clock, frowned and said, “Oh, late.”

She laid her head upon his chest, listened to his heart. “Jae Ho?” she whispered.

“Umm?”

“Do you want to go out for dinner with me this week? Not in Hongdae.”

He ran his fingers through her hair. “Sy-duh nee. I no like appointments,” he finally replied. “Appointments give me . . . stress. Today I had appointment with my wife, for lunch, promise. But I sleep. I here. Now I worried.” She raised her head to look at him. The aperture of his face closed in on itself like it had done when he was talking about the blood-song.

There was another long silence as her stomach turned.

“Piglet, I playboy. I
married,
” he said, apologetically, his voice lifting on the last word, as if he was alarming even himself with this reminder. Soberly, he continued, “I want free, but I
not
free. I don't want you get too in love with me.”

“No,” she said firmly, desperately, sitting up, “
I
free! I only want to see you sometimes—special times. Like
giseang
.”
Giseang
were traditional Korean courtesans; they were cultured and intelligent, and they entertained their clients with more than just their bodies. She hoped the reference would make him smile, and it did.

“You play guitar?” he teased.

“I learn!”

“Okay, okay!”

But it wasn't okay, she could tell.

He got up and began to dress, not looking at her, checking he had everything he'd left strewn around the flat.

Suddenly she felt angry with him—and with herself. Was she really such a simpering idiot? “Maybe I'll get another boyfriend,” she said, airily. “As well as you.”

“Ah, good idea.” He smiled. “Who? Oasis boy?”

“Oasis boy?” She didn't get it.

“Black hair boy. I think you make date with him last night.”

“Oh, him. Maybe.” She tried to sound indifferent, but her stomach was doing back-flips. What was wrong with Jae Ho? Why didn't he give a shit if she fucked someone else?

“Very nice. He look good with you.” His tone was light and approving—but surely he must be feeling
something
.

She tossed her hair. “Actually, I just went out for tea with him. I'll have to see.”

Jae Ho nodded sagely, and buttoned up his jeans.

After he left Sydney lay down on her
yo
, curled into a tight little ball. Everything was all wrong. Jae Ho was a heartless jerk, trying to get rid of her—or pimp her out to other men. Or maybe he wasn't. Maybe he was just insecure. Maybe he'd decided that she really wanted a Western boyfriend and was just trying to get out of their relationship with his pride intact. In which case she'd just done the stupidest thing in the world—why had she taunted him? She should have reassured him instead. Had she just fucked everything up?

Just as the tears began drooling down her face her Gotcha vibrated on her wrist: Da Mi, calling to see how it had gone with Damien. They'd agreed to talk as soon as Sydney got back from Insa Dong.

She clamped her hands between her legs, but the Gotcha just buzzed against her thighs, saying
Da Mi is your friend. Da Mi has always been way kinder than this selfish bastard who only wanted to fuck you
. Da Mi had given her so much, and so far all she'd done was fart about, paying nothing but chapped lip service to the tiny favor Da Mi had asked in return.

Taking a deep breath, she wiped her face with the sheet and picked up. “Hi, Da Mi,” she said in a tiny voice into the Gotcha.

“Sydney. Are you all right?” Da Mi's voice vibrated faintly from the watch.

“Yeah.” She sniffed. “I mean, no, I guess not.”

“Oh, darling. Did Damien upset you?”

She fought back the tears, trying to think of a plausible story, but nothing came to mind. “No,” she gulped, “not him.”

“Who then, sweetheart?”

“I feel so bad. I should have told you ages ago.”

“Told me what? Sydney, calm down and tell me what's wrong.”

Sydney struggled to control herself. Through her weeping hiccoughs she tried to explain. “Oh Da Mi, I've been trying to be good, to be enlightened, but it's so hard without the Chair. I didn't mean to, honestly, but I . . . got
involved
with this married guy, an artist I met at the club. It felt so beautiful sometimes, I thought he loved me, but now I know he doesn't. He was so horrible to me today. I'm sorry, I wanted to tell you . . . but I didn't do anything during the donation cycle, I promise.” She wiped her nose again on the sheet. God, what would Da Mi say?

“Darling, it's just what happens in these clubs. I know you didn't do anything to jeopardize the Peonies. Your eggs are perfect. Now we just have to get you sorted out too.”

“But how?” Sydney wailed. “I'm in love with him—I can't stand it that he doesn't care about me at all. It hurts so much, Da Mi.”

“Shhh. It's love pain, not cancer, my darling. Just an excessive attachment, that's all. You can easily cure it in the Chair. Have you been taking your honey recently?”

“No,” she admitted.

“You have some in the apartment, don't you? So after this call, make yourself a double dose and get an early night. I have to go to Kyongiddo tomorrow to deal with an emergency, but I'll be back by the evening. Why don't you come up to my place for dinner? I'll send a taxi.”

Her heart was a rock-hard ache between her ribs.
No, it's hopeless. Nothing can help me
, Sydney wanted to sob. But she hesitated. Maybe she
should
try the Chair again. It had been so amazing last time. And at least she'd be getting out of the apartment.

“That would be really nice, Da Mi,” she sniffled.

“Perfect. We'll give you a booster tomorrow, then you can start having regular sessions. No man is worth all this torment, Sydney. You don't have to give up romance to be the Queen of the Peonies, but when you're closer to Enlightenment, you'll be able to choose someone who's good for you. Someone who shares our values.”

Sydney sat up, and pulled the sheet around her. “That's what I want, Da Mi—I guess I thought because Jae Ho was an artist he was special, but today he was so
casual
and . . .
mean
.”

“Trust me, sweetheart, he doesn't deserve you. Look, why don't you make yourself a cup of honey drink now?”

Yes, she should really. Sydney got to her feet and, still wrapped in the sheet, headed over to the kitchen and opened the cupboard.

“Good girl,” Da Mi cooed from her wrist. “But tell me, how did it go with Damien?”

Sydney clattered about the kitchen, filling the kettle, dipping a spoon in the jar of honey. “I don't know, Da Mi. I was feeling bad about that too. I passed your card on, but I don't think he'll call. He said he didn't want some kid showing up in twenty years. Maybe I just didn't sell it to him well enough.”

“It's not everybody's cup of tea. We might have to try another angle. Otherwise, do you think he'd be a good choice?”

“I think he'd be
fab.
He's really smart—the way he talks about things, it's very . . . English. But he doesn't want to go back there. I mean, who can blame him?”

“That might be a way in.”

“If I haven't blown it already. I think he thought I was a nutcase, Da Mi.”

Da Mi chuckled. “I'm sure he thinks you're lovely. We'll just have to keep trying. I have a biotech project coming up he might be more interested in.”

“I've got his MoPho number. He said to call.”

“You can do that soon—just remember, don't mention singing unless he does. Now, look, don't worry any more about this artist; get some sleep tonight and I'll send a taxi round tomorrow.”

Da Mi said goodbye, leaving Sydney to lie back in bed with her honey drink. She drank it slowly, feeling its restorative powers. She knew it was dumb to get all worked up about Jae Ho when the whole VirtuWorld project was only just beginning. Maybe a few more sessions in the chair would make her less emotional, more accepting of this situation? By bugging Jae Ho about his wife she was only driving him away. Fucking Damien to make him jealous would be stupid too. Anyway, soon she'd be famous, with queues of men to choose from. But right now she was “knackered,” as Damien would say.

Giggling to herself, she slurped down the last of the hot honey drink and rolled underneath the blankets.

Sunday afternoon, and he'd finally finished the first draft of his post-snukes British foreign tourism projection report. Johnny fancied a cigar and a big snifter of Courvoisier. He strode down to Churchill's, a new Itaewon gastropub with a North African menu and backroom humidor. The glassed-off antechamber was comfortably furnished with wing-tipped leather chairs and copies of the latest
Financial Times
on long wooden news grippers. Today it was empty; maybe the place was too new to have caught on yet.

He'd savored three puffs of his Cuban leaf when his MoPho buzzed in his jacket pocket.

Withheld number: that had been happening lately, calls he'd miss, and no left messages. He'd no time for games like that—but then again, it could be the lab.

“Mr. Joh-nee?” A voice he hated whined in his ear.

“Look. I said
I'd
call
you
.”

“I sorry, very sorry, but emergency. You can talk? Private?”

Johnny took a swig of his cognac. “Better make it snappy, Ratty.”

“Okay, okay, I talk quick. My mind trouble, Mr. Joh-nee. I need thirty million
won
in cash very soon, or else I have show sexy sexy video to a friend of ours. I don't think Dr. Kim gonna be happy when she see what happen at hospital.”

Johnny checked over his shoulder. The tall Moroccan waiter was still flirting with some Korean chick in a skimpy dress. He must do well here, one of a kind. There might be an escort angle to follow up on later . . . But for now, Johnny had to concentrate on this fuck-up. Like, was this unrefrigerated shrimp trying to
blackmail
him?

“Did I hear you right?” he murmured. “Did I hear you say you want to
extort
money from me?”

“Oh, excuse my English, I don't know.” Rattail tittered. “All I know is I watching very interesting video, on the Internet already.”

“Well, if it's so fucking
interesting
, why did you wait so long to tell me about it? It's been a while since the hospital. Maybe it took you that long to cook up this story, Ratface, or hire a couple of actors to make some bad porno flick?” Johnny kept his voice low, with one eye on the entrance to the antechamber. No one was within earshot.

“Oh no, no, I was phone you before, you no answer. I don't want leave message. I want talk to you. Video is real. Camera was inside air-con unit. Color beautiful—red James Dean innerwear, I like very much. You please tell me where you buy them. And sound excellent quality. I think Dr. Kim going to be very upset when she hear you calling to a dead prostitute her name.”

Shit. Those were his underpants all right—and there
had
been one of those tall air-con units in the corner. Still, this deep-fried runt and his plug-ugly cronies could just have been peeking.

“So are you going to send me this link then?” he asked, dry as a Bond martini. “Or am I going to have to come over and drag it out of you?”

“Oh no. No worry. We meet Hollywood's. I show you on my MoPho.”

Meet this whiny schmuck? This human
mosquito
? Johnny took a draw on his cigar and blew a perfect smoke ring across the room. It sailed between the upholstered chairs before warping and dissolving in front of a framed photograph of Winston Churchill. Old Winnie the Poohbah hadn't said anything about fighting 'em in the humidors, on our
afternoons off
.

“What makes you think I care if Kim sees it, Ratface?” he countered, not quite able to hide his irritation. “She's not my girlfriend—or my boss.”

“No, you right; I think maybe you like Kim to see it, make her mad. But I think you don't want her tell your people in LA you losing your temper, doing bad things—
illegal
things. Things embarrass company. I heard your boss pay big money for you learn how treat people nice. I heard he say you go on course or you fired. I think you job not so safe, is it Mr. Joh-nee?”

Kim. It could only be fucking Kim who'd told him all that. Johnny stubbed the cigar out. “Listen to me very carefully, Ratface. I don't know who you've been talking to, or how long you've been plotting this little scheme, but let's get one thing straight: I'm not giving anyone my money. Assuming this video in fact exists, I want you to
erase
it, and any files of it
anywhere
, or else my people are going to find you and when they're done with you there isn't going to be much left. Do you understand?”

“I understand, but I have friends too—friends who send Kim the website and call police if anything happen me. I don't think you want go jail in foreign country. You only want website erased, memory card destroyed—and price is thirty million
won
.”

“So you can turn up with another website address and double your price? Yeah, okay, let's meet. So you can show me the website and we can talk about your options. See: my course worked. I treat you nice, Ratty; you treat me nice too.” Johnny made his voice sickly-sweet, though irony was usually wasted on Koreans. As for Ratty's so-called friends, Bullfrog and Co. were easily dealt with, and the Korean police made the Keystone cops look like a crack unit of the Presidential Guard.

“Good, good. We meet tonight? You bring cash?” You could almost hear Ratty licking his lips. Fucking amateur.

“Tonight? Tonight, Rattail, is my night off. I'll see you tomorrow, ten p.m., at Hollywood's. Bring the camera too.”

“
Ye, ye
. No problem. We talk then.”

“Don't be late.” Johnny ended the call and downed the rest of his Courvoisier. Who would know Rattail, and also know enough to keep his mouth shut if the creep went missing? TJ, that was it. TJ owed him from way back.

Monday night he pulled up at Rattail's apartment building at nine, parking in the back, away from the building supervisor's office. He was dressed in black, and had taken the precaution of wearing glasses, a false mustache and a hat—but still, the fewer people who saw him the better. Before getting out of the car he pulled on a pair of latex gloves and double-checked that the scalpel was in his coat pocket. He was proud of this touch: the blade was the one he'd picked up at the morgue.

Ten minutes later he was in the stairwell on the ninth floor. His plan was simple: just hang out by the elevator. Koreans never walked up or down—they were too afraid of robbers, which they pronounced “lovers,” funnily enough. All this was assuming that Rattail was home, and would leave his apartment alone. If not, he'd just have to meet him at Hollywood's and take it from there.

The stairwell was just out of sight of the open walkway that connected the apartments. It was dusk now, which made it easier to lurk in the shadows. If another tenant appeared, he could just duck up a step or two. Finally, he heard footsteps approaching, and peering out from his corner, he saw Rattail, standing in front of the elevator, pressing the button. Bingo. Swiftly, scalpel in hand, Johnny stepped out of the shadows, grabbed the taller man in an arm-lock from behind and whipped the blade up to Rattail's throat.

The swift attack had the desired effect: the Korean crumpled like a puppet with cut strings. Quaking, he sputtered a few words in Korean as Johnny dragged him into the stairwell.

“Who do you think I am, asshole?” Johnny whispered. Patting down Ratty's grubby beige trench coat, he discovered the camera, and the Korean's MoPho. “Now be quiet and share your toys with Uncle Johnny.”

The digicam was a tiny Japanese model. He shoved it into the pocket of his own coat, along with the MoPho. The sweat was rolling off him: it was way too warm for this shit—and way too exposed. Anyone could walk by at any minute.

“Right, take me to your apartment,” he ordered.

His breathing rasping and shallow, one arm twisted behind his back—a hold Johnny had always found very effective—Rattail led the way. At the door to number 932 he fumbled with his keys and finally let Johnny into a sparsely furnished studio apartment. Despite having hardly anything in it, the place was a dump: dishes were piled up like tower blocks in the sink, and the faded linoleum floor was caked with ripples of grime. A fuggish aroma of dirty socks and stale cigarette smoke hung in the air, while a pile of dirty laundry in the corner, skid marks clearly visible on a pair of gray underpants, added a rich, almost tangy top note to the stink.

“How can you live like this, Ratty?” Johnny muttered. “I'm going to have to call you Pigshit from now on.”

The computer monitor on the table in the corner was off, but the green light on the keyboard indicated the hard drive was still running. Johnny forced Rattail into the chair in front of the screen and turned it on.

“Okay. Now you show me the file, you erase it, then you show me the website you made and you delete the video. Understand?”

His thin shoulders trembling, tears now greasing his face, Rattail nodded.

Johnny stood behind him, looking over his head as he opened up the file. It was entitled, in English,
Mr. Johnny's Blind Date
. Johnny watched it for ten seconds, then pressed the scalpel a little more firmly against Ratty's throat. The Korean clicked his way through the process of deletion and then opened up the website. It was nothing special, Johnny was relieved to see, just a cyber-holding bay—no pay-per-view or download buttons.

“What about your buddy down at the morgue?” Johnny kneed Ratty in the back. “What about the Scalper? Do they know the
password? Have they downloaded the file? How many times have you three jerked off to it, huh?”

“No, no, they don't have.” Rattail twitched. Johnny had no doubt that he was lying. Well, first things first.

“What's the code for the car elevator at the hospital? Quick!”

“73281,” Rattail sobbed.

“Good boy. Relax. I'm nearly done with you now.” Rubbing his own neck, Johnny had one last think about his options. He'd deliberately left this part of the evening's schedule open to the whim of circumstance, but now was the time for that whim to be guided by a little practical application.

On the one hand, he really was trying to put his hitman days behind him. Indiscriminate butchery was fun, of course, but it didn't fit easy into the new Johnny Sandman HKO, future Head of SEA Ops, big picture.

On the other hand, could he really trust this scummy weasel not to try and take revenge?

Ratty's hands were clutching the edge of the table. His fingernails were filthy. Because he spent his life
wallowing in dirt
. Look at the way he lived: bleach had never touched that kitchen sink; soap had never graced the back of his neck. Would he take Johnny's kind intervention today as a message to clean up his act? No: he'd just find some new pile of disgusting muck to throw at his superiors as soon as he could.

Sadly, the Sandman's latex gloves would be getting wet tonight.

But this decision brought up some serious logistical issues. It was against his principles to kill Ratty anywhere near his flat. That could get some over-zealous police officer interested in “a personal motive,” might get the computer hard drive checked over. Hustling the Korean down the stairwell and across the car park this early in the evening was also far too dangerous an option. Bumping off Ratty and taking the hard drive down with him would also be conspicuous, and the computer was way too big to conceal about his person—plus its absence in the flat would scream “investigate me.” Too bad Rattail didn't use a laptop; that would have been a no-brainer: simple to hide under his coat, easy to dispose, and an obvious target for an opportunistic burglar.

The Korean was breathing more normally. His fingers twitched in the direction of a packet of cigarettes beside the computer keyboard. Obviously he felt the wrath of Johnny Sandman had passed.

“You have other porn videos on there?” Johnny asked, casually.

Rattail's shoulders relaxed a little. “
Ye
,
ye
. You want see?”

Johnny waited as he clicked open an MPEG and a badly lit image of a tubby Korean being pissed on by a pre-op tranny filled the RealPlayer window.

“You like?” Rattail asked hopefully. “I have plenty I show you.”

“I think it's
fag shit
.” Johnny took a swipe at Rattail's head with the flat of his palm, releasing a small cascade of dandruff. “I want you to erase it, and every other sick, fucking video you have on there. One by fucking one.”

Ratty sniffled as his life's work began to disappear, but Johnny watched the general obliteration with a growing sense of security. One trashed file reconstructed by computer forensics was evidence. A dozen, though; that was just a guy getting bored. All gone, though: that might look a little strange.

“Better leave a few,” he growled. “I need to go soon. Show me your favorite one that's left, get it up and running.”

“Okay, thank you, Mr. San-duh-man, thank you.” Rattail sighed and opened up another video. Johnny grimaced as a ginger-haired US soldier appeared on screen, fucking a goat in a cellar while his buddies stood round in a big circle jerk, their dog tags glinting against their bare chests.

“You're really sick, you know that,
Pigshit
?” With one deep incision he cut Rattail's gulping throat. A jet of blood from the jugular spurted over the keyboard, the monitor and the wall. The body jerked briefly, like a fish on the end of a line, then, with a satisfying gurgle, slumped to the floor.

Johnny stepped back from the pool of blood spreading over the lino. Checking his hands, he was pleased to see only a few crimson smears on the latex fingertips. He could always pick up a few shifts at a Halal butcher's if he ever quit working for ConGlam.

There was a plastic bag in his pocket. He took it out, peeled off the gloves and stuffed them and the scalpel inside it. He'd throw the knife into the Han later, and burn the latex along with his cheap new clothes. For now, he pulled on another pair of hospital gloves. There wasn't a mirror in the room, so he ducked into the bathroom to make sure no flecks of blood had splashed his face. All clear—but fuck, that shower was a high school experiment in how to grow mold. He resisted the temptation to pocket Ratty's Hugo Boss aftershave. Taking trophies from a murder scene was strictly for psychos and retards.