The Nervous System (10 page)

But are you
sure
, health code violators? See what I'm saying?

“Ah, you go! Place close …”

“That's right, and this is when we do the inspections, so as to not disrupt your business. Might I speak with the tenant of this unit?”

“Nobody here, you come back.”

“The owner. Of this place. Your boss.” I make loopy hand gestures trying to illustrate my intentions.

“Boss, this place?” She stops trying to close the door on my foot. Steps back.

“Yes, the boss, I need to speak with the owner. I need to contact the owner.”

Behind her I clock hardwood floors, rice lamps, fake flowers. Looks fancy.

Cursing me out, the lady leans back across some sort of receptionist's podium and plucks a card off it. There's a stack of them. “Owner, here.” Handing me the card. “Now you go, place close!”

She's shutting the door and this time I withdraw my foot. As the locks are set back in place, I'm reading the glossy card:

CLUB ENJOY
38 West 32nd Street
Suite 907
PRESENT THIS CARD FOR ENTRANCE
Rose Hee, managing director

This in both English and Korean.

Ring the bell again. Footsteps, swearing.

“Place. Close.” The lady groans once more, beyond exasperation.

Press the card up against the peephole. “Rose Hee,” I say, then in Korean: “Tell me where to find her. I have jerky, good jerky. Beef … and spicy beef and cheese.”

A pause.

Then the locks start turning again.

_______________

At the third address I've been given by the cleaning lady, I spot Rose straight off. Cho Dang Gol Restaurant, West 35th Street. These people must come correct in the food department, otherwise the local mob wouldn't see the point in floating the joint. No other way for a place to stay open, not without backers. Single Chinese soldier to the right of the door, making stone-faced like the joint is Buckingham Palace. I'm not worried about him, but he rocks a big old-school AK-47.

Rose perches on a high chair at the bar, legs crossed, leaning over a bowl of something hot. Blowing on the spoon. Has to be her.

She's a bizarre sight. Like in a really good, pearl-in-apigpen kinda way. Long dark hair up in a complex bun, held together with chopsticks. A white jean jacket pulled over a formal silk dress, gold with some detail I can't make out. Matte black heels, strappy bits tied up her shin. She bounces her leg, absently. Blows on the spoon again, brings it carefully all the way up to her lips.

The spot is pretty much dead as it is, but trust when I say shit goes
silent
when I saunter in, past the wax sentry at the doorway, whose attention is focused west anyway.

Two dudes with identical over-gelled haircuts, ties tossed over their shoulders, the guys straight freeze, jaws loose, eyes on me. A bit of meat falls out from between one gent's sticks.

Black folks do not come here. White folks do not come here.

An employee is moving rapidly to intercept, perhaps to tell me exactly this; out of the corner of my eye all I see is teeth and a pair of glasses.

I raise my index finger at him and with my busted hand indicate Rose. He fades out, fast. Somehow I knew he would.

Pull on a new pair of gloves, grab a menu, and head over to the bar. Take a seat right next to the lady, catching her air, it's not perfume exactly, it's pricey body wash or shampoo.

Nix that: she smells like the stuff folks try and fail to make expensive products smell like. The essence of the thing, the thing itself.

Rose doesn't even remotely acknowledge me. Her dress has little butterflies set in the gold.

Flip open the menu. Authentic. Scan it … I don't know from Korean food, not the real thing. Stains on the laminated plastic. I get nasty chills. Close it.

My opening, in the main Korean dialect spoken in Seoul, I say: “Hard to imagine getting fresh cuttlefish. Locally, I mean. What do you reckon, miss?”

Rose sets her spoon down. She's working on some kind of simple porridge. Dabs her lips carefully. Half turns to me. Gives me a long look up and down. Lingers on the hand. Without expression, her makeup understated.

Turns back to her food.

“Fuck off, cop,” she says, in English. With a pinch of the city in that accent.

Can't help but smile. I dig her already. Hell, I do vibe all kinds of cop.

“Rose Hee, I presume.”

“You presume correct. Did you miss the part where I told you to fuck off?” She takes another spoonful of the porridge, pops it in her mouth.

“Let me guess,” I say. “Flushing? Elmhurst?”

Rose doesn't respond.

“I'm not a cop,” I say.

“Oh yeah? Well, still, like I said, fuck off.”

I take the photograph out of my breast pocket. Place it on the counter. Slide it over next to her bowl.

“Song Ji-Won,” I say.

Her hand floats up to her mouth. At first I think she might be choking, my brain scrambles to dislodge my fossilized CPR skills, but she separates her fingers and says, “Put that away.”

Big knot of muscle in a do-rag and cook's apparel comes out of the kitchen, holding a dish towel, black eyes on me. “Yo. Is there a problem?”

Rose brings her hand down, covering the photo. Says, “No, Kim, it's cool. It's cool.” Smiles at him.

He looks from me to her and back again to me. Tattoo on the meat of his hand between thumb and forefinger, a stylized fish. Good-looking kid. I smile too.

“Think I surprised her,” I say. “It's been years.”

Rose nods, going with it. “Queens College. You can chill, Kim, really.”

He shrugs. Gives me a look, and disappears back into the kitchen.

Rose slides the photo back to me, palm down. I take it, she's dabbing at her mouth with her napkin. Says, “Jesus. Not here. You better not be a cop. Or a rapist freak. Walk with me.”

She swivels, grabs her purse off the counter, and is up, heading for the door.

I follow.

The matre d' or whoever he is bows at Rose as she exits. Simply stares at me. Likewise the soldier's gaze swivels and tracks us out the door.

Outside, Rose is headed toward Fifth Avenue, goddamnit, a right turn and it still hasn't gone eleven a.m., so I cheat a little, turn in place, three distinct left turns, saying to myself: left left left.

Dude still gawking through the window. Soldier trying to look unreadable. Like, what's that funny black man doing?

African fucking dance, bitches.

Proceed east, Rose's heels clicking up ahead.

Me, trifling with the System. Not good form. I catch up to her.

“I want to see some ID,” she says, without breaking stride. “Don't talk to me, let's just keep walking, but show me some ID.”

Fish out my laminate, my proper City laminate. Hand it over.

Rose frowns at the thing. “Decimal, Dewey? Is that like a … old-timey library joke?”

“My folks had a cornball sense of humor. What can I say?”

“And Class-A? Are you kidding me? You have to be some kind of cop. I don't need this.”

She speeds up, starts crossing the street. I keep pace with her, saying, “I'm not a goddamn cop. Hand to God, ma'am. I'm a, uh, independent agent …”

Rose snorts. Granted, “independent agent,” that came off shady, delusional.

“Agent of what? See, I don't want any drama, what makes you think it's okay to just waltz over here and wave that photo around? What's your damage?”

“I have information on a club, Bubble—”

“Just, no talking, let's get off this street.”

We take the left onto Fifth Avenue, heading south. I'm trying to mentally steer her. Rose ducks into a recessed entryway, arms folded, defensive posture, saying, “All right, I'll give you two minutes to explain what the fuck you want.”

“Listen, will you just relax?” I need to turn this around a bit and get a better position here. “I am not a cop, I have nothing to do with official law enforcement, so you gotta stop with that. I apologize if I disturbed you with the photograph, I had no way of knowing you'd respond to it, so let's just start over fresh here. All right?”

Rose is looking down Fifth. Back toward Koreatown proper. She nods.

“Thank you,” I say. I take out the card from Enjoy. “This your place? Your name is all over the card, so I'm assuming yeah.”

Rose shifts her gaze to the card, then back to the avenue. “Shouldn't be talking to you at all.” She readjusts her arms, hugging herself.

“And why is that, Missus Hee?”

She stares at me for a second, then returns her attention downtown. “
Miss
. That's just how it is around here. This is not your neighborhood, you have no idea what goes on.”

Fair enough.

“Okay, that's fine, you don't have to say shit. Let me lay things out, kick it to you from my angle.”

I fetch the photo of Song, her frozen laughter. Rose flinches.

“I'm looking into the circumstances surrounding the death of Song Ji-Won. My reasons for doing so are private, and I'm working on my own. As in, yo, by myself. Now, from your response to this picture, I take it you knew this woman, am I wrong about that?”

Rose shifts her weight to her left leg, doesn't respond. Holding herself, tight.

I press forward: “Okay, so, mixed up in the info I got on Song, I have some locations, addresses, and one of them is your place of employment, which was formerly know as quote Bubble Teen Tea unquote. Yeah? So it's not crazy that I'm standing here, wondering what that has to do with Song.”

Rose is looking more and more uncomfortable, and has nothing to say. Focused downtown.

“I have names too, I'm going to throw them out there and get your vibe. Again, you don't need to say shit. K-Mart.” I'm trying to recall the files … damn, should have written these names down. Maybe I did, somewhere … “K-Man. Kwon somebody.”

That's a bull's-eye, Rose's eyes dart left, blinking. Not looking at me.

“Some company names, some clubs. Promise Land. Some kind of import company. Executive Comfort, another whazzat,
hostess club,
like your spot …”

Rose speaks, still looking south: “Enjoy is a legitimate business. You said hostess club like you'd say whorehouse. You clearly don't understand shit. None of my girls are into anything on the side. They get caught doing dates, tricking, drugs, whatever, they're fired. Full stop. And trust me, they need that fucking job, so—”

“Okay, Rose, I feel you, I get it.”

Turns to me. “Do you? Where are you from?”

“South Bronx. However, I've traveled—”

“Right, so you don't know how people do things down here. All that goes on at Enjoy is a whole bunch of sad men binge-drinking, doing karaoke, and talking a lot of bullshit that my girls have to sit there and listen to. That's fucking hard work, believe me.”

“Hey, I'm not a complete, uh … I've read a lot about the cultural function of—”

“Yeah? Oh, you have? So who the fuck are you, a sociologist who does a little cold-case murder investigation on the side? What's up with the suit?”

I dig plucky, but Jesus, man, her attitude is a touch too much, say: “Hey, Rose. I didn't come down here to disrespect you, or to research fucking Korean male bonding or whatever you wanna call it. I don't care what you do, I don't care what anybody does, I'm only concerned with anything relevant to Song Ji-Won, her murder, and the murder of her son. That's it.”

Rose covers her eyes. I continue.

“So. Why do I find the address of your … fancy-ass karaoke spot amongst all this information on Song. Everything about your behavior tells me you know exactly what I'm talking about.”

Rose's position doesn't change. Pressing her palms into her eyes.

“Be real, Rose. Still think I'm a cop? You think the cops give a fuck about a dead Korean hooker, some small-fry gangster stuff from eighteen years back? Especially given the current state of things? Please. Think they gave a fuck back then? Be real. Plus, from their perspective, that book is closed. Forgotten. Ten-to-one there's nobody left who ever even heard of this shit.”

Rose takes her hands away. Lids and lashes smudged and wet. Silence for a while, I ride this out.

Dig industrial noise from three directions. Closest site being the Empire State Building, which looms huge. To the west, probably Penn Station. The day revving up.

I can now make right turns.

I want to disinfect my hands. I want to take a pill.

Rose sighs. “I gotta go to work. I'm gonna look all puffy.”

Want to observe that she's gonna look great, puffy or not. I withhold that thought.

Then she does this: she touches my tie. Reflex, I blink and step back, smashed flipper aloft.

“Easy. Jesus. Look,” she says, “maybe we could talk later. Talk about why a guy like you gives a damn about a dead Korean girl. Reintroduce ourselves.”

It doesn't vibe flirty, honest to Jah. I should be way dubious. This screams stitchup. But life is short, apparently.

“What happened to the hand?” she asks.

“Caught it in the cookie jar.”

She looks at me sideways. After a while: “And your mouth?”

“Tried to kiss a Korean chick and she kwon-do'ed my shit.”

That buys me a laugh. Again she reaches out, rubs at a blood spot on my lapel. Then, “Come and find me?”

I say, “Yeah. I'll find you.”

Rose nods, brisk, glances both ways. Jams her petite hands in her jacket pockets. Takes off south, toward the rigid tumult of West 32nd.

I try and fail to not watch her ass.

As she crosses over West 34th, I see the red Lexus hybrid idling on the east side of Fifth Avenue. Retro twentyinch chrome rims. Smoked-over windows. Pimp extras. Automotive bling, stands out against the drab military vehicles like a straight brother at a Barbra Streisand gig.