The Nervous System (12 page)

Chinese dude in a yellow bodysuit comes around the corner, savvies us, not scared, bored even, just walking down the street, spins on his heels and scoots right back where he came from. Well played.

“Hey comrade!” Kim calls after him in crappy Mandarin. “Hey! Beijing! Hey, getting robbed back here and all types of shit!”

Poor fellow. I pat him on the head. Tap him gently with the barrel and put the gun away.

“Get up, Kim.”

The kid is trembling. I feel a wave of tenderness, fuck knows why.

“Who's in charge around here, huh? K-Man?”

Kim lifts his shoulder, won't meet my eyes.

“Maybe … maybe not. I don't gotta conversate with you, nigga,” he mumbles.

I don't like that, but hey. I poke him again.

“C'mon, get up, nobody's gonna hurt you. Just don't approach folks you don't know with that negative attitude, there's all kinds out here and plenty badder than you. Humility, brother. I respect athleticism, but don't matter how much tae kwon do kung-fu-Manchu you know, nobody faster than a bullet. But I'm not that guy, dig, so stand up and be thankful for another day in paradise.”

Kim points his face at me. “Best be glad you had that gun, man.”

I nod, solemn. “Always am, Kim.”

“Fucking pull out your heart with my bare fucking hands, man.”

Clown. But I maintain a serious tone. “Don't doubt it.”

“Fuck a bitch up.”

“Well, Kim,” I say to this man-boy, “the moment you see an opening, I suggest you take your best shot. I'm right here, brother. Meantime,” put a hand on his arm and point him back toward the distant hubbub, back toward Koreatown, “take me to K-Man Seok.”

_______________

Middle-aged Korean saying, “I didn't do it.”

Cigarette-stained fingers touch the dog-eared photograph I've placed in front of him, the fur coat, the frozen gesture.

He repeats this gently, as if to himself: “I didn't do it.”

Kwon-Man Seok is probably about my age, if not younger, but the dude looks a full decade-and-change my elder. Salty, greyhound-thin, prison- and street-hardened, sharing the same fish tattoo as Kim in the meat of his right forefinger and thumb, faded blurry-blue ink, gang signifiers. Leathery all over, plenty of scars. K-Man.

The both of us rocking SARS masks.

I'm a people person and a sucker, and hey, I dig the guy's energy, even in this dingy sixth-floor office on 34th Street. The man radiates class somehow, and a certain calm. Old-school dignity, old-school code.

About which the young Kim would know nothing, as he hangs back now, gum-smacking with some fellow thugs. A couple Koreans, one or two Chinese as well. Keeps throwing a worried glance over at us, did he fuck up bringing me here? Not like he had options.

We're seated toward a yellowish chicken-wire window overlooking the street, tea cooling in front of me. Haven't touched it, I'll admit.

I might have a good vibe, but I'm not stupid, y'all.

My vibe is positive, sure, I got that
PMA.*
But this joint is dirty, dirty, dirty.

On the table a Korean paper, ashtray, gold stub of a pencil, a deeply weathered book of sudoku puzzles, newsprint sienna, gone over once or twice, erased, and gone over again.

I've been relieved of my 99. Still got the little guy around my ankle, but there seems no pending static, and this situation feels pretty chill so I don't anticipate any need arising.

Defeated, that's the flavor of the air up in this place. Has-been. Past tense.

I am perched on my chair, with as little of my ass making contact with the seat as humanly possible. Chiggers, lice. Wanna Purell
^TM
up but don't wanna offend.

I don't see it happen but Kwon produces a pack of cigarettes, Chinese, and I accept. At this moment I really have no recollection as to whether or not I'm a smoker; I have a hunch I am. Pull down my mask. Lean in to accept a light from him.

Inhale, exhale, yet more lung pollution. K-Man's in a fugue of sorts, thumbing the photo.

“Didn't do what? Didn't take the picture? Didn't know the girl?” I say.

“Disrespectful. You, you come in here …” Flashes mad for an instant, then he straightens out his face. Big sigh. The dude deflates even further, and dude was deflated already. Just a tarp of skin, draped over a rack of bone.

“Doesn't matter,” says the man, monotone. “Doesn't matter anymore.”

“Uh-huh. Now, sir …” I begin, unrolling my spiel, but Kwon cuts this off.

“Who you work for?” he says, quiet yet, but with teeth. “Police? ATF?”

“No sir. Self-employed. I work for me, nobody else. I'm not here to fuck with you in any way, sir.”

Kwon gives a pained grin. “Mr….”

“Decimal.”

He mouths the word, dismisses it. “Been expecting one you guys, long time. Huh? Must work senator's office, Secret Service, or—”

“Absolutely not. In fact, I was not aware of this whole … situation until agents representing a certain congressman accosted me only this morning. Think we're both talking about the same guy. Yeah, you could say I have a beef of my own to settle with those motherfu … people.”

Kwon smokes between thumb and pinkie, watches me. I continue.

“I'm here strictly in an information-gathering capacity.”

Kwon speaks now, says, “Old shit. Old story. Who cares? Korean whore, one more, one less … same, same.” He makes a weighing-the-scales gesture with this hands.

My thoughts exactly, but I wasn't gonna be the first one to say it straight up.

“Yeah, well. Plus the baby,” I remind him.

Kwon bats this away. Indicates my paws. “Why you wear these … on the hands?”

I look at the surgical gloves. Speak frankly and switch to Korean. “I am, well, concerned about bacteria, germs, general hygiene, vis-à-vis protecting myself from exposure and possible illness or disorder arising from such.”

The man laughs; I know what he's thinking, what with everything we're breathing up in this tar pit, everything we're touching …

Switching back to his native tongue, Kwon says, “Strange man. Speak Korean. You hurt your hand.”

I regard my flipper, hold it up. “I slapped a moving helicopter.”

Kwon scans me, deadpan. I blank him back.

Dude says, “Why do you know our language?”

Again I find myself feeling sure of the answer, as sure as I've ever been without actually knowing, so I'm candid. What the hell, tell the man: “After my military service the United States government subjected me to a battery of unsanctioned and invasive experiments and tests. One of these tests involved enhanced language aptitude. I have had many of the world's languages downloaded into my brain. That's about as far as I can understand it, I'm constantly surprising myself.”

He grimaces and switches again to Korean. “You actually believe this?”

I dip my chin, yes. Do I? I do. “Yes I do.”

Kwon knits his brow. Looks back at the photo. “And you are not police, military, government, working perhaps for another contractor … working for Chinese …”

Nod my head. “Hand to God. I'm my own man.”

K-Man thinks about this. Squints, peering at the blood on my lapel. “I understand most but not all of what you say. You use strange words.”

I shrug.

The man casts his gaze around the dingy room. Sighs a couple times. “Well, I am an old fool who has nothing to say that affects my people.”

“Appreciate the trust energy.”

Kwon frowns at the odd terminology, but nods curtly. Dude seems prepared to talk to me so I jump on it.

“Sir, I'm here, obviously, because you went upstate for the—”

“Murder of Song Ji-Won, yes, I did.”

“Well, sir, it's my instinct … I should say that your, ah, confession is the only bit of evidence on record, so I'm, you know, inclined to believe you are—”

“Not responsible for the murder of Song Ji-Won and her infant son,” he cuts in. “No, it hardly matters now so I can freely say I did not, could not have committed this … most brutal, heinous action against two innocents.”

We sit with that, the natural follow-up question heavy in the atmosphere. Start to say it: “Okay. So if not you …”

K-Man makes an impatient sound. “Look at us.”

I don't get it. “Sir?”

“I mean, we used to be captains here. These American streets. Edicts of Seoul were observed equally here. A direct connection, a business arrangement here was a business arrangement there. We had order and hierarchy and respect. Now it's Beijing says this, Beijing says that. And with the war …”

Wags his head. Sad.

“All this Chinese ass-fucking, and what do they understand? They understand people as numbers, as pack animals. It's a gigantic mess, extremely volatile, you know. The Chinese don't understand our people, the people they subjugate; for that matter, they don't understand their own people … and when you don't understand your slaves, well. Your American history bears this out.” He looks uncomfortable, then bobs his head, quick. Continues, “But these fucking Chinese …”

I glance over at the clutch of young folks.

“Don't worry, they would never waste the energy learning our language. No, it's our lot to learn theirs. Ugly language. And look at that. The younger generation knows nothing of history. Look at that, they eat together, commune together, sleep together, live together. Disgusting.”

Cluck my tongue, yessir: it's a filthy shame. But in truth, this is where I diverge from racially pure old-school cats, cause we know the kittens are gonna play together, break bread, make multicolor babies, and hey, I reckon that's a major positive. It's really the only process keeping our species headed down the evolutionary path. Without mixing it up, we go the way of the dodo or the high-top fade.

Plus, as any breeder of dogs will tell you, like my old neighbor who dealt purebred rottweilers: eventually they start popping out retarded.

But hey.

K-Man is in a mood but the guy gets to the point nonetheless. “Sure. Doesn't matter now, so I tell you this. How do you say, I
took one for the team
on Song. This was my honor. But don't think it didn't break my spirit, sir. Song was … well, many things … but we always understood each other. We knew each other's hearts. And I always made sure …”

He looks down at the sudoku, the pencil. Looks back up, his eyes are just a little glassy. The barest suggestion of something soft, and that's as far as it goes cause the K-Man is rawhide like that.

“I always made sure Miss Ji-Won got along okay. All the girls, of course, but Song in particular. We spoke a lot, spoke a lot about home, you know. Korea.”

I nod.

“Did my job. Danny Ya ran most everything, he was big from way back in his family history, Inagawa-kai, a very old and respectable family, yakuza from the beginning.”

Danny Ya, the big boss …

“Might I be able to speak with Mr. Ya …” I begin, and Kwon is shaking his head.

“Pancreatic cancer in 2008, he went very quickly. Huh. Too quickly. No plans. His sons were junkie brats so that left me in the driver's seat. By default. But, you know, I'm so tired … so other arrangements were made. At least one of his kids, pretty sharp. Though I kept business going, in the short term.” He waves his hand. “Witness my former kingdom, sir,” he adds, wry.

I get the picture. “So it was Danny Ya—”

“Who asked that I step forward for the … what happened, with Song.”

“That's a lot to fucking ask. Even in your circles. As I understand it.”

Kwon eyeballs me like I just walked in the room. “This is a life thing we have here. I just told you it was my profoundest honor. Unlike—” Pauses, as if getting his anger under control, continues: “
We
don't try to move in on each other's territories, sir, or poach other's property, we're not like the Italians or the Russians, killing each other, lying to each other. This is a life thing, and a true family. The Sicilian thing, they're vain, spoiled children. No, you would not understand.”

Don't like this. “I understand the concept of loyalty, Mr. Kwon. Ran with my own local gangs. And I was a military man.”

Kwon bobs his noggin, acknowledging my snippy tone. “Not meaning to offend. Yes, of course you know loyalty to state, maybe to fellow soldiers, to comrades. Well, we take this one step past loyalty, this to us is family. You don't cherry-pick your family. You do whatever it takes to protect them. Can you understand that?”

“Yeah,” I respond. Insulting he would assume I wouldn't understand such basic shit. Want to get him back on topic. “That's positive energy you're putting out there, Mr. Kwon, but hey, with all respect to your family and your sacrifices and whatnot … and, you know, considerable time having passed now … I'm here looking for the guy who did Song. And if that's not you, I'd like to ask if you might point me in the right direction.”

Kwon fiddles with the photo, the girl, hand to mouth, frozen laugh …

“That's a horrible, disrespectful expression.” I think he's talking about the photograph, but: “
Did
Song. Using the verb
to do
as a substitute for …”

I wince. “Apologies for my poor Korean, sir, and for my manners, Mr. Kwon. I've been wandering in the desert so long. Forget where to put the salad fork.”

Kwon blanks me.

“Meaning to say, I apologize for my coarse language.”

Kwon returns to the photo. Rubs at it.

Laughter from the direction of the exit, the gaggle of kids, Man throws them a sharp look and the laughter stops.

“No,” he says to me, eyes on the boys. “My honor is my honor, and I don't have a lot left to lay claim to, sir. I will say this, however, and then speak no more on the matter.”

Hands me back the photo. I gag inwardly, thinking about those parasites that thrive on human dermis, but I take it gingerly between gloved fingers.