Bloody Seoul Page 8

  “Now!” Braid hollars.

  Poke Face minces his way forward.

  Braid nods at Patch.

  Patch lumbers over, stops when he’s face-to-face with the kid. Cracks his knuckles, then his neck.

  Pock Face swallows at the bull of a senior before him.

  Patch has this wrathful look in his eye. I’ve seen it many times before. It’s a toned-down version of the look he had the day he stopped speaking. The day he couldn’t save his little sister from the stray Southern Gate Pa bullet.

  I look away for a second. Take a hard drag. By the time I release the smoke from my mouth and lungs, Patch has already taken off the jacket of his school uniform. Slowly, he rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt. As soon as he makes the last fold, his hands ball up. He scowls and smashes Pock Face’s chest with a one-two punch that sends the boy flying back.

  Pock Face and the two juniors directly behind him end up in a pile on the dusty concrete foundation. Pock Face presses his chest, gasping for air.

  Braid marches over to them. “Who said you could sit?” he roars.

  The three of them look at each other.

  The scrawniest dares to whisper, “No one.”

  “Who said you could talk?” Braid screams.

  They all look down, lips set in matching grim lines.

  “Get up!” Braid orders.

  They do.

  “Line!”

  They arrange themselves on either side of the other two.

  Then Braid nods at Strike.

  Strike saunters over. He stops in front of the first one and starts doing small, but fast, downward bounce steps while throwing air punches.

  I chuckle inside because I know that he has no intention of punching these bastards. They have no idea what my man Strike is about to deliver.

  And deliver he does. Warmed up, Strike goes down the line and gives a different, perfect kick in the gut to each junior. Side. Roundhouse. Back. Hook. Spin.

  Their trashy asses end up scattered like garbage in a landfill.

  Strike smooths his uniform, then meanders between the junior junk, spitting on each of their faces along the way.

  Of all four of us, Strike’s the most sophisticated with his fighting techniques. That’s because he’s a taekwondo grandmaster who’s earned his ninth dan belt already. He once told me that he didn’t set out to excel in the martial art, it just turned out that way because his wealthy parents were away on extended vacations most of the time. So he basically grew up in a nearby dojang.

  I suck on my cig. Let the smoke twist out of the side of my mouth.

  Braid crouches near them. “You losers are lucky today,” he says. “We’ll give you an extension until tomorrow. But have the money to us before school starts or else you will die.” He makes like he’s going to punch Pock Face. They all throw their hands up and do a collective flinch. Braid whips Pock Face with his braid before he gets up. Then he starts laughing his ass off.

  I smile inside because we’ve succeeded in breaking these wimps. We don’t have to beat the complete shit out of them today because I know they’ll come through with the money tomorrow. I take a pull on my cig and a quick inhale of the dead air. Blow out three identical smoke rings, just like my dad. I glare at the juniors. They’re lucky I’m not my dad. Because if on the off chance they don’t pay up, we won’t kill them like he probably would. We’ll just make their life so miserable they’ll wish they were resting in peace. I flick my cig and crush it with my shoe.

  The junior boys are still on the ground, contorted and wheezing.

  “Tomorrow,” Braid yells. “Or else!” He moves in front of Pock Face. He swings his leg back. Holds it there for a second.

  Pock Face inhales sharply and immediately curls up into a tight ball.

  Braid snickers before he lets his leg sweep forward in a powerful kick to Pock Face’s compact body, like it’s a soccer ball. Then he turns to me like nothing. “Ready?” he asks as he flings his braid over his shoulder.

  I nod.

  My boys and I exit the building without another look at our victims. We step into the bright day, all victorious. I let my head fall back, stretching my arms to the side and a little behind like they’re the edges of my superhero cape. The sun rays congratulate me with warm cheek kisses.

  Then, hands in our pockets, a spring in our step, we peacock side by side, relishing the thrill of a job well-done. We take a couple of shortcuts through some whimsical alleys until we end up on a busy sidewalk. We approach an American fast food restaurant, Burger House.

  Strike pats his belly. “Greasy burgers and fries,” he says in a dreamy voice. “Anyone else hungry?”

  Patch presses on his belly and nods.

  “I could use some fuel,” Braid says, “But let’s make it quick. I wanna get an hour or two at a noraebang before I have to meet In-su.”

  “Sounds good,” Strike says. He pokes Braid in the arm. “But this time, don’t be a mic hog.” He shakes his head and says, “Bad form, my friend, bad form.”

  Braid smiles. “Yeah. Ok.” He looks at me. “How about you, boss? Will you sing today?”

  “Maybe,” I say.

  Strike frowns. “Maybe means no,” he grumbles.

  I nonchalant shrug.

  We go into the burger joint and order. Four double cheeseburgers, four fries, and four vanilla milkshakes. Our food is served up fast. We carry our trays to an empty table. Sit.

  Strike devours his food before the rest of us are half way through. He sits back, needles a toothpick between his bottom right molars, and looks at Braid. “You said quick, didn’t you, slow poke?”

  Braid stops chewing long enough to smirk but doesn’t bother to respond. Instead, he finishes the bite, then sucks down half the milkshake. He pushes his tray in so he can rest his elbows on the table. He looks over both shoulders before he stoops and whispers, “I gotta tell you guys about Woo-jin.”

  Fuck. Wish I knew this stuff first!

  “What’s that?” I ask, squeezing my knife handle. “That he’s a prick?”

  Woo-jin is Kang Dong-geun’s son. He runs a mini Southern Gate Pa gang at his high school. I’m willing to bet he’s hoping to take over SGP someday.

  Maybe we have something in common—big dreams to be big bosses.

  But with Kang Dong-geun dead, Woo-jin’s succession isn’t a sure thing. I’m guessing it’s only a matter of time before my dad drives Southern Gate Pa out of the city. Then Three Star Pa will be the most powerful gang in all of Seoul. And someday soon I will be the big boss of the most powerful gang in all of Seoul.

  Woo-jin will be nothing.

  I wonder if Woo-jin knows about all that. I wonder if his dad used to tell him things about their gang. I wonder what his mom’s like…

  Braid nods. “Well, yes. But what I was going to say is that some girl he and his boys were bullying killed herself last week, jumped off Mapo Bridge. They found her body floating in the Han. She left a note, naming them as her tormentors. Apparently they’d been harassing her every day for over three years. Anyway, they’re all in juvie now. Woo-jin…”

  I stop listening because I’m lost in my head.

  Ha-na.

  My hand is still on my knife handle.

  Braid taps my shoulder. “Boss?” he asks.

  I look at him and then at Strike and Patch. They’re staring at me.

  “Boss?” Braid asks again. “Are you ok?”

  I don’t move. I don’t say anything.

  But my thoughts race well over any speed limit, as if they’re my Tsukuba red Genesis coupe in the middle of a time attack at the Tsukuba Circuit.

  I don’t want anyone to die, not even Ha-na.

  My foot taps silently, three times.

  There are many ways I’m like my dad, many ways I want to be like my dad, but killing people isn’t one of them.

  I’m nauseous and antsy, a strange combination.

  Suddenly I get up and walk away.

  I’ve got t
o walk.

  I know I’ll end up at the Han. That’s good because I have to check it.

  I have to make sure Ha-na’s not in it.

  My boys call out.

  “Boss, where are you going?”

  “What about singing?”

  I don’t look back. I don’t respond. I walk. Out the door. Take a right. I keep going. All the way to the Han.

  13.

  Exactly three hundred and three steps from our penthouse doorstep, Dad and I turn left onto a cobblestone side street. Window boxes filled with flowers in every shade of pastel line the walls. The petals rustle in the midnight breeze and greet us with the gift of sweet smells.

  I let my fingers bob over the rough brick wall. I look at Dad. He’s cruising with a blissful expression. He could be a regular, happy guy. I pretend he is.

  I dare to treasure the moment…

  Speaking of treasure, the sky is a vast expanse of diamond inlaid black wood. I count the twinkling gems. Seventy-six by the time we’re standing under the small wooden sign of our destination—Bar None—a popular late night hole in the wall restaurant.

  We enter. Most of the tables are full of drunk, happy people toasting and gabbing. Everyone’s Korean, except for two young G.I.’s at the back. Their uniforms and dog tags in this casual setting scream we’re so cool. And of course they’re louder and more obnoxious than anyone else in the place.

  I roll my eyes inside.

  One of the G.I.’s punches the other one’s arm and shouts, “Man, I haven’t been there since Jesus was a corporal!”

  They cackle in hysterical laughter, nearly falling off their chairs.

  I look away. I wish I didn’t understand English. Bet these guys can’t speak, read, or write Korean.

  Dad and I weave through the tables to ours. Yup. Perks. We don’t bother to check out the menus because we always get the house speciality.

  An enthusiastic server jogs over to us. He hops to a stop and bows to my dad. “Good evening. Are you ready to order?”

  Dad nods and says, “Spicy pork bone stew times two. One beer. One water.”

  The server bows again before he scoots away.

  Dad clasps his hands behind his head, tilts his chair back a little, and looks at me. “How’s school?” he asks.

  “Good.”

  “University entrance exam is a half year away,” he says. “You should start attending cram school.”

  “But—”

  He holds his palms up. “I know, I know, you don’t need it. But it can’t hurt, right?”

  “Why bother? I’ll get the highest score in the school. Besides, it’s boring.” I yawn big to prove it.

  He raises an eyebrow, lets it fall, then smiles. “I just worry sometimes. But your headmaster insists you’re a ‘genius.’ I guess a genius doesn’t need cram school, does he?” He pauses and shakes his head. “You didn’t get that from me,” he says. He taps his temple. “That brain of yours—definitely from your mother.”

  Yeah? Smart mom + meth = ? This is the only equation I haven’t been able to solve. I wish there was a cram school for family mysteries.

  I count the scratches on the table as my fingers drum the wood.

  “You ok, Rocky?” Dad asks.

  I look up. “Huh?”

  He points to my busy fingers with his chin.

  “Oh.” I press my palm flat.

  The server appears with our drinks. Disappears.

  Dad holds up his beer, nods. I raise my water, keeping it a little lower than his and nod back.

  The server reappears with our large stone bowls. He lowers them down in front of us.

  The delicious fragrance lures me closer. I shut my eyes and lean in for a deep inhale. I get an unexpected aromatic facial steam, like the ones my mom paid hundreds of thousands of won for at the Willow Tree Spa. She and Dad went every Sunday afternoon. Dad still goes. It’s kind of sweet I think, carrying on a tradition they both shared.

  I pick up my spoon and stir the hot, luscious broth three times. Cautious slurp. The creamy, nutty, spicy flavors of perilla seed and gochujang bring a bit of comfort. Another slurp. This time I get a tasty prize—a piece of soft, fatty meat. I chew extra slow to enjoy the taste.

  The stew is good. Really good.

  But Mom’s was better.

  I pluck out some soybean sprouts and shiitake mushrooms with my chopsticks but end up dropping some on my lap.

  Shit.

  I pick the bits of dinner off my trousers. Pick, pick, pick. A couple of drops of sweat tumble off my forehead and mix with the mess. When I wipe my brow, I realize I’m drenched all over. I peel my shirt off my chest.

  “Rocky, you sure you’re ok?” Dad asks.

  I blurt, “Was Mom sick?”

  “Sick?” Dad cups his chin, then shakes his head. “No. She was always healthy.” He sips his beer.

  “Did she ever drink too much alcohol? I mean more than the stuff you drank together?”

  He rubs his hand over his scant stubble. Squints his eyes a little. “Why do you ask?”

  “It’s just…”

  “What?”

  I stir my soup three times. “Well, I remembered something about Mom the other day. It wasn’t good.”

  “What was it?”

  “She looked sick. She was talking to herself about spiders. Picking her skin. There was an empty soju bottle. And—”

  “And what?”

  “A bag of crystal and a pipe. I think that’s what it was.” I look at him, my eyes wet. “She wouldn’t do that, would she?”

  Dad presses his fingertips together, then drops his eyes and exhales long and slow. When he finally looks up he says, “Rocky, there is something I should tell you.” He lifts his chin a little. “It’s time.”

  My heart flutters.

  “Your mother was smart. And, of course, she was beautiful. But she had a dark side. She had secrets,” he says with an inscrutable expression.

  Dad’s words hit me like Strike’s tiger claw to the neck. Can’t breathe for a second.

  “Dark side?” I whisper. “Secrets? What kind of secrets?” Like why she left?

  Dad opens his mouth. “She—”

  A crash interrupts him.

  Everyone in the restaurant freezes.

  I don’t want to look. I want Dad to finish telling me about Mom’s dark side. About her secrets. But my head ratchets in the direction of the heavy sound.

  A wooden chair lays on its back at a table where two young ladies are sitting. They’re staring at each other with arched eyebrows. The annoying G.I.’s are hovering over them.

  When the girls notice everyone’s eyes on them, they look around, smiling and bowing as if to say everything is ok.

  Everyone buys it, everyone goes back to their private conversations. Everyone except me and Dad. We hone in. We know trouble. And trouble we smell.

  One of the girls says, “Please leave us alone” in Korean.

  The taller G.I. with buzzed brown hair and a large mole on his cheek picks up the fallen chair. He slumps down in it and edges closer to one of the girls. Then he says in English, “Come on, baabby. Come to daaddie. I need me some I & I. Intoxication and…” He runs the back of his index finger down her bare arm and adds, “intercourse.”

  I’m not sure if the girls understand English, and I’m wishing I didn’t for the second time tonight.

  “Gimme some I & I, baby,” Mole Boy says.

  One day you’re going to have a girlfriend, maybe someday a wife. Be kind. Don’t hurt her. Listen to her. If she tells you she doesn’t like something, don’t do it. If she’s sad, help her. Don’t give her bad things…

  My hand is wrapped around my knife handle, and I’m squeezing.

  The second G.I., with a head full of curly red hair and a face full of freckles, staggers to the other chair. Sits.

  The girls slide their chairs away. The G.I.s follow. Freckle Boy puts his arm around the girl next to him. She frowns and squirms in place.
>
  That’s it.

  I push my chair back. In English I say, “Excuse me, sirs, these ladies are saying they don’t want to be disturbed.”

  The G.I.s look at me with droopy eyes.

  Mole Boy strokes the girl’s shoulder and smirks.

  I try again. “Please leave them be.”

  “Sh-shut up,” Mole Boy slurs.

  Freckle Boy chimes in. “Get outta here, little boy. Let the men play.” He clasps the other girl’s arm.

  I grip Freckle Boy’s wrist, my hand a vise. My eyes don’t veer from his as I pry his fingers off. He jumps up, knocking over his chair. He comes at me and we’re toe-to-toe.

  Mole Boy scrambles behind me.

  “I don’t want to hurt either of you,” I say. “Leave now, and you’ll be ok.”

  They belly laugh. Then Freckle Boy gets serious. He glares at me. Throws a sloppy punch at my face. I block it and deliver the bottom of my right hammer fist.

  “Awwwww!” he cries, cupping his bloody nose in both hands. He takes a few wobbly steps back.

  Mole Boy puts me in a chokehold. I grab his arm with both hands and bend forward. Swing my right leg back around his calf, trapping it. Turn my body sharp and pull him off me. He lunges at me again, but I jab his trachea with my knuckles. His eyes bulge. He staggers back holding his neck.

  I pull out my knife and drop into a fighting stance.

  Freckle Boy grabs an empty beer bottle. He holds it by the neck and smashes the heel on the edge of the table. The bottom shatters leaving him with a jagged weapon. He thrusts it in my direction.

  I don’t flinch.

  Hardcore stare down. Freckle Boy’s face and neck glisten with sweat.

  I’m not sweating anymore. In fact, I’m dry as a sheet of gim.

  Freckle boy gives his buddy a confused look.

  Mole Boy’s huge eyes are glued to the gleaming, sharp blade of my knife. He shakes his head.

  “Fuck this,” Freckle Boy mutters. He drops the broken bottle. The two of them hustle out of the bar.

  I slide my knife into the sheath. Smooth my suit. Then I run my hand over the top of my head. Not a hair is out of place.

  I turn to the girls and bow. I switch back to Korean and ask, “Are you both alright?”

  Nodding, they thank me.

  One more bow before I head back to our table. Dad is busy working his stew. He looks up and gives me a proud smile.