by Jack Bunker
“Go ahead and ask,” said Shin.
“When was the last time a Nang killed a Doko?”
Shin gave it some thought and then said, “Seventy-two years.”
I figured it had been a while, but that figure blew me away. Jules glanced at me with a look on his face that said, This is some sick shit going down.
“I did some research on blood feuds,” I said. “I didn’t know much about them. In no way am I trying to insult your honor, but I read that sometimes they can be settled with blood money.”
“That’s not our way,” said Shin.
“If it was your way, how much would it take?”
“How much money would it take to turn back time?” asked Shin. “How much money to turn back time three hundred years?”
The waiter arrived with our meals. A wine steward brought over a red that Jules had ordered from the list. We were all quiet as we dug in.
But I could stay quiet for only so long. “You see,” I said, “my proposal is we pay the Doko family blood money. I was thinking fifty thousand. If it’s a matter of pride, maybe you could give it to a Koreatown charity or something. That way, something good could come out of putting this thing to rest.”
“A boiling pot on the stove does not rest,” replied Shin.
“Sure it does,” I said. “You just have to turn the heat down.”
“Wes is making sense, Mr. Doko,” said Jules. “Also, let’s face it. You kill a white guy and you’re gonna bring a shit storm down on your head. They’ll turn Koreatown inside out.”
Shin held his glass of red in front of him. “Your friend has made his own trouble.”
“Killing Wes is bad for business,” said Jules. “You’re not dumb. Figure it out.”
I kicked Jules’s leg under the table; he gave me a look like he was going to slap me.
“This ain’t Korea,” said Jules, wagging a finger at Shin. “This is LA. The U…S…of A. You wanna make money hand over fist, go at it. But don’t go around shooting people.”
Shin glanced down at his plate as though he’d lost his appetite. The tall Korean was shifting in his seat like he wanted to throw down on Jules.
“Jules,” I said. “Cool it.”
“No,” said Jules. “This guy talks like he’s figuring to shoot you down like a dog in the street.”
Shin took a sip of his martini and said to Jules, “Your friend Wes is not a dog. He is a male whore. He sold his virtue for money.”
I had no problem being called a whore, but it didn’t sit well with Jules. “You want a blood feud?” he said. “You ever hear of the Weinbergs? Check out the LA phonebook. There’s thousands of us. You want to wipe us out, you’re gonna have to go nuclear.”
I tried to restore some order and said, “Can we get back to this charity idea of mine?”
* * *
After leaving the restaurant we waited outside the door until we saw Shin Doko being driven off in his black Lincoln. I didn’t want them to see my rental, the blue Ford Focus.
I walked Jules over to the parking garage across the street, where we both had parked.
“Don’t even say it,” said Jules, walking two steps in front of me. “The cocksucker had it coming.”
“You were supposed to be a mediator.”
Jules was fuming. “I am so glad I am in Redondo Beach, where I don’t have to deal with these arrogant motherfuckers anymore.”
The parking garage had a hundred dark corners where a person could hide. Our footsteps echoed as we walked. The combination was making me jumpy.
Jules took out his keys and beeped his car unlocked. I watched him get behind the wheel and power down the window.
I put my hand on the open window of the car. “They’re not going to negotiate, are they?”
“Not a chance,” said Jules. “They’re dug in. They were dug in before the meeting. You took your shot. My advice to you? Don’t expect any wiggle room with this Shin Doko character.”
Jules keyed his ignition, and the Grand Marquis’s engine roared loudly in the cavernous space.
“Wes,” said Jules. “Think hard about walking away and cutting your losses. Hanging tough is well and good, but these guys lack imagination. They’re going to try and kill you.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t waste too much time thinking.”
“I’ll let you know what I’m going to do.”
Jules said, “Watch your back.”
Then his car was heading toward the exit.
TWENTY-SIX
I handed over a twenty to the parking lot attendant, and she asked me for three more dollars. I kicked myself for not having my parking stub validated at CUT—I’d been too angry over Jules making a mess of things. Talking with Shin should have been like settling slowly into a hot bath, all of us getting warm, scrubbing one another’s backs, seeing eye to eye. Instead, Jules had flipped us ass over elbow into boiling water. He liked calling people dumb, but it was Jules who was the dumb one today.
I pulled into Wilshire and headed north toward Koreatown. It was the tail end of rush hour, and the traffic carried a burst of nervous energy, of people trying to get home or to an evening meeting. This part of LA always made me think of Hollywood. Maybe it was the billboards advertising movies, the occasional Bentley, the blondes with fake tits and big scripts. I thought how distant Koreatown was from all of this. We were so far removed from the Dream Factory we could have been in Duluth. I was glad. I liked a good movie, but I didn’t need to have Hollywood shoved in my face 24/7. Washing cars was an honest living. It was nothing to be ashamed of. Maybe I experienced the odd moment or two when I thought I could be doing something more important, but those dreams of glory soon passed. When I was thinking clearly, I was glad I was right where I was.
Pulling up to a traffic light, I looked reflexively in my rearview mirror. There it was—that hideous orange Jeep Rubicon. An old joke blew into my mind: he thinks he’s a wit but he’s only half right. I’d been careful making sure Shin was gone before I drove off, but not careful enough to make sure he hadn’t posted a second car to tail me. I was new to this; if they ever chose to follow me in something other than an orange Jeep, I was a goner.
I hung a left on Santa Monica and the Jeep followed. An equation occurred to me: Lose Jeep + ditch Focus + find mass transit = saving my ass.
When you work six years in a car wash, you tend to evaluate every outfit you drive past. I knew the Elephant Car Wash on Santa Monica entered on Santa Monica and then spit cars out onto Hilldale. Three blocks later I saw the silly sign with the baby-blue elephant splashing water on a convertible full of laughing passengers. I hung a left and took my place in line.
An attendant rushed over to the driver’s side of my car. “Plan A, B, or C, sir?”
I looked at the board and saw that Plan C was the cheapest—just a simple wash, no undercarriage stuff or hot wax protection. I handed the attendant twelve bucks and said, “Give me C.”
I rolled up closer to the entrance of the car wash. So far, so good. No one was behind me. I looked in my mirror and saw the Jeep idling at the entrance of the car wash. This was LA—where the flow of traffic ruled. They were going to have to make a decision quick which way they were going to jump.
I saw the Jeep drive away. Without a doubt they were going to circle the block and pick me up at the exit.
I jammed it into reverse just as a heavy-duty Tacoma was pulling into the lot. Luckily the driver was timid enough to hit the brakes to give me room to back out of the car wash lane. I fishtailed in reverse into the middle of Santa Monica, praying I wouldn’t get tail-ended. I straightened and then shot into traffic. Instead of heading toward Koreatown, I blasted down Santa Monica toward the 101 freeway exit. I’d pick up the 405 south and then bomb down to long-term airport parking at LAX. I’d ditch the Focus and take a bus back to the city and a cab home to Yun’s.
I was done playing around.
It was time to come out of the cold.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The Olympic Division police station on Vermont resembled a run-of-the-mill grammar school building; three stories of brown brick and glass. I parked my new rental at an empty meter across the street and took a deep breath.
Last night it had taken me a couple of hours to get home to Yun’s after leaving my Ford Focus at the airport. This morning Yun caught a fare to LAX, and I rode shotgun. I picked up the Focus in long-term parking and drove it back to the car rental agency in Silver Lake, exchanging it for a green Jeep Cherokee. Hopefully I wouldn’t get made so quickly this time.
So far my luck had been good, ducking bullets and dodging the tail. But I knew my luck couldn’t hold forever. The stakes were too high if I did slip up. Shin had made it clear he wasn’t going to negotiate with me. If I brought the police into this and they managed to shine a light on Shin, he might have to cut his losses instead of being such a sore winner.
I had a sick feeling in my stomach as I entered the lobby of the police station. I hated anything to do with the courts, or the police or the IRS—I hated placing myself in their power. I couldn’t shake the feeling that it could always go two ways with them—they could prop me up or bash me down. I was subject to their whims. A cop could have a fight with his wife at the breakfast table, and he’d take it out on me. An IRS agent might get told he’s not posting the right numbers and put me under the microscope. I stayed as far away as possible from all authority.
I asked a cop where to go to file a complaint, and he pointed toward a Plexiglas wall with teller windows, similar to what you’d see in a bank.
I walked over. My heart sank when I saw the sole police officer behind the glass—a Korean with a shock of black hair.
I leaned in and said, “I may have to kill somebody. I’d like to register a complaint so I’m on record that my life has been threatened.”
The Korean officer didn’t make a move to write anything down. He didn’t even ask me for identification. Instead he said, “Can you explain the situation you find yourself in?”
“I’ve angered a Korean family, and I’m caught up in the middle of a blood feud.”
“What did you do to anger them?”
I didn’t like where this was going. I didn’t want to tell him I was paid twenty-five thousand to marry a Korean woman. Technically it wasn’t against the law, since Soo Jin was a citizen. But it would make me look like a sleaze. I had the fleeting, disheartening thought that maybe I was.
“I’m not really sure what I did,” I said. “But they threatened me.”
“Did you threaten them back?”
I thought about that for a moment. “Yeah, I guess I did.”
“Then you’re caught in a bind,” said the Korean officer. “Since this person could make a counter complaint. You could both be charged with making terroristic threats.”
“But he took a shot at me.”
The cop looked confused and asked, “The man who made the threat?”
“No,” I said. “Another Korean dude.”
“Could you identify the shooter?”
“No, not really,” I said. “He was Korean. A Korean dude. Black hair. Not so big.”
I realized my description wasn’t sitting too well with the Korean officer taking my complaint. He asked, “Were there any other witnesses to the shooting?”
“I don’t think so.”
“When did it happen?”
“A couple of days ago.”
“Why didn’t you make a formal complaint when it happened?” His face wore an unsympathetic expression. It was clear he was restraining himself from asking the question that was really on his mind: What are you trying to hide?
I said, “I guess I was in shock.”
“Who is it that made the threat against you? You said it was a Korean family.”
I hesitated. “Yeah, well…”
There were three people in line behind me. The Korean officer slid a form through the slit in the Plexiglas.
“Fill this out and bring it back to me. It’s a formal complaint.”
“What’s going to happen after that?”
“If anything else happens, you’ll be on file as having made a complaint.”
“Can I get police protection?”
A white cop might have laughed; the Korean cop looked at me with a blank expression on his face as he said, “No.”
“And if I kill somebody in self-defense?”
The cop frowned. “You’re treading a fine line. More talk of that nature and you risk being detained for your own safety and the safety of others.”
“You got a pen?”
He handed me a stubbly little pencil, and I made my way over to a line of plastic chairs. I started filling in the form, giving them my home address and the address of Warsaw Wash. I came to the section where I was supposed to describe what had happened to me. I made a few halfhearted marks with my pencil before I gave up.
Who was I kidding? I was making a complaint against a powerful man. I was delivering my fate over to those who held the power. They’d all have a laugh as they squashed me like a bug.
I folded the paper into a small square and put it in my pocket.
A few minutes in the halls of power and I didn’t even trust the sanctity of the wastebaskets.
* * *
Yun’s house was peaceful in the afternoon, even though my insides were churning. I rummaged through her cabinets and found a can of Chunky Sirloin Burger soup. I could hear Soo Jin’s TV going in her room—a lot of Korean chatter over frequent applause.
I walked over and knocked on her door. She must have hit the mute because the noise of the TV stopped. She opened the door, which released a puff of stale air. Soo Jin looked sleepy, even though it was one in the afternoon.
“You want some soup?”
She gave me one of her wan smiles and walked over to the kitchen table. I dished out the soup and brought the two bowls over to the table.
Soo Jin said, “I heard you go out this morning? Where did you go?”
“I switched rental cars and then did what I thought was the right thing—I went to the police station.”
Soo Jin looked down at her bowl. Even she knew that had been a stupid move.
“I didn’t tell them anything,” I said. “I walked out without giving them names or why I was there. We’re going to have to solve this ourselves.”
“It’s good you walked away,” said Soo Jin. She made a ball of fingers with her clasped hands. “The Doko and the police are like this.”
Chunky Soup was strange. I’d been eating it all my life, and I still couldn’t tell you if it was good or lousy.
I looked up at Soo Jin. She looked miserable.
“You’re like all the others,” said Soo Jin.
“How?”
“All my life,” said Soo Jin. “Even when I was a little girl, they would look at me and be sad. They knew any man that chose me would be in danger.”
“Did you ever love any of these guys?”
“That would be even worse. I think I prepared my mind and heart not to fall in love.”
I felt sorry for her, imagining a teenage girl afraid to fall in love, knowing it would be a death sentence for the guy who took her hand in marriage. I guess it was like convincing a bird it couldn’t fly; sooner or later its wings would be useless.
I decided to change the topic. “What do you do for fun, anyway?”
“I like to shop. I watch my shows on TV. Sometimes I go for ice cream.”
“Oh yeah? What’s your favorite?”
“Red bean.”
“That’s a flavor?”
“That and green tea ice cream.”
“Well, maybe we’re going to have a party tonight. When it gets dark I’ll shoot out and get us all some ice cream. I’m partial to butter pecan, myself. You ever sing?”
“You mean karaoke?”
“Yeah. You sing karaoke?”
“The night with Ms. Tam at the Saja Room was
the first time I was in a karaoke bar. Good girls don’t go to bars.”
“That’s an old-fashioned way to look at it.”
“I sang karaoke at a party. Mostly Korean songs.”
“You know any songs in English?”
“Sugar Sugar.”
“Maybe we could do a duet sometime.”
Soo Jin smiled.
“You know what?” I said. “I have a couple of ideas. If we’re going to be stuck in this house, we got to get you out of that room. It’s not healthy. We all have to start doing stuff together, instead of living like we were a bunch of strangers. We’ll start tonight with ice cream and a movie. I’ll pick something the kids can watch.”
My cell rang. Yun. I picked up and said, “Hey, babe. What’s up?”
I saw Soo Jin wince at hearing me call Yun “babe.”
Yun sounded stressed. “I just got a call from my babysitter. She’s got some kind of family emergency, and she needs me to pick up the kids. I’m all the way down at Long Beach. I’m waiting on a fare down here. Plus, rush-hour traffic is going to be twisted.”
I’d noticed that Yun sometimes used weird slang with overtones of the ’80s. Probably stuff she’d picked up from Hollywood movies.
I asked, “You need some help?”
“Can you pick up the kids? Maybe you can wear a disguise or something.”
“Sure. I’ll pick them up. Give me the address.”
I wrote the address down—it was only a dozen blocks away.
Yun said, in low tones, “I owe you one…I think I’m falling in love with you.”
“This is definitely my year.” I couldn’t help laughing into the phone. “If I can only survive.”
I grabbed the car keys and said to Soo Jin, “Be back in a few. I have to pick up the kids.”
“Do you want me to come?”
“That’s not a good idea. We stand out too much together. We’re the Brangelina of Koreatown.”
I looked around for a disguise of some sort. I found a Dodgers baseball cap of Yun’s and some huge shades. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.