The Nine-Tailed Fox

by Martin Limon

  The untouched pear lay in the mud next to him. I picked him up and half-carried, half-dragged him to the car. Neither of the unconscious Sea Dragons had moved, and I prayed that any damage I might’ve done wouldn’t be permanent. I forced the thought from my mind as I shoved Shirkey into the back seat of the car. Then I squeezed into the front, scrambling for the lever that would allow me to slide the seat back—at six foot four, I wasn’t designed for these foreign compacts. I never could find the lever, with every damn car made differently. But this was no time for a letter of complaint to the Hyundai customer service department.

  Hands wet with rain and Shirkey’s filth, I fumbled with the key until it slipped into the ignition. I started the car and reversed it past the rest of the line, then threw it back into drive. As I accelerated up the gravel driveway, my knees were up so high I felt like they might touch my cheeks.

  Someone must’ve heard me start the engine, because they ambled from the house onto the front porch. The blurred form pointed and shouted. They might not have known exactly what was going on yet, but they realized something was wrong. No one was supposed to leave the property, I guessed, without permission.

  I stepped on the gas so hard that my tires spun on the wet rocks, and I had to ease off the accelerator before we rolled uphill toward the road that led to the main two-lane highway. I had almost reached pavement when a dark figure lurched out of the wall of trees on the far side. I swerved to avoid it, but whatever it was deliberately stepped forward to remain in my path. I accidentally clipped the figure with my left bumper, and only as we drove off did our rear lights illuminate the form.

  Gui-mul was bent forward slightly at the waist, straining to remain upright, and in one clenched fist was an M-1 rifle.

  Lightning flashed as he aimed it straight at me.

  I jammed my foot onto the gas, but despite horrible conditions, the bullet nearly reached its mark, hitting the rear window first and then whizzing past mere inches from my head through the driver’s seat window. Its impact shook the little Hyundai like one of the big brass bells the Buddhist monks rang in downtown Seoul. Glass splintered inward, covering both me and Shirkey. I closed my eyes and leaned away from the window, my foot still on the gas.

  Though he was now much smaller in my review mirror, I saw Gui-mul fall in the middle of the road, rifle still in hand.

  Shirkey, despite being covered in glass and rain, struggled to sit up. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” I shouted. At least, I was pretty sure I was—I was shaken by the gunshot, but conscious and, as far as I knew, uninjured.

  Finally, we reached the main road. There were no cars in sight in either direction, so I headed north toward Inchon. I’d spotted flashes of light in the rearview mirror as we’d fled the compound—probably the other sedans, soon to be on our tail. The little car lurched forward as I stepped on the gas. I was still having trouble controlling the steering wheel with my knees jammed up alongside it. But I did my best.

  In the back seat, Shirkey lay down and groaned.

  By the time we reached the outskirts of Inchon, the Sea Dragons had almost caught up with us, their cars swerving around corners and obstacles like a pack of angry hounds. I guessed it was about nine p.m., meaning reasonable traffic, but not so much that I had to slow down. I maneuvered around slower cars, which meant all of them, and took advantage of the fact that Inchon still employed policemen instead of traffic lights at traffic circles. The ones who were still out, in their raincoats and white gloves, blew their whistles as I whizzed past, but I couldn’t afford to stay within the speed limit. The question was, where could I go? Certainly not the Inchon Main Police Station. Mr. Kill had long since abandoned his temporary headquarters there. I had no desire to hand myself and Shirkey over to a gaggle of corrupt cops who’d not only been on Sea Dragon payroll, but who’d just been embarrassed by the Chief Homicide Inspector of the KNP at my behest.

  Though it was the biggest tourist spot in town, which would otherwise have been convenient, I had to stay far away from the Olympos Hotel and Casino, property of the Sea Dragon Triad. For that matter, I wasn’t sure which local bars they might have their hand in, seeing as Inchon was their home base.

  There was only one place in town I was fairly sure they didn’t own, and where the clientele might have the moxie to help me. The Eros Club.

  I roared up to the Eros, just missing two merchant marines smoking out front but raising a large enough tsunami to thoroughly soak their pants. They were furious, and when I leapt out of the car, both men approached, shouting in Greek. I ignored them and yanked Shirkey from the back seat. Just as we reached the entrance, another half dozen cars pulled up, causing a tidal wave to break over the entire front of the Eros Club. This gave the two men something else to be angry about. I pushed through one of the swinging front doors to the club.

  A sailor was dancing by himself onstage, bouncing around to stringed-instrument Greek music. Inadvertently, I’d stumbled into two or three tables and several chairs before the wet Greek sailors from outside stormed in. The ones whose drinks I’d knocked over were raising hell and reaching into their back pockets for what I presumed would be switchblades.

  Following close on the heels of the two men I’d originally angered, a group of Sea Dragon men burst into the Eros. They shoved their way through the crowd, pointing and hollering, and I kept moving until I managed to duck behind the bar, Shirkey still clinging to me like a koala. I crouched and hid as best I could. From my liquor-lined trench, I grabbed several empty beer bottles and lobbed them into the crowd.

  A cringe-inducing screech erupted from the sound system, and immediately everyone was shouting and shoving one another. The Sea Dragons were befuddled by the sea of angry Caucasian faces around them, wondering what they’d stumbled into. I remained hidden behind the bar, unsure of my next step until three or four police sirens screamed up to the front door. This should’ve brought relief, but considering the local KNP corruption, this cavalry might turn out to be more dangerous than the ongoing brawl.

  One of the Chinese gangsters peered over the edge of the bar, face dripping with perspiration. When he saw us, his mouth opened, but before he could shout, a bar stool swung in a great arc toward his head. He barely ducked in time.

  “Come on,” I said to Shirkey. “We have to get out of here.”

  He stared at me and asked, “How?”

  I searched the back wall of the bar. There was a small door, meant to be crawled through. I shoved it open and stuck my head inside. Sure enough, it led to a liquor storage space.

  “Come on,” I said.

  Shirkey edged toward me. I went through the door, then reached back and pulled him in, shutting the little door behind us. There was no lock.

  Wooden crates of OB Beer and plastic ones of Heineken lined the walls. I squinted in the glow of the dim yellow bulb, spotting what I thought might be the back exit. Behind us, something crashed, and someone cursed in Chinese. A hand reached through the door we’d come through. Motioning for Shirkey to remain quiet, I quickly stepped back to the side of the door and grabbed a full bottle of Jinro soju off the shelf. As the man crawled into the storage room, I smashed the bottle onto the back of his head. He fell into a lump. I pushed him back through the door and barricaded the passageway with a few crates before piling two more in the center of the room and climbing up to unscrew the dirty overhead bulb. In the darkness, I returned to Shirkey, squatted down, and pulled him across my shoulders. He complied, limp as a rag doll, and I shouldered open the back exit of the warehouse, accidentally hitting his head against a support beam.

  “Damn,” he whispered.

  Outside, we stood in a dark alley, the air tinged with the salty reek of the sea. To my left, at the end of a gradual slope half a mile away, lights blinked from the masts of ocean vessels. A heavy bank of fog was rolling in quickly, enveloping the ships and turning one light after
another into dim pinpoints. To my right, the darkness stretched off toward a catacomb of alleys. I heard crates being shoved out of the way behind us, then a big crash and yelling.

  I headed away from the Eros toward the fog. The moment I rounded a nearby corner, the back door of the storage room burst open with a bang. Five or so pairs of footsteps pounded onto cobblestone, and the men’s cursing reverberated down the street. I plowed forward, adjusting Shirkey’s weight on my shoulders and hoping the Sea Dragons would decide this chase wasn’t worth the effort. They didn’t. As I rounded one corner after the next, the footsteps trailing me remained the same distance away.

  I sped downhill, turning down new lanes as often as I could. I had no plan, and was starting to fatigue under Shirkey’s weight. I hoped some sort of salvation would materialize.

  Around another corner, a double string of lights swayed in the coastal breeze down below, stretching out toward the dark Yellow Sea. People walked along a wooden pier, milling about like small schools of fish and stopping at canvas-covered stalls. The fog bank crept ever nearer, ready to envelop all of it.

  Between me and this idyllic scene was a busy four-lane road. Motorbikes and kimchi cabs swooshed past, none of the taxis with rooftop bulbs up for hire. They had no reason to be out here if they hadn’t already caught a fare. Besides, who would stop for a sweaty foreigner with a half-dead man draped over his shoulders? I carefully made my way across the street toward the fish market. Perhaps being surrounded by a mob of people would make murder less of a viable option for the Sea Dragon Triad—only one way to find out.

  “What was that?” Palinki turned around in the back of the jeep.

  “What was what?” Riley asked from the passenger seat. Ernie drove. The three men wore fatigues and MP helmets, though the one Riley had on wasn’t actually authorized.

  “In the fog,” Palinki said. “It looked like somebody carrying a dead body.”

  “A dead body? Of what? A fish?”

  “Nah,” he replied. “A person.”

  “No time for that now,” Ernie said. “The emergency call came in from that Greek club. It’s about two long blocks up that way. The caller mentioned a group of Chinese gangsters—I’m worried they caught Sueño in there.”

  “Let me out,” Palinki said.

  “What?”

  “You two check out the Greek sailors. I’m gonna take a look over here, bro. Find out what that guy was carrying.”

  “But there’s a riot up there. Don’t you want part of that?”

  “Maybe later. First, I check this out.”

  “We shouldn’t split up,” Riley said. “Those Sea Dragon boys don’t play.”

  “Neither does Palinki.”

  Riley protested, but Ernie bulled his way to the right and let Palinki out of the jeep. He watched in the side mirror as the big man ran toward the fish market.

  “Why didn’t you order him to stay with us?” Riley asked.

  “Why didn’t you order him? You have the rank.”

  “I’m not in law enforcement.”

  “About time you admitted that,” Ernie replied. “Anyway, maybe that was Sueño.”

  “Carrying a body around?”

  “Yeah,” Ernie replied, pulling back into traffic. From the main road, they went up an alley and stopped amidst the crowd of police cars and ambulances in front of the Eros Nightclub. As Ernie climbed out of the jeep, he took out his nightstick.

  “How do you say in Greek,” Ernie asked, “‘I’m gonna knock me some son-of-a-bitch out’?”

  “You don’t say it,” Riley growled. “You just do it.”

  But as Ernie charged into the melee, Riley stayed behind in the jeep.

  Palinki knew better than to march down the market’s central pathway. A huge man in a US Army uniform, MP helmet balanced atop his head, and a nightstick swinging at his side, was too much advance warning for the bad guys. Instead, he stayed in the shadows on the delivery side of the food stalls, dancing between the three-wheeled delivery trucks and the motorbikes piled high with plastic delivery crates. After a while, he caught up with the man carrying the body. He appeared to be wearing only flimsy pantaloons, and was perhaps shirtless. From behind, Palinki could tell the body belonged to another, smaller man in a faded military uniform. But with only the occasional glare of a naked light bulb or the flash of distant floodlight, it was hard to make out whether or not the man carrying the other was American or Korean. It looked like he was heading for the huge fish tanks at the end of the pier, where the wharf widened and there were more eateries. And more milling crowds scarfing down the wriggling tentacles of freshly sliced squid and guzzling glassfuls of bubbling rice beer.

  The smell of the sea and the light glistening off the scales of live fish reminded Palinki of home, but he pushed such thoughts out of his mind. He had a job to do.

  And then Palinki saw the group of thugs. At least five or six, he figured. One was on a moped, leading the way through the surging crowd. The others were arrayed behind him, warily checking each stall, their faces grim and slathered in perspiration. As they passed, Palinki ducked behind a large booth offering vast assortments of shellfish. A middle-aged proprietress turned to him in shock, but Palinki smiled and pressed his forefinger to his lips. The old woman nodded and couldn’t help but smile back.

  The men passed.

  Palinki saw one of them elbow the guy on the moped and point toward the end of the wharf. And then the men were sprinting, the moped leading the rest like the sharpened tip of Neptune’s trident.

  I plopped Shirkey behind one of the huge tanks of mackerel swirling in green brine. Exhausted, he sat on the wooden planks of the pier, his head leaning against the glass. Suckers appeared as a red octopus attempted in vain to entangle his curly locks from its watery inner world.

  “Did we lose ’em?” Shirkey asked.

  I peered around the edge of the tank. In the distance, a man on a moped made his way through the crowd of revelers below the strands of glittering lights. A determined squad of soldiers followed closely behind.

  “No,” I replied.

  Shirkey sat up. “They’re here?”

  “Almost,” I said.

  “What are we going to do?”

  I glanced toward the end of the pier. It was a dead end, completely surrounded by the Yellow Sea. No place left to run.

  “Whatever we have to,” I said. “Fight.”

  I peered beneath the tank and found a short wooden plank. Not much heft to it, but it would have to do. “Here,” I said, handing it to Shirkey.

  “What am I going to do with this?”

  “Jab them in the eyes,” I said, “or in the crotch, like in bayonet training. When they reach for you, use your legs. Kick.”

  “Why in Christ’s name do you think you were carrying me? My legs don’t work.”

  “Well, figure out what you can do. These guys aren’t going to let us off alive.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The guy before you, Werkowski. What do you think they did with him?”

  “I don’t know. I figured they collected a ransom, returned him to his unit?”

  “No.”

  “What? What happened to him?”

  “We found his body,” I told him, “floating on the edge of the Yellow Sea.”

  Shirkey’s eyes widened in panic. I didn’t regret frightening him—he needed to understand that the situation was dire. And I’d given him the only potential weapon at our disposal.

  Then I looked up at the tank, with my friend the octopus and five or six dozen mackerel swimming inside. I stood, pressing my hands against the glass and praying that the Sea Dragon thugs hadn’t fanned out. I figured they’d stay fairly close together, trying to look like a group of friends out for a night of mokkolli and seafood.

  Through the prism of swirling water
, I saw them approach, their bodies constantly changing shape and their faces nothing more than undulating blue blobs. The tank was almost my height, half filled with seawater. When the Sea Dragons were within a few feet of the tank, I crouched slightly, placed my hands just above its center of gravity, and shoved forward with all the strength in my legs. It didn’t budge. I lowered the purchase of my hands and redoubled my effort. The wooden edge at the tank’s base groaned as I continued to push. It eventually lifted, and the water inside sloshed forward until its sheer weight became my ally, soon hurtling toward them so quickly that no power on earth could stop it.

  As the tank fell, I pulled Shirkey backward and covered us as best as I could. Customers screamed when the glass broke with a thunderous noise and released a small tidal wave of water and sea life. I pulled Shirkey to his feet; he was so frightened now that he managed to take a few faltering steps, and with me supporting him, we made our way toward the back of a nearby line of stalls. The owners had stopped their cooking and rushed outside, and the people who’d been sitting on chairs and stools on the deck were now on their feet, some wading ankle-deep in the squirming mackerel.

  The leader on the moped had U-turned at the last moment when the tank began to fall, and was the only one who hadn’t been completely drenched. He jumped off his bike and forged through the mess, cursing as he ripped a small red squid from his arm and tossed it toward the edge of the pier. He spotted us just before we reached the end of the line of stalls and shouted to his men. The rest of the group spotted us as I glanced back, and began wading toward us like zombies.

  After the first fish stand, there was less water, and what did remain flowed quickly over the edge of the pier. We had to get back to the main causeway, where there were more people and we might find help. Pulling Shirkey after me, I squeezed through a narrow partition between stands and stumbled over some stools next to a serving counter. The customers were at the far end of the pier gawking at the remnants of the fallen fish tank. Up ahead, we shoved through the crowd, some of the men cursing me for my rudeness. Shirkey had managed to maintain his footing, knowing it would slow us down if I had to carry him. Still, it wasn’t long before the Sea Dragons had spotted us again.