The Plotters

by Un-su Kim

  ‘Looks like she’s taking that girl’s shift,’ Reseng said. ‘My god, she’s messing with everyone’s schedules today.’

  ‘Looks that way, doesn’t it? Typical. Why can’t people stick to what they’re supposed to do? Why do they have to mess up other people’s plans? That’s why our country’s so backwards! You need more than freeways and skyscrapers to be a developed country. You have to develop the right mindset first, dammit!’

  ‘What does any of this have to do with being a developed country?’ Reseng unwrapped his Snickers and took a bite.

  Jeongan’s eyes widened. ‘Hey, how come your bar is different from mine?’

  ‘Mine was made in the USA, yours was made here. Mine was a thousand won. Yours was five hundred.’

  ‘Son of a…!’ Jeongan pouted. ‘Why’d you buy me the cheap one? You know I prefer American stuff.’

  Reseng handed him his Snickers. Jeongan grinned like a child as they swapped.

  ‘Dig deeper into her background. Her job, her parents, her younger sister, the lab where she used to work, her bank transactions, anything and everything you can find.’

  ‘What? You expect me to do all that in exchange for one lousy bar of chocolate? And with what budget? My prices have gone up, man! There’s a little thing called market value, you know.’

  ‘Your mate’s in peril, and here you are crowing about market value…’

  ‘Fine. I’ll do it as long as you call me Elder Brother. Because I am far too humane to abandon a little brother in danger. And, let’s be real, I am two years older than you.’

  Reseng glared at him. When he didn’t look away, Jeongan tapped him on the shoulder and gave him a look that said, Can’t you take a joke?

  ‘Please, Elder Brother,’ Reseng said, his voice flat.

  Jeongan looked at him, feigning disgust.

  ‘Holy shit, where’s your pride? What a pushover! You really need to man up.’

  X

  By the time he’d finishing buying cat food and cat snacks at the pet shop and was on his way home, it was nearly dark. Reseng checked his mailbox in the lobby. Bills and junk mail. He turned to go upstairs, but someone was sitting on the bottom step, slumped forward and half-asleep. One hand was wrapped in bandages, the other was holding a department store gift bag. Reseng leaned down to look at the man’s face. It was Minari Pak. Reseng shook him by the shoulder. His eyes flew open and he looked around in bewilderment, then let out a big yawn and stood with a grunt.

  ‘What’re you doing here?’ Reseng asked.

  ‘I came to see you.’

  ‘You should’ve called first.’

  ‘I just figured I’d drop by.’

  ‘Let’s go inside.’

  ‘No, no, I’m fine here.’

  Minari waved his bandaged hand and grimaced.

  ‘How are your fingers?’

  ‘They’re okay. Got ’em reattached. Medical technology these days! I didn’t think the doctors could do it, even though I ran straight to the hospital with my fingers, but what do you know, they stuck right back on. Like a lizard’s tail growing back. Yeah…a lizard’s tail.’

  Minari murmured the words lizard’s tail again under his breath, evidently impressed by his own image. He turned his bandaged hand to show Reseng. Then he said, ‘Oh, yeah, this!’ as if he’d nearly forgotten something important, and handed Reseng the bag.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Jukbang anchovies. I know how much you like beer. And there’s no better snack for a cold beer than dried anchovies. I got them from the department store, just like the set I got Old Raccoon. From Namhae’s signature collection! Very expensive!’

  Minari looked flustered. Reseng raised an eyebrow. Why had Minari come all this way to bring him a gift?

  ‘You’re giving me a present after I cut your fingers off? I didn’t even visit you in hospital. Now I feel really bad.’

  ‘Oh, no, no. Don’t feel like that. It’s the rest of us who should be feeling bad for how we treated Old Raccoon. That wasn’t right. In fact, he’s the reason we’re living as well as we are. I know how kind he’s been to me. But little guys like us don’t have it easy. Everyone’s been tightening their belts down to the first notch, but it’s still hard to make ends meet. We haven’t forgotten our place or anything, it’s just that life keeps closing in on us.’

  Minari took out a cigarette but struggled to work the lighter with his left hand. Reseng took out his own lighter and lit the cigarette for him. Minari took a deep drag and looked Reseng up and down.

  ‘What did Old Raccoon say?’

  ‘About what? Me cutting off your fingers?’

  ‘No, not that. About us going to work for Hanja. I figured Old Raccoon must know about it by now. Of course, we’re all independent businessmen with our own gigs, so I can’t exactly say that we’re completely under Hanja’s wing. Even so, I still feel bad about it.’

  ‘That’s why you’re here? To test the winds?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Minari said falteringly. ‘It’s only part of the reason.’

  Minari stared out at the streetlight as he finished his cigarette. Every now and then, he looked like he was about to say something, but clammed up. After a long pause, he dropped his cigarette and stubbed it out under his shoe. There was something clownish about his stiffly ironed grey trousers and his shiny, polished red shoes. Minari glanced at Reseng and made a sad face.

  ‘Lately the guys have all been talking about a war brewing between Hanja and The Doghouse. A real war, like in the old days. That’ll get messy. Detectives and prosecutors will be crawling all over us and cracking down, while the plotters take out everyone just to save their own arses. Desperate assassins will be roaming around like wild dogs, picking fights with everyone for no reason. The few customers I have left will dry up. I’ll be out of business. In the end, only the little guys like us are fucked. Reseng, I am too old to get caught up in this fight. Old Raccoon and Hanja are tough, ambitious. They’ll do whatever they have to do to save their pride. But what about us in the middle? If we side with Hanja, we have to watch out for Old Raccoon. If we so much as gesture at the library, we have to watch out for Hanja. We’re between a rock and a hard place. And, I tell you, I’m too old for this! I’m scared! You know I’m not the ambitious type. I’m just trying to get by.’

  ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘Hanja wants to see you. Just meet with him once.’

  Reseng narrowed his eyes. ‘And if I do?’

  ‘You know you can’t have two tigers on one mountain. Let’s be honest, the library doesn’t stand a chance against Hanja. It’s not like the old days. If war breaks out, we’re all dead. Old Raccoon? Definitely dead. You and me, too. And Hanja doesn’t stand to gain anything from it either. We did all the work to build our businesses, but because of this election someone else will get the credit.’

  Reseng hurled the jukbang anchovy gift bag at Minari Pak’s feet.

  ‘You think a few lousy anchovies can make up for telling me to stab Old Raccoon in the back?’

  Minari looked shocked as he scrambled to pick up the bag. ‘Don’t you know how expensive these are?’ he muttered. Pouting, he held the bag up to his ear and gave it a shake, stroking it like he was handling an antique vase. Then he made the same sad face as before. ‘I’m not telling you to sell out Old Raccoon. I’m just saying how things are. It’s been a long time since the library had work for us. Businessmen don’t wait around. You know that. There’s no such thing as loyalty in our line of work. Old times? Favours? That doesn’t go far. People always go where the money is. Old Raccoon is getting on a bit and he never leaves the library, so he doesn’t know how things are changing. If war breaks out, everyone will take Hanja’s side. That’s what it has come to. There won’t be a fight. That’s why you need to go and see Hanja. Because you’re Old Raccoon’s hands and feet. If the conversation goes well between you and Hanja, there’ll be no need for war. Old Raccoon can quietly retire to the countryside and liv
e out the rest of his life in peace. And we’ll be able to grow our businesses in peace as well. Everybody wins.’

  Reseng pictured the general in his mountain cottage, with his old dog, Santa. Someone must’ve said the same thing to him when he was stepping down: Move to a quiet place in the country and enjoy your remaining years. It’s a win-win all round. What did they mean by that? Growing flowers, planting potatoes, raising a dog and choosing your final resting place? Basking in the warm afternoon sun, your eyelids the only part of you still moving, like you’re some kind of ageing, ailing elephant? Or moving into a nursing home where the only thing to occupy your time is tedious chitchat with old people you have absolutely nothing in common with, or playing endless games of cards and stealing stones from the communal baduk board for your growing collection of useless things. Those days would repeat themselves ad nauseum until death finally came creeping into your room one night like an assassin.

  Minari Pak was still holding out the anchovies. Reseng looked at the bag quivering awkwardly in his hand.

  ‘Just take it,’ Minari said. ‘Signature collection.’

  ‘Give them to your wife. Or to Hanja. I don’t care. What makes you think I could stomach those?’

  ‘If you insist on being this stubborn, Hanja will have no choice but to eliminate you.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’ Reseng glowered at Minari.

  ‘Please don’t make things difficult. This fight doesn’t have to happen. I’m telling you this as someone twice your age: kissing arse is better than being an arse.’

  Minari set the anchovies at Reseng’s feet and slowly turned and walked out. Reseng stared down at the bag. All at once, he thought, Old Raccoon must be so lonely. The businessmen who used to bring gifts to the library every holiday had all turned their backs on him. This was Hanja’s world now. How much longer would Reseng live if he went to see him? Three years? Five? Maybe longer. Maybe he’d even live out his natural years if he got on his knees and started kissing arses like Minari Pak. Sure, nothing wrong with a little arse in your face. Not like honour and dignity had ever mattered to him.

  Old Raccoon liked to joke that the only reason he’d brought Reseng home from the orphanage was so he’d have something to lean on when he walked. He said it to ruffle Reseng’s feathers, but when Reseng thought about it, there was a certain truth to it. He’d been Old Raccoon’s crutch ever since he was eleven. He fetched books from shelves, ran errands in the meat market, delivered letters from a faceless plotter who slipped him envelopes from behind a door. And after the death of Old Raccoon’s long-time assassin, Trainer, Reseng did all the assassination work as well. If Reseng were to turn his back on him now, Old Raccoon would be left to hobble along without a crutch.

  ‘I guess that’s not the worst thing that can happen to someone in this line of work,’ Reseng muttered.

  When Trainer was killed, ten years ago, Old Raccoon did nothing. He kept quiet, despite the rumours that Hanja was behind it. Things were different then: Old Raccoon was still on top. And yet there was no retaliation, no punishment, no investigation. Old Raccoon didn’t even get angry, even though Trainer had stood by him for three decades. He’d simply washed Trainer’s body, with its multiple stab wounds from what had clearly been a vicious battle, and quietly cremated him in Bear’s incinerator. It was a gloomy funeral: Reseng was the only mourner with Old Raccoon, who had silently scattered Trainer’s ashes from the top of a windswept hill.

  ‘Aren’t you going to do something about it?’ Reseng had asked.

  ‘That’s how it is for assassins. You can’t knock over the chessboard just because you lost a pawn.’

  That’s how it is. Those were Old Raccoon’s parting words for the man who’d stood by his side for thirty years.

  Reseng had learned everything from Trainer. How to handle firearms, how to use a knife, how to build and defuse bombs, how to set up a booby trap, how to track and hunt prey, even how to throw a boomerang. After the Vietnam War, Trainer found work with a foreign company that employed mercenaries, and travelled to war zones all over the world. He had a gentle face that made it hard to believe his claim of having killed hundreds of people on the battlefield. And he loved housework. Despite his huge body, his hands were deceptively nimble. He made all his own equipment, everything he built was done with care and precision, and he was an excellent cook. He particularly enjoyed doing laundry. On sunny days, without fail, he would handwash all the sheets and curtains and hang them on the clothesline in the courtyard. With a cigarette dangling from his lips, his face a picture of contentment, he would watch the sheets billowing in the wind and say, ‘If only I could get my life that clean.’

  If only he could have scrubbed his life clean. He could’ve married a nice girl, raised kids and led a peaceful family life doing the cooking, cleaning and laundering he so enjoyed. But unfortunately life is not a set of sheets. You cannot scrub away your past, your memories, your mistakes or your regrets. And so you die with them. Like Old Raccoon said, that’s how it was for assassins.

  Reseng picked up the anchovy gift set and went upstairs. When he opened the door, Desk and Lampshade came running to greet him, rubbing against his calves. Reseng filled their dishes with the chicken soup he’d bought them at the pet shop. The cats purred as they lapped up the soup. He patted their heads.

  ‘Do you know how rough your alleycat sisters have it? If I toss you out, you scaredy-cats won’t last a week. It’s hell out there.’

  X

  The cat café was called Like Cats.

  When Reseng sat down, Desk and Lampshade started meowing inside the cat carrier. He opened the latch. But they took one look at the dozens of other cats roaming around the café and refused to budge. The café owner brought him a cup of coffee.

  ‘Oh, look who’s come to visit! Is that Desk and Lampshade?’ she asked excitedly.

  His cats were clearly happy to meet her: they purred and came right out of the carrier. All cats seemed to love this café owner instantly. What was her secret? After getting married, she’d started raising more than twenty cats at home. But as the number of cats increased, her husband couldn’t stand it and told her she had to choose: him or the cats. And just like that, she divorced him and moved out. At gatherings of the cat café members, she would laugh and tell the story again: ‘Can you believe he asked me to choose? Ha!’

  ‘You finally brought them, after all the times I’ve asked you to!’ the café owner exclaimed as she played with Reseng’s cats. ‘Is it a special occasion?’

  Reseng took an envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. Looking at him quizzically, she took out two one-million-won bank cheques.

  ‘I’d be really grateful if you would look after them for me,’ Reseng said. ‘It might be for a little while, or a very long while. It’s also possible I might never come back to get them.’

  ‘Are you taking a trip somewhere far away? Are you going abroad?’

  ‘It’s not that far, but I’m not sure where this trip will end.’

  She nodded as if she understood.

  ‘We all have our dark spells now and then,’ she said, handing the envelope back to him. ‘I understand what you’re going through, but this isn’t necessary. I’ll look after your cats anyway until you come back.’

  ‘Since you know what I’m going through, please take the money.’

  He lowered his head in a gesture of pleading. The envelope sat between them in the middle of the table. She looked at it and, after a long pause, nodded.

  ‘When I was your age, I went very far away once, too. I went so far away, I didn’t think I’d be able to get back. But when you do finally come back, you realise you weren’t nearly as far away as you’d feared.’

  Reseng patted Desk and Lampshade, who nipped playfully at his hands. They already seemed at home there. He stood and said goodbye to the café owner.

  ‘Good luck,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Reseng gave Desk and Lampshade
one last pat and slowly walked out of Like Cats.

  Reseng took a cab to the L. Life Insurance building in Gangnam. Hanja’s offices were on the seventh, eighth and ninth floors. Rumour had it that around seventeen different company addresses were registered there. As if it wasn’t ironic enough that the country’s top assassination provider was brazenly running his business in a building owned by an international life insurance company, the same assassination provider was also simultaneously managing a bodyguard firm and a security firm. But just as a beleaguered vaccine company will survive not by making the world’s greatest vaccine but rather the world’s worst virus, so bodyguard and security firms will prosper not by hiring the world’s greatest security experts but rather the world’s worst terriorists. That was capitalism. Hanja understood how the world could curl around and bite its own tail like the ouroboros serpent. And he knew how to translate that into business and extract the maximum revenue. There was no better business model than owning both the virus and the vaccine. With one hand you parcelled out fear and instability, and with the other you guaranteed safety and peace. A business like that would never go under.

  Reseng took the lift to the seventh floor. Hanja’s office was on the ninth floor, but to reach it, you had to get off on the seventh floor and pass through the type of metal detector you’d expect to find in an airport. As Reseng walked through, an alarm shrieked. A female employee in a black suit came up to him with a handheld metal detector. She greeted him politely and asked him to raise his arms. He did as he was asked. As soon as the handheld detector came near him, it started beeping. He reached into his inner jacket pocket, pulled out Chu’s Henckels in its leather sheath and placed it in a basket. She looked at him in shock.

  ‘I was cooking just before I left. Must’ve forgotten to put it away first. I’m so damn absent-minded,’ he said with a smile.

  The flustered employee glanced back, and a husky security guard came over, a taser and a tear-gas gun strapped to his belt.

  ‘What seems to be the problem?’

  He narrowed his eyes and looked Reseng up and down. The way his uniform squeezed his rolls of fat reminded Reseng of a packet of hot dogs. He had the build of a nightclub bouncer and his shoulders were tensed. Reseng almost felt sorry for him as he handed over Hanja’s gold-embossed business card.