The Plotters

by Un-su Kim

  The sun was rising. Bear looked at his watch then checked to see if anyone was coming up the mountain. He opened the oven door and, using a long metal hook, pulled out the tray even before the heat had fully dissipated. Fresh from the flames, Jeongan’s white bones looked fragile, ready to crumble in an instant. Bear fished out the bones with a cheap pair of tongs sold at any hardware shop. He checked his watch again and peered down the hill. Then he placed what remained of Jeongan into the iron mortar and got to work, clearly flustered by the thought of customers suddenly showing up.

  He stopped after less than five minutes and quickly transferred the ashes to a maple box and wrapped it in a white cloth. He looked contrite as he handed the box to Reseng.

  ‘You should’ve come earlier. I wanted to do a better job for him, but there isn’t enough time.’

  Reseng took the urn and handed Bear an envelope in exchange.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Reseng said flatly. ‘It’s not like grinding the bones any finer will bring the dead back to life.’

  Bear’s eyes reddened as he took the envelope. ‘That Jeongan was a good kid,’ he said between tears.

  ‘Thank you for your help. I’ll see you later.’

  As Reseng put the urn on the passenger seat and started the engine, Bear went to the back window to say goodbye to Old Raccoon.

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Raccoon. And good luck.’ Old Raccoon looked at him for a moment and nodded.

  On the way back to Seoul, Reseng parked the car on a hilltop. Old Raccoon watched in silence as he picked up Jeongan’s box from the passenger seat.

  ‘I’ll be right back,’ Reseng said without looking at him.

  The short mountain path ended at a cliff. The wind blew hard; it was a good spot for scattering ashes. Reseng pulled on a pair of white gloves, opened the box and took a handful. As he unfolded his fingers, a gust of air moving up the face of the cliff caught the ashes and sent them soaring. Reseng suddenly remembered a dumb joke Jeongan had once made.

  ‘I wonder if my ability to not be remembered is hereditary. Like a gene for obscurity that I got from my father, etched into my DNA. That would be why my mother never felt sad about leaving him. If you don’t remember someone, there’s no reason to be sad. Pretty cool gene, right?’

  ‘What’s so cool about that kind of stupid DNA?’ Reseng had asked.

  Jeongan had laughed and said, ‘I can con someone I’ve already conned, or hit on a girl I broke up with, then dump her again and not feel bad about it. Because they’re not going to remember my face anyway.’

  The morning after scattering Jeongan’s ashes, Reseng took a long, hot bath. Afterwards, he opened his wardrobe and stared at the clothes for a while before selecting a white button-down shirt, a black leather jacket and blue jeans. As he toned and moisturised his skin and combed his hair back, he thought about how long it’d been since he’d had such a peaceful morning. The anxiety that normally plagued him had momentarily vanished. He looked at himself in the mirror and grinned.

  ‘Damn, you’re handsome,’ he told his reflection.

  He opened a drawer. Inside were Chu’s Henckels and a Russian PB-6P9 handgun fitted with a silencer. He tapped the grip with his finger. After a quick glance out the window, he took the knife and left the gun.

  The first place Reseng headed was the M. Beef Market. An eccentric old man named Heesu worked there. People called Old Heesu the king of the meat market. Everyone who worked in the market had to pay him a monthly fee. Drug dealers, gang members, organ traffickers, conmen, middlemen for contract killers, fencers, pimps—no one was exempt. Even Hanja and Old Raccoon had to pay Old Heesu in order to do business in the market. But Old Heesu’s fees were no more than fifty thousand won per month. He never took more just because someone made more, and he never let anyone off just because they made less. As long as they paid, he didn’t care what they did. What was the point of only collecting fifty thousand? Did he use it to change the burnt-out bulbs in the marketplace? No one knew.

  When Reseng opened the door to Old Heesu’s shop, two men—one in his late fifties with a wrinkled face, and one in his early twenties who looked like an adolescent—were gutting a cow. The baby-faced man was lifting entrails out of a red bucket, and the older man was carving out the cow’s liver and lungs with a small, curved knife. Each organ went into a separate bucket. As Reseng stepped in front of one of the buckets, the older man paused to look up at him.

  ‘I’m here to see Mr Heesu,’ Reseng said politely.

  ‘Who’re you?’

  ‘I’m from The Doghouse.’

  The older man looked him over and turned to the younger man.

  ‘Drop that and go tell Mr Heesu he’s got a visitor. From the library.’

  The younger man lowered the entrails back into the bucket and hurried inside. The older man took off his rubber gloves and sat on a bench, then shovelled a spoonful of rice soup into his mouth and followed it with a swig of soju. The sour smell of blood wafted up from the bucket of intestines. The smell was everywhere, but he kept slurping away at the soup like it didn’t bother him one bit. After a moment, the baby-faced man returned.

  ‘He says to go on in.’

  Old Heesu was sitting at a low table reading a newspaper. Next to a cup of black coffee, a half-empty bottle of soju, a saucer of sesame oil and an ashtray with a lit cigarette sticking out of it was a raw liver that looked like it’d just come out of the cow, and a small knife. Reseng bowed.

  ‘Long time, no see. Everything okay with Old Raccoon?’ Old Heesu asked as he lowered the newspaper.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘From what I hear, things haven’t been too peaceful for him lately.’

  ‘Well, from what I see,’ Reseng said, ‘he’s pretty much always at peace. Or maybe he’s losing interest in peace these days.’

  ‘Yeah? Of course, most of the rumours floating around the meat market are horseshit.’

  Old Heesu chuckled and took a sip of coffee, then relit the cigarette butt in the ashtray.

  ‘So, what brings you to this smelly place?’

  ‘I was hoping to ask you something.’

  ‘Ask away.’

  ‘I’m looking for the Barber. You’ll know where I can find him, right?’

  Old Heesu raised his eyebrows and stared at Reseng.

  ‘Why come all the way here to ask me something Old Raccoon could’ve answered for you? He may stay cooped up in that library of his, but there’s nothing he doesn’t know.’

  ‘There’s no way he’d tell me.’

  ‘Is the Barber on a plotter’s list?’

  ‘No, this is personal.’

  A mischievous look came over Old Heesu’s face. Perhaps this could turn out to be fun.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re looking to get a haircut.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I am.’

  Old Heesu smiled and scrupulously stubbed his cigarette out again. There wasn’t much left of it, but it was clear he planned to re-light it later.

  ‘How? You’re not as smart as those pen-twirling plotters. And I assume you’re not going to use a gun or plant an explosive.’

  ‘I’ll use a knife.’

  Old Heesu leaned back against the couch. ‘Reseng versus the Barber…’ He closed his eyes tight and murmured, ‘How would that end?’

  Just then, the baby-faced man rushed into the office.

  ‘Grandpa, Gukmangbong is refusing to leave until we give him an order of tripe.’

  ‘We’re sold out. Tell him to come back on Thursday. We’ll have more then.’

  ‘You know what he’s like. He won’t listen.’

  Old Heesu laughed. ‘What’s old Mangbong doing out there?’

  ‘He’s thrown himself on the floor and won’t stop crying and yelling. He did the same thing for two hours last time. We couldn’t get any work done. He’s such a pain in the arse!’ The baby-faced man was at his wits’ end.

  Old Heesu laughed again and shook his head. ‘Ah, that Mangbong. He was so
much happier when he was knifing people. Retiring has given him nothing but grief. Tell you what, boy. Skim a little off Kim’s order and tell Mangbong to do what he can with that for now. And tell him to come in early Thursday morning, when the good stuff arrives.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The young man looked relieved as he left.

  Old Heesu kept chuckling—no doubt at the thought of old Mangbong sobbing on the floor—as he poured himself a glass of soju. He cut a piece of raw liver, dipped it in the oil and ate it.

  ‘Funny how the older you get, the better you are at fending off knives, but I still have no knack for fending off tears. I swear, tears are mightier than swords.’

  He cut another slice of raw liver, dipped it in the oil and offered it to Reseng, who took a hesitant bite.

  ‘Fresh, huh?’ Old Heesu asked.

  ‘Yes, it’s delicious. Looks terrible, though.’

  Old Heesu nodded and offered him a glass of soju as well. Reseng took the glass.

  ‘That’s life. Not much to it. Just one big stinking, filthy, squalid mess. But once you get a taste of it—ah! Then it’s not so bad. Sometimes it’s even delicious. So how about it? I think you should go home now and not do anything. And you should drop by more often, have a drink with me.’

  ‘I’ve already unsheathed my blade,’ Reseng said grimly.

  ‘What, that? That’s nothing. You just slip it back in its sheath and go on home.’

  ‘First Trainer, then Chu, and now Jeongan. It sure feels like the Barber is throwing down the gauntlet.’ Reseng sneered. ‘I could have lived with losing the first two, but all three? That’s just too much. And I assume I’m next in line. I’m sure you’ve heard the rumours. But even if things were different, I’m still not exactly fated to live a long life.’

  Reseng drank the soju. Old Heesu cut off another slice of liver and offered it to him. Reseng ate it and poured a glass of soju for Old Heesu.

  ‘What’ll you give me?’ Old Heesu asked.

  ‘I was thinking we’d keep it simple with cash. I know cash is what makes the meat market go round.’

  ‘Four big ones.’

  Reseng took out his wallet, but Old Heesu waved his hands.

  ‘Pay me later. If you come back alive.’

  ‘And if I die, I get to keep it?’ Reseng asked with a laugh.

  ‘Consider it travel expenses for the underworld. I can’t be too stingy. It’s bad for the soul.’

  Old Heesu gave him a pitying smile and tossed back the glass of soju. Then he wrote the Barber’s address on a scrap of paper and showed it to Reseng, who nodded. Old Heesu set the paper on fire and placed it in the ashtray. Once the paper had burnt down to ash, Reseng stood. He bowed politely to Old Heesu and left the shop.

  The taxi pulled up in front of the convenience store, but Mito wasn’t there. A young woman in her early twenties was at the register instead. Reseng went inside.

  ‘Welcome,’ the employee said.

  Reseng glanced around the shop. It looked like Mito hadn’t reported for work. He took a canned coffee from the fridge and two Hot Break bars from the shelves.

  ‘The woman who worked here before—did she quit?’ he asked.

  ‘You mean Mito? Yes, she quit a few days ago,’ she answered flatly, as she scanned his items.

  ‘Right.’ Reseng nodded.

  He sat at a table outside the shop and took a sip of the canned coffee. Then he smoked a cigarette. It was a clear November day. He might be dead in a few hours at the hands of the Barber but, strangely enough, he wasn’t nervous or afraid. It was a peaceful morning, perfect weather for taking a stroll. He took one of the Hot Breaks from his pocket, unwrapped it and took a bite. It struck him as odd that sweet foods could still taste sweet even when his friend was dead.

  The hard drive that Reseng had stolen from Mito contained countless technical diagrams of lifts, sensors, closed-circuit cameras, monitors, lights. He felt like he’d stolen an engineering student’s homework. But when he examined them more closely, he found a single plotting file cleverly buried among the hundreds of other files. It contained a photo of a balding, forty-five-year-old engineer who’d died in a lift shaft. He had to have been one of the three of Hanja’s plotters Mito had killed.

  It was a simple plot. The man pushes the button for the lift. He reads the paper as he waits. He always reads the paper while waiting for a lift; he’s a busy man. The lift climbs to the seventeenth floor. But the only things actually climbing are the numbers on the digital display, not the lift. The doors open with a friendly ding! A light turns on. His eyes still fixed on the newspaper, the man steps into thin air. Fade to black.

  If someone were to have looked up ‘lift accident’ online, they would have found an article on a man who fell to his death about a month earlier due to a faulty lift sensor. According to the article, the lift company claimed there was nothing wrong with the equipment. The apartment building manager said that the lift in question had been inspected regularly, and that nothing had been amiss at the most recent inspection; nothing unusual had been recorded on the security cameras either. One member of the dead engineer’s family had sobbed and said, ‘A perfectly healthy man is dead, and no one takes any responsibility?’

  Reseng ate the rest of the Hot Break and left. When he reached the intersection, he debated whether he should head towards Mito’s apartment or Misa’s knitting shop, then slowly made his way to the knitting shop.

  Fortunately, Misa wasn’t there. Mito was by herself, knitting in the rocking chair. Just knitting away, like a farmer’s wife who’d finished the day’s work and had nothing else to do with her evening. She glanced at him and finished a row before getting up. She walked over and held the nearly finished garment to his shoulders to measure it.

  ‘Hey, it’s just right. I’m knitting this for you.’

  With a satisfied look, she went back to the rocking chair and resumed knitting. Reseng smirked and pulled a chair over to her.

  ‘I heard Jeongan died,’ she said without looking up.

  ‘Yeah, thanks to you,’ he said with a scowl.

  ‘So now you’re here to kill me?’

  Reseng picked up the ball of wool from the table and rolled it around on his palm.

  ‘I haven’t decided yet. Whether to kill you, then Hanja, then the Barber, or first the Barber, then Hanja, then you.’

  ‘In that case, kill me last, please. I have a lot to do. I need to finish knitting this before winter. And I need to find a home for Misa, somewhere safe. Then take out Hanja and Old Raccoon along with the rest of the garbage, and then…’

  ‘You think you’re funny.’ Reseng’s voice was frosty.

  Mito looked up from her knitting.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘Even if you don’t kill me when it’s over, I’ll take care of it myself.’

  ‘You’re going to commit suicide?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Reseng stared at her. She was giving him her naïve, no-big-deal look.

  ‘No wonder you’re so fearless. You’ve been planning to kick the bucket all along.’

  Mito resumed knitting. There was something resolute about the skilful, practised way she worked the needles.

  ‘Why?’ Reseng asked. ‘Just come up with a great plot with that smart brain of yours. Kill all the plotters, then kill all the assassins as a bonus, and after you’ve purged the world to your liking, you can escape overseas with Misa and cross-eyed Sumin and live happily ever after.’

  ‘I’d love to, but at some point little ol’ Mito here turned into a monster too.’

  Her expression hardened. She put the wool and knitting needles back in the basket and set it to one side, then laced her fingers together and stretched her arms overhead.

  ‘You know the story,’ she said. ‘The sad story of the hero who hunts down a monster only to become a monster herself in the end. I am that tragic hero. So what can I do? Once my job is done, this poor, gruesome monster will have to finish off the good Mito as well. Bu
t hey, if you’re still angry at me then, you’re welcome to do the job yourself.’

  ‘Do you enjoy planning people’s deaths?’

  ‘Not at all.’ She laughed weakly. ‘Jeongan’s death hurt you, right? It hurt me, too. It hurts every time—always has. Every person you and I killed and all the people they left behind hurt just as much.’

  Reseng glared at her. She took the brunt of it head-on. He looked down at the toe of his shoe: a splotch of dried blood that must have come from Old Heesu’s shop. Reseng stood up.

  ‘The Barber, Hanja, then you. Better get all your knitting done before then.’

  Mito’s eyes widened. ‘The Barber will kill you!’

  ‘Wow, I guess I’ve been a pretty terrible assassin,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘No one wants to bet on me.’

  ‘Don’t do anything yet.’ She looked panicked. ‘I have a plan. I’ll kill the Barber and Hanja and little ol’ Mito, just the way you wanted it.’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you last time?’ he scoffed. ‘I’m not hiding under your skirt. I’m not saying I wouldn’t get up in there for other reasons, but to be honest, mean, skinny girls like you have never been my type.’

  Reseng took the other Hot Break bar from his pocket and put it on the table.

  ‘Here. A present.’

  Mito stared at him, dumbfounded. He smiled at her, then slowly headed for the door.

  ‘You dumb fuck! If you go to the Barber, you’re a dead man!’ Mito’s shouts followed him as he stepped outside.

  THE BARBER AND HIS WIFE

  ‘You seem like a distinguished gentleman. I can tell you live a fine, distinguished life,’ the Barber said as he cut Reseng’s hair.

  Snip, snip went the scissors as they danced around Reseng’s ears. The barbershop was old, with outdated white tiles lining the sink area. It looked like something you’d see in a black-and-white photo, like the kind of place Reseng had seen when he was twelve or thirteen, running errands for Old Raccoon, where boys went to get their compulsory buzz cuts before starting middle school, shyly rubbing their scalps as they walked out the door in front of him, identical to the one Reseng had gone to for the same buzz cut, even though he wasn’t a student, while the other boys were in class.