The Nervous System

by Nathan Larson

  I’m nodding along. When I think he’s done, I respond, “All right now. Let’s all take a cleansing breath and recast that energy. Reel it in. Ready? Cleansing breath …”

  Close my eyes and suck in a deep one. It stings the back of my throat, dry and granular.

  Open my peepers. Kim is giving me a flickering look, trying to maintain his hard bearing, but my weirdness threw him. His buddies swap glances, wavering. Kim rallies. “Yo, are you fucking laughing—”

  “Namaste. No, listen, for real, Kim, I blame myself, had I done some homework, had I only known that you were the big boss-dog round these parts, I would have come correct with due respect. Bearing gifts, whatever. Chalk it up to my cultural insensitivity.”

  “Man, I’m not trying to claim—”

  “Cause now I know you’re the top man, I see your posse is strong, and I reckon I can talk to you. And hey, I got no need to seek out civic leaders like K-Man or Danny Ya …”

  Kim displays serious discomfort, glancing back at his boys.

  “Listen, man, yo, I wasn’t trying to—”

  “Hey, it saves me some time. Saves me the hump. I talk to you and I know I’m speaking to the boss man. Look no further.”

  “Not trying to say I’m the boss.”

  I pull a surprised face. My gun hasn’t moved from his midsection. “I must be reading you wrong, Kim. Is this or is this not your neighborhood, your women? Cause if that’s not what you were trying to communicate, well, shit if I wasn’t feeling you all wrong.”

  Kim grits his teeth and takes me by the lapel. Hanging tough. “Motherfucker, listen to me now. Did I say I was running things? No. Just consider me, like, a concerned citizen trying to keep my hood clean and shit.”

  That makes me smile.

  “Ain’t no such thing as a clean hood, Kim. Never was. Now come with it, player, I respect your stones, barking at me with my nine in your gut. Due respect. This is your world, and I’m just a little-bitty squirrel. Now if you have your boy put his Glock back in his pants, I’ll do likewise and we can talk like fully grown men. How’s that sit with you?”

  Wanna give the impression that we’ve got a stalemate here. In truth, I could sort out all these kids in a spiffy jiffy, but an appeal to vanity is never a bad move.

  Kim’s breathing out of his nose. He holds my gaze for another ten seconds, then tells his flunky to stand down. The kid does it, huffy. Kim moves back a couple strides.

  Good faith, I stick my pistol in my waistband.

  “Jah bless. That’s much more civilized, I appreciate it, Kim.”

  Poof. Like magic, a black jeep comes around the corner. I lose focus, cause shit: Cyna-corp beetle-suits standing on the side runner and up in the back, a big-ass .30-caliber machine gun swiveling this way and that, hell, I drop fast. Hoping the haircuts will blind them to much else. Willing them to ride on by.

  “Man, what the fuck are you doing?” Kim is looking askance at yours truly. He swivels to clock the patrol.

  “Head rush,” I say. “Head rush, just a moment.”

  The jeep slides past. I come out of my crouch, shaky. They’ll get to me eventually, but the longer I can stave that off … On a positive tip, I’m now pretty sure if I’ve got any more implant fragments in me, they’re not broadcasting my location.

  Back to these teenyboppers. “Head rush. You were saying.” Wink at Kim.

  Kim cracks his neck and sighs. “Don’t get you at all, yo. Man, what you want with Rose, huh?”

  “Like the lady told you, we went to Queens College back in—”

  “Bullshit, man. You’re like fucking fifteen years older than Rose, minimum.”

  “Continuing ed, Kim. What, you never heard of that? New beginnings.”

  “Bullshit. The sense I got, man, you straight-up cruised her, right there in my house. Then you come flex on me and my boys.”

  “It’s not like that, Kim.”

  “She’s my cousin.”

  “That’s good to know. See, now I know.”

  “So I take an interest when armed bitches I’ve never laid eyes on in my life start dropping by, flexing, you know what I’m saying?”

  “Indeed I do, Kim, and you’re right to feel that way, though I would argue it’s y’all doing the flexing on me.”

  Kim takes a breath to continue his rap, glances back at his buddies like he’s showing this strange nigger what’s up, right, and I spin him around by the arm, smooth, getting out the gun, jerking his elbow up and noting a little snap, easing the boy to his knees, me with my Serb niner up against the back of his skull, super-klassic executionstyle. Except I wouldn’t be able to pull the trigger anyway, not with this prop hand I’m wearing. But these boys needn’t know that detail.

  His posse is shouting this and that. Kim spits, tough stuff, but embarrassingly his voice marks him as poopypants scared.

  “Jesus, word to God … fucked up my … fucked up my arm, that’s not cool.”

  I keep my peepers on his dome, and address his buddies in Korean. “Boys, can you hear Mama calling? Hurry on home now, Kimberly’s got detention.”

  Nobody moves. Silence save what sounds like a massive pile of metal getting knocked over blocks away.

  I sigh. “Or. If you’re still here after I count to three, that’s an expulsion—for Kimberly. Like permanently. I could give a shit either way. So. One …”

  Well, my hand is crying uncle but my thumb works, so I pull back the hammer with a deeply satisfying click, always a scary fucking sound if you’re on the wrong end of things. Kim doesn’t like it at all.

  “Like he says! Do like he says, I’m all right, okay?” says the young Korean. And over his shoulder, “Just chill, word to God, son, I’m sorry if …”

  The bucks linger, hesitant.

  “Stay right, children,” I say. “Scram.”

  “Go, motherfuckers!” Kim screams. They jump to, rev their engines, and split, their softness palpable despite the haircuts and hard looks. Cut hard around the corner, frightened and colorful birds, off and gone and it’s me and Kim and the CZ-99.

  Chinese dude in a yellow bodysuit comes around the corner, savvies us, not scared, bored even, just walking down the street, spins on his heels and scoots right back where he came from. Well played.

  “Hey comrade!” Kim calls after him in crappy Mandarin. “Hey! Beijing! Hey, getting robbed back here and all types of shit!”

  Poor fellow. I pat him on the head. Tap him gently with the barrel and put the gun away.

  “Get up, Kim.”

  The kid is trembling. I feel a wave of tenderness, fuck knows why.

  “Who’s in charge around here, huh? K-Man?”

  Kim lifts his shoulder, won’t meet my eyes.

  “Maybe … maybe not. I don’t gotta conversate with you, nigga,” he mumbles.

  I don’t like that, but hey. I poke him again.

  “C’mon, get up, nobody’s gonna hurt you. Just don’t approach folks you don’t know with that negative attitude, there’s all kinds out here and plenty badder than you. Humility, brother. I respect athleticism, but don’t matter how much tae kwon do kung-fu-Manchu you know, nobody faster than a bullet. But I’m not that guy, dig, so stand up and be thankful for another day in paradise.”

  Kim points his face at me. “Best be glad you had that gun, man.”

  I nod, solemn. “Always am, Kim.”

  “Fucking pull out your heart with my bare fucking hands, man.”

  Clown. But I maintain a serious tone. “Don’t doubt it.”

  “Fuck a bitch up.”

  “Well, Kim,” I say to this man-boy, “the moment you see an opening, I suggest you take your best shot. I’m right here, brother. Meantime,” put a hand on his arm and point him back toward the distant hubbub, back toward Koreatown, “take me to K-Man Seok.”

  _______________

  Middle-aged Korean saying, “I didn’t do it.”

  Cigarette-stained fingers touch the dog-eared photograph I’ve placed in f
ront of him, the fur coat, the frozen gesture.

  He repeats this gently, as if to himself: “I didn’t do it.”

  Kwon-Man Seok is probably about my age, if not younger, but the dude looks a full decade-and-change my elder. Salty, greyhound-thin, prison- and street-hardened, sharing the same fish tattoo as Kim in the meat of his right forefinger and thumb, faded blurry-blue ink, gang signifiers. Leathery all over, plenty of scars. K-Man.

  The both of us rocking SARS masks.

  I’m a people person and a sucker, and hey, I dig the guy’s energy, even in this dingy sixth-floor office on 34th Street. The man radiates class somehow, and a certain calm. Old-school dignity, old-school code.

  About which the young Kim would know nothing, as he hangs back now, gum-smacking with some fellow thugs. A couple Koreans, one or two Chinese as well. Keeps throwing a worried glance over at us, did he fuck up bringing me here? Not like he had options.

  We’re seated toward a yellowish chicken-wire window overlooking the street, tea cooling in front of me. Haven’t touched it, I’ll admit.

  I might have a good vibe, but I’m not stupid, y’all.

  My vibe is positive, sure, I got that PMA.* But this joint is dirty, dirty, dirty.

  On the table a Korean paper, ashtray, gold stub of a pencil, a deeply weathered book of sudoku puzzles, newsprint sienna, gone over once or twice, erased, and gone over again.

  I’ve been relieved of my 99. Still got the little guy around my ankle, but there seems no pending static, and this situation feels pretty chill so I don’t anticipate any need arising.

  Defeated, that’s the flavor of the air up in this place. Has-been. Past tense.

  I am perched on my chair, with as little of my ass making contact with the seat as humanly possible. Chiggers, lice. Wanna PurellTM up but don’t wanna offend.

  I don’t see it happen but Kwon produces a pack of cigarettes, Chinese, and I accept. At this moment I really have no recollection as to whether or not I’m a smoker; I have a hunch I am. Pull down my mask. Lean in to accept a light from him.

  Inhale, exhale, yet more lung pollution. K-Man’s in a fugue of sorts, thumbing the photo.

  “Didn’t do what? Didn’t take the picture? Didn’t know the girl?” I say.

  “Disrespectful. You, you come in here …” Flashes mad for an instant, then he straightens out his face. Big sigh. The dude deflates even further, and dude was deflated already. Just a tarp of skin, draped over a rack of bone.

  “Doesn’t matter,” says the man, monotone. “Doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “Uh-huh. Now, sir …” I begin, unrolling my spiel, but Kwon cuts this off.

  “Who you work for?” he says, quiet yet, but with teeth. “Police? ATF?”

  “No sir. Self-employed. I work for me, nobody else. I’m not here to fuck with you in any way, sir.”

  Kwon gives a pained grin. “Mr….”

  “Decimal.”

  He mouths the word, dismisses it. “Been expecting one you guys, long time. Huh? Must work senator’s office, Secret Service, or—”

  “Absolutely not. In fact, I was not aware of this whole … situation until agents representing a certain congressman accosted me only this morning. Think we’re both talking about the same guy. Yeah, you could say I have a beef of my own to settle with those motherfu … people.”

  Kwon smokes between thumb and pinkie, watches me. I continue.

  “I’m here strictly in an information-gathering capacity.”

  Kwon speaks now, says, “Old shit. Old story. Who cares? Korean whore, one more, one less … same, same.” He makes a weighing-the-scales gesture with this hands.

  My thoughts exactly, but I wasn’t gonna be the first one to say it straight up.

  “Yeah, well. Plus the baby,” I remind him.

  Kwon bats this away. Indicates my paws. “Why you wear these … on the hands?”

  I look at the surgical gloves. Speak frankly and switch to Korean. “I am, well, concerned about bacteria, germs, general hygiene, vis-à-vis protecting myself from exposure and possible illness or disorder arising from such.”

  The man laughs; I know what he’s thinking, what with everything we’re breathing up in this tar pit, everything we’re touching …

  Switching back to his native tongue, Kwon says, “Strange man. Speak Korean. You hurt your hand.”

  I regard my flipper, hold it up. “I slapped a moving helicopter.”

  Kwon scans me, deadpan. I blank him back.

  Dude says, “Why do you know our language?”

  Again I find myself feeling sure of the answer, as sure as I’ve ever been without actually knowing, so I’m candid. What the hell, tell the man: “After my military service the United States government subjected me to a battery of unsanctioned and invasive experiments and tests. One of these tests involved enhanced language aptitude. I have had many of the world’s languages downloaded into my brain. That’s about as far as I can understand it, I’m constantly surprising myself.”

  He grimaces and switches again to Korean. “You actually believe this?”

  I dip my chin, yes. Do I? I do. “Yes I do.”

  Kwon knits his brow. Looks back at the photo. “And you are not police, military, government, working perhaps for another contractor … working for Chinese …”

  Nod my head. “Hand to God. I’m my own man.”

  K-Man thinks about this. Squints, peering at the blood on my lapel. “I understand most but not all of what you say. You use strange words.”

  I shrug.

  The man casts his gaze around the dingy room. Sighs a couple times. “Well, I am an old fool who has nothing to say that affects my people.”

  “Appreciate the trust energy.”

  Kwon frowns at the odd terminology, but nods curtly. Dude seems prepared to talk to me so I jump on it.

  “Sir, I’m here, obviously, because you went upstate for the—”

  “Murder of Song Ji-Won, yes, I did.”

  “Well, sir, it’s my instinct … I should say that your, ah, confession is the only bit of evidence on record, so I’m, you know, inclined to believe you are—”

  “Not responsible for the murder of Song Ji-Won and her infant son,” he cuts in. “No, it hardly matters now so I can freely say I did not, could not have committed this … most brutal, heinous action against two innocents.”

  We sit with that, the natural follow-up question heavy in the atmosphere. Start to say it: “Okay. So if not you …”

  K-Man makes an impatient sound. “Look at us.”

  I don’t get it. “Sir?”

  “I mean, we used to be captains here. These American streets. Edicts of Seoul were observed equally here. A direct connection, a business arrangement here was a business arrangement there. We had order and hierarchy and respect. Now it’s Beijing says this, Beijing says that. And with the war …”

  Wags his head. Sad.

  “All this Chinese ass-fucking, and what do they understand? They understand people as numbers, as pack animals. It’s a gigantic mess, extremely volatile, you know. The Chinese don’t understand our people, the people they subjugate; for that matter, they don’t understand their own people … and when you don’t understand your slaves, well. Your American history bears this out.” He looks uncomfortable, then bobs his head, quick. Continues, “But these fucking Chinese …”

  I glance over at the clutch of young folks.

  “Don’t worry, they would never waste the energy learning our language. No, it’s our lot to learn theirs. Ugly language. And look at that. The younger generation knows nothing of history. Look at that, they eat together, commune together, sleep together, live together. Disgusting.”

  Cluck my tongue, yessir: it’s a filthy shame. But in truth, this is where I diverge from racially pure old-school cats, cause we know the kittens are gonna play together, break bread, make multicolor babies, and hey, I reckon that’s a major positive. It’s really the only process keeping our species headed down
the evolutionary path. Without mixing it up, we go the way of the dodo or the high-top fade.

  Plus, as any breeder of dogs will tell you, like my old neighbor who dealt purebred rottweilers: eventually they start popping out retarded.

  But hey.

  K-Man is in a mood but the guy gets to the point nonetheless. “Sure. Doesn’t matter now, so I tell you this. How do you say, I took one for the team on Song. This was my honor. But don’t think it didn’t break my spirit, sir. Song was … well, many things … but we always understood each other. We knew each other’s hearts. And I always made sure …”

  He looks down at the sudoku, the pencil. Looks back up, his eyes are just a little glassy. The barest suggestion of something soft, and that’s as far as it goes cause the K-Man is rawhide like that.

  “I always made sure Miss Ji-Won got along okay. All the girls, of course, but Song in particular. We spoke a lot, spoke a lot about home, you know. Korea.”

  I nod.

  “Did my job. Danny Ya ran most everything, he was big from way back in his family history, Inagawa-kai, a very old and respectable family, yakuza from the beginning.”

  Danny Ya, the big boss …

  “Might I be able to speak with Mr. Ya …” I begin, and Kwon is shaking his head.

  “Pancreatic cancer in 2008, he went very quickly. Huh. Too quickly. No plans. His sons were junkie brats so that left me in the driver’s seat. By default. But, you know, I’m so tired … so other arrangements were made. At least one of his kids, pretty sharp. Though I kept business going, in the short term.” He waves his hand. “Witness my former kingdom, sir,” he adds, wry.

  I get the picture. “So it was Danny Ya—”

  “Who asked that I step forward for the … what happened, with Song.”

  “That’s a lot to fucking ask. Even in your circles. As I understand it.”

  Kwon eyeballs me like I just walked in the room. “This is a life thing we have here. I just told you it was my profoundest honor. Unlike—” Pauses, as if getting his anger under control, continues: “We don’t try to move in on each other’s territories, sir, or poach other’s property, we’re not like the Italians or the Russians, killing each other, lying to each other. This is a life thing, and a true family. The Sicilian thing, they’re vain, spoiled children. No, you would not understand.”