Don’t like this. “I understand the concept of loyalty, Mr. Kwon. Ran with my own local gangs. And I was a military man.”
Kwon bobs his noggin, acknowledging my snippy tone. “Not meaning to offend. Yes, of course you know loyalty to state, maybe to fellow soldiers, to comrades. Well, we take this one step past loyalty, this to us is family. You don’t cherry-pick your family. You do whatever it takes to protect them. Can you understand that?”
“Yeah,” I respond. Insulting he would assume I wouldn’t understand such basic shit. Want to get him back on topic. “That’s positive energy you’re putting out there, Mr. Kwon, but hey, with all respect to your family and your sacrifices and whatnot … and, you know, considerable time having passed now … I’m here looking for the guy who did Song. And if that’s not you, I’d like to ask if you might point me in the right direction.”
Kwon fiddles with the photo, the girl, hand to mouth, frozen laugh …
“That’s a horrible, disrespectful expression.” I think he’s talking about the photograph, but: “Did Song. Using the verb to do as a substitute for …”
I wince. “Apologies for my poor Korean, sir, and for my manners, Mr. Kwon. I’ve been wandering in the desert so long. Forget where to put the salad fork.”
Kwon blanks me.
“Meaning to say, I apologize for my coarse language.”
Kwon returns to the photo. Rubs at it.
Laughter from the direction of the exit, the gaggle of kids, Man throws them a sharp look and the laughter stops.
“No,” he says to me, eyes on the boys. “My honor is my honor, and I don’t have a lot left to lay claim to, sir. I will say this, however, and then speak no more on the matter.”
Hands me back the photo. I gag inwardly, thinking about those parasites that thrive on human dermis, but I take it gingerly between gloved fingers.
“My family behaved as a smoke screen. That’s all. The people you’re looking for, they’re not my people. I suggest you look for answers to this … tragedy in more exclusive neighborhoods. Or maybe even in government circles.”
He’s growing progressively more emotional as he speaks. Feel myself recoiling, and without looking around, I mentally review my exit options.
“I don’t control things here anymore. Not me.” He starts pulling himself out of his chair. “Now I’ve said enough. You’re a stranger here. It’s best if you leave quietly, and kindly don’t molest us any further. We have enough on our hands with these motherfucking Chinese.”
Seems like the smart play, just walking. What’s all this about not running things, though? If this guy is not the boss, why am I sitting here gum-flapping?
I rise as well, but can’t resist one last grasp at the man. “Mr. Kwon. If you are no longer in charge, I respectfully request an audience with whoever … Song seems to have meant something to you. Would you not want to see …”
K-Man has clearly had enough of my nonsense, makes a gesture at the boys. Something revs up deep in his throat and before I know what’s what, the man hawks a dark hunk of spit near my right Florsheim, causing me to stumble backward a bit. Jesus.
“… those responsible … brought to some sort of …” I fumble the photo of Song, and it falls to the floor.
All of this is brought to a halt as everybody in the room clocks gunshots outside. High caliber, very large guns. The first is lost in industrial noise but the second is unmistakable.
Hustle to the grimy window. The boys crowd me.
Mexican standoff.
Situated just east of Broadway on 32nd Street, we are treated to a comprehensive bird’s-eye view of two black JLTVs, tricked-out with a Saab antitank weapon and a .50-caliber machine gun, respectively, these vehicles flanked by upward of a dozen black-clad soldiers on foot—yup, Cyna-corp has not so subtly made the scene.
This grouping is faced down by a heavily armored Hummer with some sort of mounted RPG, looks like a 40mm, and at least twenty Chinese militia buffering on foot, with more approaching rapidly from the east … It’s not clear who fired what where, but by the sound of it I’d say it was the RPG, which having been directed skyward is now coming to rest, trained on the Cyna-corp brigade.
As well I note Chinese/Korean snipers taking positions on rooftops opposite, and long nasty-looking barrels pointing out of opaque windows. Un-uniformed folks, citizens and laborers, are scattering, making for doorways. I hear choppers, but don’t see them.
Huh.
Kwon, taking his time, leans over to pick up the photo, straightens, squints out the window for a bit. Then has a long gander at me. Hands me the picture and heads back to his table.
I find Kim and a couple of the other boys staring at me. Kim’s eyebrows are raised. I return the look, like, what the fuck would I know about this?
Turning to Kwon, who is in the process of reaching for his worn book of sudoku.
I clear my throat. “Well, I’d best be off then,” I say. “Mind if I get that gun back?”
_______________
*PMA: Positive Mental Attitude. Ref.: rock group the Bad Brains, song “Attitude,” released 1978. MUS 782.42 Library of Congress.
_______________
Once the barking match between leaders of the two military units reveals a lack of a common language and therefore a total inability to communicate, things out on 32nd Street go quiet-ish for a spell, while both sides, presumably, contemplate their next move.
I faintly hear the Cyna-corp captain calling for a translator, reckoning I can link that voice back to the intimate rasp in my ear early this morning at the library. Or maybe I’m tripping.
Some homeboy hands me my pistola, everybody’s peepers on the street action, and I use this lull to haul ass out of K-Man’s hidey-hole … through a dingy hallway and once-yet-fucking-again into a darkened stairwell, lit every second floor by a smallish window.
Taking the stairs in pairs, fumbling for a pill, nearly losing the whole bottle, fuck me, out of breath I dry-swallow and choke it back, not sure if I want to charge out there and make a suicide dash, go out tragic, which would mean getting shot in the spine and hopefully taking a few of these fucks with me … or if my intention is to genuinely engineer some kind of escape that will allow me to pop and lock another day.
Right now I’m just running. I forget why. The Boogie Oogie Man. No. I’m old, an old man, and so much has happened in the meantime. Enough to make me irredeemable.
I’ve been stumbling down dank-ass stairwells most of my life. Seems to be a theme, a coda, a tired refrain in a long, sad godamn song.
Now on the landing of the seventh floor, pause to sneak a peek out onto the street, through brownish glass I confirm the stalemate continues with each respective side in a huddle, I know this hiatus in the action can’t last long, not with so many people with their fingers on so many triggers.
Ditch my gloves and get my PurellTM on … thinking, major chutzpah is involved with stepping en force into Chinese-controlled areas, surely the Cyna-corp folks, be they out-of-towners or not, should be aware of this. I cradle my beat-up flipper, which pains me like the dickens. Oh for a Percocet …
Not trying to say it’s all about this guy, but if the shoe was on the other foot I’d be pissed off and looking to fuck me up too. Otherwise why here, why now? No thinking person would jostle the Chinese hive without good reason. So paranoid, or my working assumption is that Cyna-corp has traced yours truly to these quarters.
The Chinese aren’t interested in nuances and should be expected to lose patience with this situation at any time, and just start shooting people. They’re famous for it. In fairness the same could be said for Cyna-corp, but in contrast to the Chinese they tend to be knee-jerk and all emotional about it, I recall temper tantrums over in the sandbox that would leave scores of civilians dead, the boys in a frenzy, abusing their weapons, young, dumb, and full of cum. One infamous incident in particular, publicized for a moment and quickly hushed up, the American participants swiftly pulled out of the
country. You may or may not recall.
A traditional headscarf decorated with brain matter and skull. A prepubescent girl raped and mutilated over a period of a week and a half, dead after a week, amongst the corpses of her family, who, it’s estimated, had lived long enough to see their daughter and sister violated multiple times by a dizzying number of Western men. It doesn’t matter at all now, does it? The slate is wiped cleaner than clean.
Reaching the ground floor in time for some feedback and the crackle of a bullhorn.
“CITIZENS,” comes the oddly synthesized voice in Mandarin, they’ve got one of those translation-robot thingys … I crouch in the atrium, tucked back in semidarkness but separated from the action by only a glass door.
“CITIZENS,” repeats the robot. Not exactly state of the art, sounds like Stephen Hawking. Remember that space guy, black-hole dude, the guy in the wheelchair? He was a funny motherfucker. Dirty mind.
“WE HAVE COME HERE IN A PEACEFUL SPIRIT, WE RESPECT YOUR CLAIM TO THIS AREA, AND INTEND NO HARM NOR ENCROACHMENT ON YOUR JURISDICTION.”
Somebody outside calls, “Just fucking shoot ’em!” and I stiffen up but nothing happens.
“WE SEEK YOUR ASSISTANCE. A CRIMINAL IS AT LARGE WHOM WE WOULD LIKE TO QUESTION. THIS INDIVIDUAL PERHAPS WITH ASSISTANCE DID WITHOUT PROVOCATION ATTACK SEVERAL OF OUR VEHICLES AND PERSONNEL, RESULTING IN MUCH DAMAGE TO CYNA-CORP PROPERTY AND THE DEATHS OF SEVERAL OF OUR PEOPLE. AT THE VERY LEAST—”
Crackle pop pause. The machine seems to be processing the next bit.
So yeah. I’m not high on my own supply; see what I’m saying? These people HATE to be shown up. They’re like the gangs of old in this respect.
The Chinese fire up their own PA system, through which a woman speaks in English. It’s fuller and much more hi-fi. This is why America fell on its ass, we used to have the best sound systems, the best everything. But look, we got fat and China blew right past us, all casual like see ya on the flip.
“TRESPASSERS. PLEASE REMOVE YOUR VEHICLES AND REPLACE ANY WEAPONS IMMEDIATELY, OTHERWISE THIS WILL BE CONSIDERED AN ACT OF AGGRESSION AND WE WILL RESPOND ACCORDINGLY, AS PER THE BOWLING GREEN ACCORD.”
The Cyna-corp voice computer catches up, comes with, “INDIVIDUAL GUILTY OF MAYHEM AND MULTIPLE HOMICIDE. HE HAS BEEN TRACKED TO THIS—”
“TRESPASSERS,” says the Chinese gal again, battling sound systems, “PLEASE REMOVE YOUR VEHICLE—”
And then it’s just a big loud smear as they talk over each other: “… DARK-SKINNED MALE, FIVE FEET TEN INCHES, APPROXIMATELY 135 POUNDS, WEARING A BLACK OR BROWN SUIT …”
“… ACT OF AGGRESSION AND WE WILL RESPOND ACCORDINGLY …”
“… TWENTY THOUSAND YUAN OR THE EQUIVALENT IN FOOD SUPPLIES FOR INFORMATION …”
“… THAT THIS IS THE FINAL WARNING. TRESPASSERS. PLEASE REMOVE …”
Everything speeds up, folks start hollering, dig the Chinese Hummie start to inch forward, the Americans likewise push eastward ho, take a deeper peek and the soldiers on foot are up in each other’s faces. It’s about to jump off.
Of all the situations I’ve helplessly witnessed deteriorate into chaos and/or mass slaughter, finally one over which I have a touch of control. Or so I imagine.
Can’t allow this to go down, y’all. Slip sliding right into an absolute bloodbath, and I won’t sit idly by, I’m not that fucking precious about myself.
I’m going out there.
Up on my feet and I’m pushing at the door with my shoulder, more or less braced to die, who cares, right? Me calling out like I’m the freakin mayor, “Hold your fire! Hold your—”
Grabbed from behind with much force before I can get out the door, neck jerked back, I’m in a headlock, trying to breathe, inaudibly mouthing, “No, no,” hit the concrete atrium sideways with somebody hanging on me, gunfire erupts and almost immediately the glass door is decimated, my attacker scooting us back and away from the exit, me stupidly thinking no, no … no what, Dewey? Writhing around in broken glass and rusty water, try to reach around and get a grip on my pistol but I find I’ve already been relieved of it, confirmation arrives as it’s shoved in my ear.
Kim has to shout, I’m not particularly surprised to find myself in his embrace, kid has righteously been itching to smack me stupid since back at the Korean snack shack.
“Don’t fucking fight me, man,” I hear him say. “I’ve been told to keep you breathing, but trust this, if it were up to me, yo, I’d just let you walk right out the door and get what’s coming to you, you devil fuck.”
Cacophony of bullets outside, sounds like microwave popcorn as Kim jerks me to my feet.
Yet more blood figurative and literal drenches my suit and soul. Just add it to list of evil shit for which I will pay dearly in Hell.
_______________
Underground it’s all connected, I mean ant-colony tunnels connect basement to basement here beneath 32nd Street, burrows probably as old as the island itself, occasionally opening up into larger caves where I peep open fires, livestock, tents, entire families pausing to look glassily at Kim and me as we shuffle past, me discombobulated, trying to regain my already compromised footing, must’ve smacked my head on something. The deep gloom of these tunnels is disrupted by the battery-powered lanterns spaced at approximately fifteen-foot intervals.
Always suspected something like this subterranean hive, always detected its pulse, its movement. I want to vibe further on this new vista but my heart is sick. Register the gunplay, even down here. Knowing it’s on me, my spiritual rap sheet, it’s all in my lap.
Dizzy, scrabbling for my pills. My vision keeps going wiggly. Time is liquid, I want to set this misunderstanding right, but my internal pragmatist knows it was already too late the moment Cyna-corp rolled onto the scene.
Kim is sufficiently comfortable to at least allow me to hobble along without jabbing my kidneys with the pistol. He’s fallen a step or two behind, and it occurs to me the boy has been talking all the fucking while, him saying, “… bring your ill shit up in here. You think we need this static? Like we don’t have enough bullshit …”
Retune this noise out. If he was geared to whack my sad ass he would’ve done it by now, and why the fuck not? He’s an eager beaver, is Kim, a street soldier just executing instructions.
So the Koreans are willing to shield me, for what purpose I can only guess at.
Earth gives way to a concrete incline, terminating in a wall sporting a flimsy-looking ladder which at one point was painted yellow, extending heavenward into midnight black.
“Climb it, bitch,” suggests Kim.
Turn to him but can’t really make out his features. Not sure if it’s the lighting or my own frayed synapses. I dig that I’ve been slumped against the wall, stargazing. Missing tiny scraps of time, my connection to the continuum is intermittent, glitchy.
“Where the fuck we going, Kim?”
“Nigga, you don’t get to ask questions. See the boss. The boss gonna sort you out, no doubt, now fucking climb it.”
Okay. The boss. I withdraw a fresh pair of gloves. Withdraw my pill bottle, twist, and fish one out.
“You’re one straight freak, man.”
This I ignore as I swallow the little pentagon-shaped pill, but it’s true enough.
Trust my depth perception is still functioning, I grab a cold rung, and hump my corpse upward.
_______________
It’s a serious haul, a long ascent into a species of dark that I’ve only seen before in nightmares. Doing it more or less one-handed, which is trickier than it sounds.
As I’m enfolded in blackness, the spirits who populate my sleep make themselves known.
Whoosh. Here’s Hakim Stanley, the handsome, brave brother with a hole in the top of his head. A hole I put there. Stanley’s simply observing me, expression unreadable. U.S. Army attire with a wide collar of blood. He salutes in slow-motion. I know not to speak to him lest I make these visions manifest.
Whoosh. Here’s District Attorney
Rosenblatt in a worn shit-colored bathrobe. Absent is a sizable chunk of his skull. Another head-shot brought to you by Dewey Decimal. He appears drunk, leering, eyes just slightly to my left, which makes the effect all the more fucked up.
Decimal. Your file. The stuff they did—
Shove that away. Won’t be played by phantasms.
Whoosh. Here’s some abstract art, no, a jumble of body parts. This is a new one. I’m forced to watch as they assemble themselves into a young woman, outfitted in a grayish fur coat. I am looking at Song Ji-Won. She’s admiring her nails, singing to herself in Korean. It’s not a number I’m familiar with, I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything like it, and she sings soft, sweetly, in the manner of one who thinks she is alone:
Did I dream you dreamed about me?
Were you here when I was full sail?
It seems extremely goddamn important that I hear more, I can get with this tune, but my dome smacks what I immediately believe to be the ceiling.
“Open the fucking thing. There’s a handle.” This from Kim, sounding winded behind and below me in the blackness.
At this juncture I could do a couple things. Reckon I could stomp on Kim’s hands, kick him in the face, knock him back into Hades, be done with the punk. Then cash in life number nine getting the Fu Manchu out of Koreatown.
Or. I could see where this whole mess is going to land, and what my protectors have in mind for me. Meet the boss.
“Motherfucker, what’s the fucking holdup? Open the shit!”
Kim has got to learn to ask nice. Nonetheless, I choose option B.
Loop an arm over a rung to hold myself in place. With my good flipper I sweep the area above me Helen Kellerstyle, find a cylindrical grip, twist it. As if spring-loaded, the door in the sky flips open, and a mildew-laden basement draft douses my upturned face with microorganisms.
The Nervous System Page 10