by Randy Alcorn
Clarence nodded sheepishly, keeping his eyes from meeting Geneva’s.
“I’m so glad to hear you’re Christians,” Geneva said. “We are too.”
“Very good. We think maybe so. I wonder why black and Korean churches not together,” Mr. Kim said. “We share very much in common. We both experience much unjust treatment. Nearly 60 percent of Korean Americans are Christians. Many blacks Christians too, no? We latecomers to America. But we want people accept us.”
“Can I ask you something?” Clarence said.
“Certainly,” Mr. Kim said.
“In your store, when you give change to black people, why don’t you put it in their hands instead of on the counter?”
The Kims looked at each other in surprise.
“Respect,” Mr. Kim said. “In Korea we raised you must keep distance. We do not put change in hands because then our hands touch customer. This not polite. Look and you see. Never put change in hands of anyone, Korean or white or any color. It very rude. We do not do it.”
“What reason you think we not put change in hands?” Mrs. Kim asked.
“It seems like … disrespect for blacks,” Clarence admitted, fidgeting. “Like you don’t want to touch us because you think we’re inferior to you. I never noticed you do the same for everyone.”
“Do many blacks think this way?” Mr. Kim asked.
“Yes,” Clarence said. “As a matter of fact, they do. I’ve heard lots of people talk about it.”
“But no one ever mention this to us,” Mrs. Kim said. “Perhaps it something we need to change.”
“Very hard to change,” Mr. Kim said. “Learned from time little child.”
“But if it make people angry,” Mae said, “we should try to change.”
“Or maybe we should try to understand your culture better,” Clarence said. “Then we wouldn’t be offended in the first place.”
After some delicious sweet potato pie, Mrs. Kim said, “We still very sorry about your sister and her little girl. We like them very much.”
“Used to give candy to little girl,” Mr. Kim said. “Felicia very happy when I give her lunch box.”
“With a giraffe on it?” Clarence asked.
“Yes,” Mr. Kim said. “She like it very much.”
“We miss them both so much,” Geneva said.
“Is very hard to lose family,” Mrs. Kim said. “We lose brother and one son.” Her eyes looked terribly sad. “We thank Jesus we will see them again.”
“Knowing that makes all the difference, doesn’t it?” Geneva said.
They smiled and nodded. Mr. Kim hesitated, then asked, “Have police found killers yet?”
“No. I’m afraid not,” Clarence said.
Mrs. Kim nudged her husband. He spoke very deliberately. “Did anyone talk about strangers in neighborhood?”
“What do you mean?”
“Night sister killed I work late. Usually lock doors nine o’clock in summer, just before gets dark. I inside cleaning up at nine-thirty. Someone drive up, and I look outside. I think if this one of my customers I will open door. But never see them before. Very fancy car, silver color. Boy comes to door, wearing red sweatshirt. One in car wearing same. He leave door open, and I see inside car. He bang on my door, and I hide inside, look through blinds.”
“What did you see?” Clarence asked.
“In front seat of car big weapon.”
“What color was the weapon?”
“Black. Very big. Made me decide not to open door. Then they drive off.”
“You don’t know where they went?”
“Headed north on Martin Luther King. Up this way.”
“What did they look like?”
“One at door not too tall. Look strong. Short hair. No glasses. Boy in car, driver, not sure.”
“Were they black?” Clarence asked.
Mr. Kim looked down. “Yes. Very sorry.”
“That’s all right,” Clarence said. “Most people are black around here, the good ones and the bad ones. Anything else you remember about them?”
“Faces very hard for me.” Benjamin Kim hesitated. “To us, black Americans look very much the same.”
Clarence laughed. “I’ve always thought all Koreans look alike.”
“In fact,” Geneva said, “we have a hard time telling the difference between Koreans, Japanese, and Chinese.” The Kims looked amazed at this.
“Police never ask me about anything,” Mr. Kim said. “But when I hear big gun used, I wonder about what I saw. So sorry not mention before. Sometimes afraid to say anything. Wonder what people will think. Not want any trouble.”
“Thanks for telling me now,” Clarence said. As his wheels turned, Geneva picked up the dessert dishes, and they settled in the living room.
“Hattie Burns told me you had a store in Los Angeles,” Geneva said. “Is that right?” Mr. and Mrs. Kim both nodded. “Is it true that your store was burned down in the riots?” Geneva asked. They nodded again. “That must have been very hard.”
“Yes. Insurance only cover building. Work very hard to build up many customers. All that lost.”
“Why did you leave L.A.?” Clarence asked.
“Everyone tell us same thing will happen again.” Mr. Kim cleared his throat. “Hard for us to understand.”
“You mean the riots?” Geneva asked.
“Yes. Had many good customers, most black. Like them very much. One Korean store owner did bad thing, shot black girl for shoplifting. She die. Very sad. But most of us have good relationship with customers. We understand white people mistreated blacks many years. Very sad. I think first decision about police who beat Mr. King not right. But I very confused. In riots, jury not hurt. Judge not hurt. Very few white people hurt. Mostly Korean and black people hurt. Our businesses burned and looted. Half of all losses to Koreans, most others to blacks.”
“I can see how that would be hard to understand,” Geneva said.
“Very strange,” Mr. Kim said. “Black people in Los Angeles think twelve white people on jury in Simi Valley—have never been there, do not know this place—do injustice. Then black rioters punish Koreans and blacks for what twelve white people decide somewhere else. Cannot understand this. No Koreans on jury. Do you understand? Can you explain to us?”
“Sometimes,” Clarence said, “people have a lot boiling up inside them because of the past. But burning your store was wrong, of course. Absolutely wrong.” The expression on the Kims’ faces told him they needed more explanation. “I think by always talking about racism our leaders, black and white, have made people think it’s all right to hurt and destroy when they think they see racism. But it’s innocent people who get hurt. And those who do the hurting aren’t martyrs or heroes, they’re just criminals. My father says when people of character are wronged, they never respond by doing wrong to others. Maybe the verdict showed lack of character in some whites. And the rioting showed lack of character in some blacks.”
They sat quietly for thirty seconds, the issue clearly unresolved. Finally Geneva said, “Tell me about your sister, Mae. I’m sorry she couldn’t come with you tonight. I always see her working in the back room, and I usually say hello to her. But she never looks at me. Have I done something to offend her?”
Mae looked down. “Oh, no. Have you not seen her face?”
“You mean … the scars? Well, I noticed them, yes. But she’s still a pretty lady.”
“She not think so. Does not want people see her. Is very ashamed.”
“Was she born with those scars?”
“Oh, no. Happened during riots. When store burned down. She closing that night. Caught in fire. Benjamin rescue her or would have died.”
“Very bad burns,” Mr. Kim said. “Very painful. We just glad she live.” He hesitated. “She different now. Before, friendly with customers. Now afraid.”
“Is it … hard for her to trust black people?” Geneva asked. Neither of them responded.
They talked for ano
ther hour before the Kims said they needed to get home.
“Thank you very much for inviting us over,” Mae said. “Would like to have you to our house.”
“Under one condition,” Geneva said. “That you promise to fix us Korean food.”
“Oh, yes. Yes! I fix you very nice Korean meal.” Mae smiled warmly as she and Benjamin backed away from the Abernathys’ front door, repeatedly expressing their thanks.
The moment the door closed, Clarence’s smile lost its hold.
Blacks? Fancy car? Red sweatshirts? Big rifle? What’s going on?
The young man sat holding the .357 Smith and Wesson revolver, polishing its stainless steel with his mama’s scarf until he could see in it his distorted reflection. He turned the four-inch barrel up and spun the cylinder, emptying all six shells on the bed. Staring blankly, he carefully reinserted one round.
Raymond Taylor, a.k.a. Gangster Cool, took out a bag of crack cocaine, already packaged for the next day’s deliveries. He picked up one of the crusty rocks, smelled it, touched it with his tongue, debated whether to smoke it. Maybe it could make him forget what he could never tell his homeboys.
“They played me. Fools got it all wrong. Ain’t their hood. Ain’t their set. Can’t tell my little homie, that’s sure. What’m I gonna do now?”
He pointed the gun toward the pictures on the wall, setting his sights on people in the newspaper clippings, on one in particular. Then he slowly rotated his wrist, brushing the muzzle against the bridge of his nose, then pulled it back three inches. He peered deep into the seductive barrel, holding it so the light shone just far enough into the darkness to make him wonder what lay beyond. His trembling index finger fondled the trigger.
He felt a twinge of guilt as he looked at the double-action revolver from the front end, seeing the head of the bullet three chambers left of the barrel. He’d learned this trick on his own years ago. Because he always knew where the bullet was and which way the cylinder turned, whenever he’d played Russian roulette in front of the homeboys he’d always known he wasn’t in danger. If, when he spun the cylinder, the bullet faced him from the only deadly spot—one chamber left of the barrel—he simply spun it again. None of the homeboys ever suspected. They were always amazed at how calm he was, impressed that he was the Iceman when facing death. It had built his rep. Unfortunately, that kid Jason and some others had followed his example and started spinning cylinders themselves—without knowing GC’s little trick. Too bad for them.
Gangster Cool pulled the trigger, watching the chamber with the bullet move toward the barrel and hearing the click. It now sat two chambers away. He pulled the trigger again, the bullet falling into position one chamber from the barrel. He wondered if he pulled the trigger once more if he would hear the sound. His finger tensed. He’d been distressed but not suicidal when he began this little ritual. But now a voice from somewhere, whether inside or outside he wasn’t sure, a distinct voice told him to do it, told him to pull the trigger, told him to do it now.
Raymond’s hand jerked at the last moment, just before the explosion. The .357 round hit his forehead at an angle, breaking skin an inch above his right eye. The lead punctured his flesh and cracked his front skull, exploding bone shards into his brain. The missile hit the top of his skull with a jar that knocked him backward onto the floor. The bullet exited the top of his head, pierced the ceiling, and lodged in a rafter.
Raymond’s mother heard the explosion in her son’s bedroom. She ran and threw open the door, believing he’d been shot through the window by a rival gangster. She screamed at the sight of splattered blood. She saw her boy, lying in a heap, a crimson pool surrounding his head and claiming more of the hardwood floor with every second.
“My baby, my baby.” She turned his head and saw his eyes open. He whispered something to her, something she didn’t understand. She rushed to the phone to punch 9-1-1.
“It’s my Raymond, my little boy! He’s been shot!”
“Where are you, ma’am? What’s your address?”
She gave the address and went running back to Raymond’s bedroom, her arms flailing. She picked up his blood-bathed head again. This time the eyes didn’t open. She screamed and wailed and cried out, “Oh, no. No, God, no. Not my little boy!”
Gangster Cool no longer existed. Raymond Taylor, on the other hand, merely relocated, leaving one place and arriving at another.
The woman who’d raised the boy and prayed for him, who’d invested her life in him, sobbed and held all he had left behind.
Clarence drove north on Grand, looking for the restaurant. All he saw on Grand and Estep was an old run-down bar. He looked at the undersized neon sign, faded red. Miller’s, it said, as if anyone cared.
They probably serve burgers and chicken. To Gracie that must qualify as a restaurant.
He looked at his watch—6:15 P.M. He got out and walked in the front door, looking warily into the bar as men looked into old west saloons before pushing open the swinging doors. This wasn’t really the black part of town yet. It was on the fringe—maybe 30 percent black—but sometimes that made the 70 percent white cling all the more tenaciously to their remaining turf. He saw twenty or thirty men and a few women, all white.
Clarence looked at the man tending bar. “You the owner?”
“Yeah. Who are you?”
“Clarence Abernathy. Your niece asked me to meet her here.”
“Gracie?”
“Yeah. Didn’t she call you?”
“But she didn’t say you were …”
“What? Black?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I am.”
“Yeah.” He gestured for Clarence to follow to the back of the restaurant. When the owner opened the door to a private room on the right, Gracie got up immediately and grabbed Clarence’s arm. He stepped back, embarrassed.
“Thanks, Uncle Willie,” she said. “We need some privacy.”
Uncle Willie looked suspiciously at Clarence. “You call me if you have any problems,” he said to Gracie. She nodded. He shook his head in obvious disgust and shut the door.
“Hey, Clarence. You’re lookin’ sharp tonight. Nice suit.” She touched his lapel. He backed away.
“Tell me what’s up, Gracie. That’s what I’m here for.”
“Okay. This guy I talked to says it was a couple of Bloods.”
“Bloods? What about the Hispanics that were seen driving away from the shooting?”
She shrugged. “This guy says it was Bloods.”
“Which Bloods?”
“He doesn’t know for sure.”
“Look,” Clarence said, sighing. “It’s a Crip neighborhood, and the guys you talked with are probably Crips, right? Crips always blame Bloods. What else do you have?”
“What else? Isn’t this a lot? I read it was two Latino bangers, maybe from the west side. Isn’t that what the paper said?”
“Yeah. Anyway, what more do you have?”
“This guy knows more for sure, but he wouldn’t tell me. I told him you were giving like a hundred bucks to anybody with good information. He said he could meet you after seven tonight. I told him we’d be just two miles away and you could probably meet him then. If you want to.”
“Where?” Clarence looked at his watch. Six-thirty.
“At the corner of MLK and Evans, just past the Minit Mart.”
“What’s his name?”
“Can’t tell you. That’s up to him.”
“What does he look like?”
“Black. Kind of short and heavy. Usually wears a dark blue stocking cap.”
“What’s he got for me?”
“I’m not sure. But it’s about the hit on your sister, I know that. Plus,” she added, “I’ve got another guy who knows everything that happens on the street. Everything. He’s taking me out Friday night. I’ll fish around. I’ll call you if he knows anything.”
“Uh, okay. Call me at the Trib if you can, all right? Not at home. You can leave a message on my
machine.”
She nodded and batted her eyes at him. “Look, tomorrow’s my mother’s birthday and I’m short on cash. So, does the hundred-dollar reward apply to me too?”
Clarence wanted to say no, but he knew Gracie’s help could end up being critical. He reached into his wallet and grabbed one of the two hundred dollar bills he had left. He handed it to her and turned to head out the door.
“Thanks, Clarence. You’re a sweetie. Oh, my uncle told me to have you go out the back door.” She pointed to a door from the office leading directly outside. “It’s the door I always use, but I forgot to tell you. He said it’s better for privacy, if you don’t want people to see you coming and going.”
Clarence left by the back door, then drove to the corner of MLK and Evans. Seven o’clock—no one there. Seven-thirty—no one there. Eight—no one there. He waited until eight-thirty and finally gave up, hungry and exasperated. He stopped at Kim’s store to get a couple of corn dogs and headed home.
Clarence and Jake sat at Lou’s Diner the next day, having just polished off cheeseburgers and fries. Rory poured each of them a complimentary steaming mocha, while the jukebox played “A Bridge over Troubled Waters.”
“That’s a fascinating analysis,” Jake said to Clarence. “Tell me more.”
“Ever have a logic class?” Clarence asked. “The major premise is that all blacks who fail do so because of white racism. Of course, that doesn’t explain why so many whites fail, but that’s beside the point. Then comes the observation that some blacks are failing very badly. Therefore, there must be an enormous amount of white racism. And that means whites must transform themselves before blacks can ever succeed. So, some blacks trade on their victim status and appeal to white guilt feelings, which were far too long in coming but now are here in abundance. A lot of whites buy into this, don’t challenge this faulty logic, so they can feel better about themselves, get all righteous, and strut around thinking other whites are racists, but not them, no sir, not them. They think they’re really helping blacks, but the truth is they’re just thinking about themselves—trying to shed their guilt.”
