by Nate Granzow
I responded to their prompting by ripping the plastic paper towel dispenser from its mount on the wall and smashing the first thug in the side of the head with it, freeing up Harold's left hand. Gasping as he pushed his face from the water, my friend sent a left-handed hook into the knife-wielder's nose, giving me the chance to grab the assailant by the neck and slam his skull into the already-chipped subway-tile wall. Recovering from the unexpected strike, the first man made a rush for the door, but Harold, now on the attack, grabbed his shirt collar in one hand, belt in the other, and hauled him into a bathroom stall.
"Harry, be nice."
Driving his knee into the man's stomach, my friend dragged him to the floor and began repeatedly slamming the thug's head between the plastic toilet seat and the bowl's rim.
"You. Son. Of. A…" he punctuated each word with another smash from the seat. He then proceeded to submerge the man's face in the water, hell bent on drowning the poor bastard. Not wanting to watch my friend commit a homicide, I reached over his head and flushed the toilet; then pulled him away. Harold smiled and smoothed his hair over as though the episode hadn't fazed him at all.
"Boy you have good timing, Cogar."
The faucet, still on, filled the room with a whooshing white noise. The scuffle had been so loud that the absence of any other sound irritated me.
"Well I was in the neighborhood. Let's get out of here before their friends show up."
Stepping over the goliath I had dropped in the hallway, now conscious but laying in a fetal position, cradling his bruised manhood, we made our way back to the bar where Jessica was seated. She weakly scooted her hips back and forth, spinning the stool's seat. Suddenly, the aluminum doors leading to the kitchen swung open, and another three men, holding butcher's knives and steel pipes, rushed forward. Scanning the crowd, one of them spotted Harold, and, pointing his weapon at us, guided his friends in our direction.
Grabbing Jessica around her middle, I lifted her to her feet and swept a hand forward, indicating she should lead the way.
"Where were you two? And why is your head bleeding?"
She stopped mid-step, grabbed a handful of Harold's shirt, and pulled him down to her level as she began examining his scalp. He batted her hand away.
"We just had a little playground scuffle with a few of the locals—it's no big deal."
I looked at him questioningly. There are only a few things I'm good at, but smelling a lie is one of them. And it doesn't take a particularly observant person to recognize the difference between a bar fight and an attempted murder. My friend had clearly stomped on the wrong toes, but whose, and why?
"But we should go. They brought more friends than we did."
Following Harold and looking over my shoulder as the thugs jostled their way through the crowd, I suddenly collided with a man as he walked through the building's entrance. Falling to the pavement together, I began to apologize.
"I'm so sorry sir—"
"Why don't you watch where you're going…Cogar?"
Of the ten million people in Seoul, I had managed to run into my nemesis, Perry Rothko. Again.
This time literally.
Looking up, I spotted the first of the thugs make it to the door successfully.
"Sorry, Perry. I'd love to talk, but I've gotta run."
Pushing myself to my feet, I grabbed Rothko by his shirtfront—pulling him upright—dusted off his shoulders, smiled, and hurled him at our pursuer. Rothko staggered a few feet before crashing into the attacker's chest.
"Perry, run! They're trying to kill us!"
"Oh you son of a bitch, Cogar," he said as the thug, now under the impression that Perry was with Harold, Jessica, and me, drove a punch into his stomach.
Fumbling the Cadillac's key fob from her purse, Jessica unlocked the doors on the run, the three of us leaping into our seats as she started the vehicle, dropped the gearshift into drive, and slammed the accelerator, navigating us away from the parking lot.
Laughing exultantly, Harold shouted, "That was fucking awesome, guys. Cogar, who was that dude you threw at those bastards? That was genius!" He grinned as he wiped the sink water from his hair.
"Poor guy," Jessica said quietly. "You may have gotten him killed."
I can only hope.
"So, after all that excitement, what do you two say to a nice, relaxing weekend in Shanghai? Dad's got the boat ready, and…"
"What's with you and Shanghai?" I asked, pulling a napkin from my pocket and padding a fresh cut on my hand.
"To put it simply, Cogar, Shanghai is to Seoul what Vegas is to a frat house. That's where the big boys go to play."
"Your father is going to fire me," Jessica replied.
Her thoughts mirrored my own. Kailas, if he had any idea what I was up to, would vow to never hire me again, and would leave me stranded in Seoul without a return ticket. His voice sounded in my thoughts, "Had I known you'd be running around in a different country, I would have sent someone on staff to cover this. At least they'd stay put."
"You know, Harold, when your father interviewed me for this job, he said I only had to do one thing: 'Be the voice of reason for my son'," Jessica said in a false baritone. "Had I known what I know now…"
"Look, Shanghai is only 500 miles away. If we leave tonight, we'll be there by tomorrow morning, and we can be back here just as quickly. Cogar, I'll have Dad's aides keep me updated on the political situation so you'll be ready in case things happen. Deal?"
I could see why Harold had turned out to be the spoiled playboy he was. It was all but impossible to refuse him when he wanted something. His persuasive nature put you at ease and was so convincing he could probably get a priest to join him at a strip club.
I nodded.
"Deal."
It wasn't as if anything was going to happen here, anyway.
12
Booze Cruise
After stopping at the hotel for my bag, a short commute brought us to the ambassador's private dock. Jessica backed the Escalade into a Quonset hut the Chamberlains used for parking. It was a cloudy, starless night, and only the rhythmic wash of the waves guided us as we blindly stumbled our way down the rocky path leading to the shore.
Anchored a hundred feet from the beach, the ambassador's pearl-white yacht rested motionless on the calm sea like a marble statue half concealed by a layer of broken, black glass.
The sight of the water sparked a tinge of anxiousness in me. My inability to swim has always been a source of great embarrassment, and though I've worked hard to avoid situations involving water deeper than the tips of my toes can overcome, they seem to find me pretty regularly. I'm not exactly afraid of water, but like a child who forgets they aren't wearing their floaties and dives headfirst into the pool, I probably should be.
"Ahoy there, Skipper! Permission to come aboard?" Harold shouted. He turned to me and smiled, "Our captain for this voyage, Tokko, knows about fifty words in English. I like to give him a hard time."
A strange-looking man emerged from the boat's cabin. He had tired eyes and a wrinkled, frail figure, but he emanated a restless energy contradictory to his visage. He could have been 40-years-old or 70. It was difficult to tell.
"Mista Harry! You ride very late. Where you go?"
"Shanghai, Tok. The boat ready?"
"Shanghai? You crazy? Need more gas, other person so Tokko sleep halfway."
"Shouldn't be a problem," Harold said, digging out his phone.
After making a few calls, he not only had a fuel truck and another sailor coming, but a bevy of single women as well.
Reaching a foot across the void between the dock and the yacht's side, I held out my hand to help Jessica across. She stared at my outstretched fingers, slipping her bottom lip between her teeth in silent deliberation. Her eyes rose to mine and, for just a second, held my stare before looking away. Reluctantly grabbing my hand, she pulled herself onto the boat's deck.
Within the hour, Harold's guests had boarded and the ship's t
wo 440 horsepower engines rumbled to life, propelling us smoothly over the crystalline sea. Tokko steered the streamlined craft to the southwest, well clear of the Korean Demarcation Line and disputed territorial waters. Traveling just a few miles off course could get you killed very quickly in this part of the world.
I began considering how I would write the story if the North Koreans were to attack and sink a boat belonging to the U.S. ambassador, assuming I were to survive the ordeal. The repercussions would be immense: It would likely plunge the country into war, the U.S. perceiving the attack as a direct affront to diplomacy, stepping into the ring with gloves off. To think that an event of that magnitude could be sparked by Harold's simple desire for a booze-cruise to Shanghai was laughably upsetting.
Losing no time in raiding the boat's bar, Harold sloppily poured mixed drinks for his two companions and loaded double shots of tequila for himself and me. Hurriedly handing the liquor to each of us, he raised his glass in the air and shouted, "To Korea: May it always stay as great as it is at this moment." Smiling and sweeping his face within a few inches of each girl's chest, he raised his eyebrows emphatically before tilting his chin back and draining the tumbler. Before our glasses had left our lips, he had poured himself another shot and consumed it with the relish of an accomplished alcoholic. "And with that, let's put Korea behind us. On to Shanghai, baby."
The girls laughed and bounced over to the stereo. Jessica stayed seated, eying the young women with an expression of thinly masked repugnance as she crossed a leg over her knee and began texting at a frantic pace on her phone.
"Where'd you find these beauties?" I asked, sidling up to my friend behind the bar. He laughed as he tossed ice into a glass.
"Hanyang University. They're students. Met em' during their political science field trip to the embassy. Sang-hee, the one with the really low-cut top? Med student. She's brilliant. The other one, Dae, is a law student and regional hapkido champion. She could kill me with two fingers, and she's so damn pretty, I'd let her."
I smiled and nodded complacently. Setting his glass down, Harold cleared his throat and looked down at the bar top.
"Cogar, if I were to tell you that I had a way for us to make so much money we'd never have to work again, what would you say?"
"I'd say that's a bold statement coming from a guy who hasn't held a job. Ever."
"No, Grant, I'm serious. If you had the opportunity to make millions, and I mean millions, would you take advantage of it? No more shitty freelance assignments for pennies, no more getting shot at, just stacks of cash."
Before I could respond, Jessica tapped Harold's shoulder.
"I'd like a drink, too."
He shot me a stern look, his lips pursed, as if to say don't mention this. I had already written off whatever he had in mind as the ramblings of an idealist inebriate, anyway.
"Get it yourself. You're a big girl," Harold scoffed as he grabbed his glass, slipping toward his companions. Wrapping an arm around each, he let his cocktail slosh onto the teak floor as they danced. I scooted closer to Jessica.
"I'll mix you one. What're you in the mood for?"
"A new job," she said, clenching her jaw. "That little bludger has no respect for anyone."
Randomly picking the most colorful bottles from the prodigious collection of liquor the Chamberlains kept behind the bar, I began mixing arbitrary amounts of each into her glass, trying hard to look like I knew what I was doing.
"What's a bludger?"
"A lazy bastard who relies on other people for everything."
I smiled. The word fit him perfectly.
"It must be hard to be his…how did he put it…soulless, career-fixated babysitter," I said, scooting her drink toward her.
She looked at me with her mouth parted slightly, her flawless features lined with surprise and insult. It was a gamble to throw out a statement like that; I didn't know if she'd see it as humorous or grossly insensitive after our ride to the bar.
It had clearly missed its mark.
Feeling the heat rising to my collar as waves of embarrassment passed over me, I tried to push it back by pouring myself another drink and shoving it in my face.
Then, she began to laugh. Quietly at first, almost a giggle, then building until tears trickled from the corners of her eyes. She pressed her hand against my shoulder playfully.
"Did that little whacker actually say that?" she asked incredulously.
"Word for word. Is he wrong?"
She looked at me curiously, her hazelnut eyes glittering in the low light. She was like a carefully crafted Renaissance painting: delicate and perfectly symmetrical, her beauty augmented by the light and shadow of the boat's overhead lamps.
"I'd like to think I have a soul. The rest is pretty much right-on."
Pulling her hair up into a neat bun, she leaned toward me.
"Do you have a problem with that?"
I was beginning to think that our conversation in the Cadillac had caused her to reconsider her initial impression of me; it seemed to have brought about a subtle change of heart. In my mind, I was shaking my own hand, congratulating myself. A wise man realizes the heart of a woman is an inscrutable and enigmatic puzzle. Fitting even the smallest pieces of that puzzle together was cause for great celebration.
I laughed a little and looked down at my glass, wiping the condensation from the rim with a swipe of my pointer finger.
"As long as you don't expect me to have the same devotion to my work as you evidently have to yours, I think we'll get along fine."
"You don't like being a reporter?"
"I wouldn't say that," I said after a few seconds of contemplation. "It's just…well…I must be crazy. No one likes being shot at or thrown into a warzone for the same money they could make working in a prison cafeteria, but whenever I get a relatively harmless assignment like this one, I get bored."
"Sounds like you're an adventurer at heart," she said.
"That's a kind way of putting it. My boss calls me an opportunistic adrenaline junky."
Holding up her glass, Jessica said, "Well here's to babysitters and adrenaline junkies."
I tapped the side of her glass with my own.
Taking a sip of her drink, she shuddered, and then smiled weakly.
"That's…different. And strong. What do you call it?"
I thought about it for a minute.
"How about 'Borax'? Is that one taken? How does 'Anodyne' strike you? That has a certain medicinal resonance to it, right?" I cleared my throat and, in my best television commercial voice, announced, "This powerful, top-secret, scientifically formulated beverage has been proven to cure scurvy, diphtheria, and doubles as a disinfectant for dishes, floors, and children's toys. Cleanses you inside and out for that deep, just-rinsed feeling."
"You're funny, Mr. Cogar," Jessica said quietly, gazing at me as she brought the glass to her lips once more. Despite her shift to a more amiable disposition, I still couldn't shake the feeling that she was scrutinizing my every action. If I weren't so hell-bent on getting this girl to fall for me, I'd take that as a sign that my efforts would be better spent elsewhere.
The boat's speakers thumped the Commodores' Brick House, and as I finished my drink—a warm tingle beginning to flood through my chest—I started shuffling my feet exaggeratedly to the beat. Reaching a hand across the bar, I pulled Jessica toward the stereo.
"I don't dance," she laughed, trying to stay seated.
"Neither do I," I assured, sneaking a hand around her waist.
But before we could move, we were both thrown headlong across the floor—the boat nosing down to an abrupt stop.
"What the fuck, man?" Harold cursed, flicking the beads of liquor from his shirtfront.
"What's going on?"
Outside, I could hear the sound of another motor. Though I couldn't see it through the dark night and the yacht's tinted windows, the boat was swinging from our bow to our port side. Within seconds, loud footsteps clattered behind us as two men j
umped aboard, each holding a fisherman's gaff—a wood club tipped with a large fishhook-like steel barb. It was clear these gentlemen hadn't come to join the festivities.
13
A Crushed Skull and a Short Swim
"Pirates," Dae said calmly, stepping forward with arms locked in a fighter's stance. As she moved forward, I stepped back, bumping into Jessica, who rested a hand reassuringly on my shoulder.
Why the hell is everyone so calm?
The pirates grinned, and using the blunt side of their weapons, began bashing overhead lights and upending furniture as they moved toward us. I sincerely hoped that Harold's estimation of Dae's fighting skills hadn't been exaggerated—it looked as though we were in for a brawl. Again.
"Hold it there, Motherfucker!"
Swinging down from his place at the helm, Tokko jostled to the front of our group waving a baseball bat.
"Get out now or I put you in water! You swim with fishes!"
Our attackers ignored the little man's threats, snickering as they stepped closer.
As they approached, I got a good look at the boat they had arrived in. A sleek craft, it bobbed low on the water and reminded me of the cigarette boats used for smuggling drugs from the Caribbean to the U.S. It hadn't even occurred to me that another vessel could catch our yacht at full cruising speed, but one built like that was probably equipped with twice the horsepower and bore only half the weight.
I wanted one. And theirs was just my color.
Stepping around Jessica, I climbed up the aluminum ladder that led to the helm. As I did, I caught the disgusted glances of my friends. They undoubtedly thought I was running for my life. At that moment, I'm not sure I wasn't.
Arriving on the top deck, I noticed the other sailor Harold had commissioned for the journey cowering beneath the yacht's steering column. He looked up at me fearfully.
