Kim Oh 1: Real Dangerous Girl

by Kim Oh

  There was another chair at a wobbly card table, covered with empty Chinese food cartons, at the side of the space. I dragged it over to the foot of the mattress and sat down.

  “So.” He took a lung-filling drag from the cigarette. “Nice of you to come by again. On your own steam.”

  I glanced around to make sure we were by ourselves. “Monica’s not here?”

  “Come on. You know that.” He exhaled a gray cloud. “You wouldn’t have come in if she were.” He leaned back, regarding me with his ice-blue eyes. “She’s out working. Somebody’s got to cover the weekly nut. I’m not exactly the breadwinner for our little family anymore.”

  “She’s . . . a hard worker.” I sat there with my hands in my lap, not knowing what else to say. “The day after . . .”

  “The day after I got shot?” That amused him. “Just say it, sweetie. Not like I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I nodded. “The day after . . . I saw her at one of the clubs. Where I guess she works.”

  “Yeah, I know all about that. She told me – about seeing you.” He lit another cigarette from the butt of the previous one. “That’s where she would’ve been, all right. Out there, getting ready to hustle for the tips. She probably seemed all calm and collected, didn’t she?”

  Another nod. “Kind of.”

  “A lot of people think she’s sort of a cold piece. But that’s just the way she is. If she was holding it together, that was because she knew somebody was going to have to take care of business, after I got out of the hospital. The doctors had already told her what kind of shape I was going to be in, if I pulled through. Anyway, screw all that.” He peered more closely at me through the haze of smoke. “How are you doing? That’s a more important question.”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Getting by.”

  “That’s great. That’s really great.” He tilted his head back, to blow the next cloud up toward the warehouse ceiling. “Everybody’s doing just . . . great. Aren’t we? All things considered.”

  I kept silent, one hand squeezing the other in my lap.

  “You know . . . I had a feeling that you were going to come around here again.” Cole gave a slow nod, watching me. “I can usually tell what people are going to do. Very handy in my former line of work.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I imagine so.”

  “Including what people are going to say. What they’re going to ask me.” His gaze followed the drifting smoke he’d exhaled, before swinging toward me again. “What you’re going to ask me.”

  “Okay . . .” My heart was speeding up. “You know . . .”

  “Yeah,” said Cole. “I know why you came here to see me. I just want to hear you say it.” He leaned his head back against the wall, smiling. “Just say it. All you got to do.”

  If I said it . . . it would be real. It wouldn’t be just inside my head anymore.

  And then I’d have to deal with it. Instead of just think about it.

  Maybe this one I will blame on the motorcycle accident, on taking the whack to the skull. Maybe things did get screwed up in there. I still had moments when I could look out the dirty apartment window and see everything go flat and insubstantial, all the shapes in the streets painted on transparent plastic, one layer laid over another.

  And I could still see – or just kind of feel – things peering out from beneath those sheets. Watching me.

  Waiting for me.

  “Okay.” I took a deep breath, my narrow shoulders rising, then let it out. “I want to hire you.”

  “Hire me?” That got a laugh from him. “To do what?”

  “Kill McIntyre.”

  There had been a time, not too long ago, when somebody like me wouldn’t have said something like that. That somebody I had been before.

  Cole’s gaze filled with a crazy sort of excitement.

  “Okay,” he said.

  * * *

  Then he sent me out for a pizza.

  And coffee. He said he didn’t like to discuss business on an empty stomach. And that he liked being a little more caffeinated than his girlfriend Monica had been keeping him.

  When I was on the motorcycle, heading for the place he’d given me directions to – out at the foot of one of the wharves, some longshoreman place that’d been there forever – another idea popped into my head. A better one.

  Namely, that I should just forget about the pizza – I wasn’t exactly capable of eating right now – and wheel the bike around in a U-turn, point it away from the warehouse district, and just head on home. And forget about what I’d just told Cole. About what I wanted to do. Hire him and all that.

  Instead, I headed on over to the pizza place by the wharf. Just rolling on the accelerator and leaning over the gas tank.

  Because, here’s my own personal piece of wisdom: This didn’t come from Cole. I figured it out on my own.

  Once you decide to have somebody killed, you might as well. Because you’re already screwed up, to have gotten to that point.

  I didn’t relate this genius insight to Cole, when I got back to the warehouse. I just sat and watched him scarf down the pizza – heavy on the meat; what did you expect – as I picked at the oily mushrooms on the one slice I’d taken. I could feel its orange-colored grease soaking through the paper plate on my lap, and into my jeans.

  “That was okay.” Cole set the flat white box aside, with the crescents of gnawed-on crusts in it. “Next time, if you ask for them, they’ll put anchovies on. But you gotta ask. Most people don’t go for ’em.”

  “That’s because they’re disgusting.” I was starting to feel a little sulky. I had started a clock ticking inside my head and here we were instead, talking about pizza. “They’re slime.”

  “Huh. That’s weird. I would’ve thought that’d be something you’d like. Sorta like sushi.”

  “That’s Japanese. I’m Korean. At least my parents were.” I was pretty sure they’d both been born in Los Angeles, but that really didn’t make any difference.

  “So there’s no Korean sushi?”

  “How the hell would I know?”

  Now I was getting pissed. When you’ve put killing somebody on the agenda, just about everything else seems like wasting time.

  “That’s good,” said Cole, nodding. “That you got a temper. You didn’t use to. You didn’t have squat. And you’re going to need something along those lines, for what you want to get done.” He opened up a fresh pack of cigarettes – I’d picked that up for him, too – and lit one. “So let’s talk. Business, I mean.”

  “Finally.”

  “So you want to have McIntyre iced.” Another cloud of smoke drifted up toward the rafters. “Don’t get me wrong, but . . . more I think about it . . . that seems a little extreme. Know what I mean?”

  “How do you figure?” His words puzzled me. “It’s the sort of thing you used to do all the time.”

  “I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about you. How old are you?”

  “What is this, an interview? I thought I was the one doing the hiring.”

  “I don’t get out a lot,” said Cole. “Not anymore. So I have to maximize these little social opportunities.”

  “Okay, but this is business. I was expecting it to be more straightforward.”

  “We’ll get there.” He flicked ash onto the blanket. “I just need to know a little more about where your head’s at. Because let’s face it, you’re not exactly my typical client. That’s why I asked how old you are.”

  I told him.

  “Yeah . . .” He nodded. “You can’t even go into a bar and order a drink. Not legally. And now you want to hire a hit man. Even a dinged-up one like me. That’s what I meant when I said extreme.”

  “I couldn’t hire you legally, no matter how old I am. Not to do something like this. So what’s the difference?”

  “The difference is that most little things like you, something upsets them, they go to the mall. Buy themselves a new pair of shoes or something. They mi
ght chit-chat with their friends about wanting to have somebody killed, but they don’t actually go ahead and make arrangements for it.”

  “I don’t have a lot of friends.” Any, actually; that was how far down I’d had my head in McIntyre’s account books. “So that option’s off the table.”

  “If you say so.” Cole took another long drag off his cigarette. “But even if you’re all bloodthirsty right now – how do I know you’re going to stay that way? More likely you’ll get over yourself, find something else to do besides have people killed. You move on, I’m stuck halfway through this little project – and then how do I get paid for the work I’ve done? Go to small claims court and ask for my money?”

  “I’m not going to change my mind.”

  “All right. Let’s say you’re just as hard as you claim to be. Still a little concerned about how you suddenly got this way. Because having somebody killed isn’t the first thing that pops into most people’s heads. And especially not yours.”

  “It wasn’t suddenly.” I’d already thought about how I’d gotten to this point. “It makes sense. I’ve already paid for people to get killed. That’s what I did when I was working for McIntyre. I knew what he was paying you to do. And I got used to it. It took a while, but I did. Because I didn’t have a choice. That was my job, to write the checks for you. The only difference now is that I wouldn’t be doing it for McIntyre. I’d be doing it for me. What I wanted to have done.”

  “Got a point, I suppose.” He mulled it over a bit. “And can’t say as I blame you. But it’s kind of a join-the-club thing, if you get my meaning. There’s a lot of people who’d like to have him get offed. For all kinds of reasons. Yet somehow . . .” A slow, meditative nod. “Somehow he’s still walking around. Why do you suppose that is, Kim?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Because he’s all protected and stuff, I suppose. He’s got security guys, like Michael and the others. Bodyguards. That kind of thing.”

  “Well, you’re wrong about that.” Cole fished a crust out of the pizza box and took a bite from one end. Talking about killing people seemed to have stimulated his appetite. “That’s not the reason. The problem isn’t what McIntyre’s got. It’s what other people don’t have. You know what that is?”

  “No. But I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

  “Good, good; keep that up. Because that’s what those other people, the ones who’d like to see McIntyre dead, that’s what they’re lacking. That’s guts.” From under the blanket, he pulled out a huge black pistol – his favorite .357, I found out later – cocked it and pointed it straight at my face. “Because I think you know that I could cook one between your eyes right now, for sassin’ me, and I couldn’t even be bothered to blink about it. Nothing going to happen to me, worse than what already has.”

  I held my breath and sat real still. Looking down a gun barrel, so close that it seems big as a garage door, will make most people do that.

  “So I don’t know,” he continued. “What exactly you were considering. What your plans are.” He laid the gun down on the blanket and took another bite of pizza crust. “I mean – did you want to hire a hall or something, big meeting space, get everybody there who’s got a grudge against your old boss. Maybe do a little networking. Like somehow that’s going to get the job done.”

  “You don’t seem to have heard me right.” Without somebody pointing a gun at my head, I was all kinds of brave. “When I told you what I wanted. I don’t care who else wants McIntyre killed. I just want him dead. For my own reasons. That’s why I’m talking to you.”

  “Oh, yeah; you did say something like that.” He faked being impressed with another nod. “Bloodthirsty little thing, aren’t you? You got any idea about how I’m supposed to pull that off? I’m not exactly in the best of shape right now.”

  “Well . . .” I had thought about it. Just not a lot. “I guess . . . I could help you.”

  “Sure.” He nodded. “You could be a lot of help on a job like this. You could bring along your adding machine and keep track of all the shots I fire. You know – just so we’d have a record and stuff.”

  “You don’t have to be sarcastic. Just tell me if you’ll do it or not.”

  “Take on your little job? Why should I?”

  “I told you. I’m hiring you. That means I’d pay you.”

  “Not enough,” he said, “to make it worth my while. I’m kinda retired, if you know what I mean. Like I said – the girlfriend’s taking care of the bills now. And maybe I enjoy still being alive, rather than getting the rest of my ass shot off by Michael and those other bodyguards you mentioned. So . . .” He tilted his head to one side, watching me. “You’d need to come up with some other reason.”

  “All right.” I looked straight back at him. “How’s this? You’d do it – because you want him dead, too. After what he did to you.”

  “Not bad.” Cole gave another nod. “Let’s say that’s true. Because it is.” He pointed toward the far end of the warehouse, where the door was. “But you’d be better off just walking out of here and taking care of McIntyre yourself. Instead of wasting your money on some cripple. Whaddaya think I’m going to do, crawl downtown with my gun in my teeth and plug him one?”

  “I . . . don’t know . . .” Whatever I’d been thinking, it hadn’t gotten that far.

  “Tell you what. Why don’t you just go and do it? He’s not that hard to get to. You know his address – at least where he works. Head on over there. Here, you can borrow this.” He picked the gun up by its barrel and held it out to me. “Think I’m going to stop you? Even if I could?”

  Part of me wanted to take the gun out of his hand. And point it at him and pull the trigger.

  “Because you’re right,” said Cole. “Think you got some big grievance against McIntyre?” The crazy smile was long gone now, replaced by something uglier. “Sonuvabitch threw me away like a used Kleenex. I worked for him longer than you did, sweetheart –” He jabbed the gun butt toward me. “And I did more for him, more dirty work, the kind where I could’ve gotten blown away any time. It wasn’t you and your pocket calculator that put him on top – it was me.”

  “I know how you feel,” I said quietly.

  “You do, huh? The hell you do. When you got fired, it left you still walking around. Meanwhile, I’m lying here in my own mess half the time, waiting for my girlfriend to come home and wipe me, after ten hours of showing off her rack to every moron with the price of a beer.”

  “Okay.” I tried to keep my own voice calm and level. “You know that McIntyre bought that club, don’t you? The one where I met Monica the first time –”

  “Of course I know. That’s how she got the job. It’s the only place that’d hire her. She’s a little up there, to be competing with the nineteen-year-olds, if you know what I mean.” Cole laughed, except that it wasn’t a laugh. “And McIntyre knows she’s hooked up with me. But he likes her working there. While I’m here, like this. That’s just the kind of guy he is. I’ve heard him talk a big line about how when he gets rid of somebody, they just don’t exist for him. Lemme tell ya, that’s crap. He digs on it. That’s the kind of sick bastard he is. He gets a kick out of something like this.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Maybe he cares that way about you. But he doesn’t about me.” That was what was so galling. “I don’t exist for him. Not any more. If I ever did.”

  “Count your blessings.” Cole set the gun down again, but his hand stayed on it as he looked sullenly away.

  “No –”

  He glanced over at me, watching from the corner of his eye.

  “I’d like it better if he did care enough to screw with me.” I hadn’t figured all of this out before, at least not in words, but it had all become clear now. “That’d be better. Than not being anything at all.”

  Something showed in Cole’s gaze. Almost like . . . respect.

  “That’s why I want you to kill McIntyre.” I leaned forward, bringing my face down close
to his. “And I’ll help you do it. Whatever it takes.”

  Cole shrugged. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You tell me.”

  This time, it was Cole who stayed silent. Looking at me.

  “You’re serious,” he said after a couple of seconds had ticked by. “You actually mean it.”

  “I don’t have a choice. I’m in kind of a jam –”

  I told him about the money. In the envelope, stashed in the bedroom closet back at my apartment. And how it had gotten there.

  When I was done, Cole gave a slow nod. “You’re right,” he said. “When McIntyre finds out – and he will – then you’re cooked.”

  “I know.” I also knew that it wouldn’t be just me. It’d be me and whoever else was there when the bad stuff started to happen. It’d be my brother, too. There wouldn’t be any loose ends left behind.

  “So . . .” Cole mulled it over. “This little business proposition of yours . . .”

  “I’ll pay you.” It was all I could think of to say. “Whatever you want.”

  “Don’t sweat it.” He waved me off. “I’m thinking about it.”

  “What’s there to think about? Are you going to do it or not?”

  “Don’t rush me. I got other business to take care of.”

  He was driving me nuts. “Like what?”

  Cole pulled the blanket off his useless legs. “I gotta take a dump.” His gaze turned sly as he looked up at me. “Partner.”

  We were on.

  I reached down and managed to get him upright, with his weight slung across my shoulders.

  “It’s over there.” He nodded toward another, smaller door at the corner of the walled-off space. “The plumbing, I mean.”

  We started making our way over to it.

  “You know,” said Cole. “It’s not going to be pretty.”

  “What?” I dragged him along. “You killing McIntyre?”

  “That, too.”

  SIXTEEN