by Sonia Patel
Finally she gets the blade to swing out. She goes into an awkward attack stance, one I’m sure she saw in some knife fight scene in an action film. Her hand trembles when she thrusts the knife in my direction. “Make me!” she yells, her angry expression and voice kind of cute like her sneeze.
I raise an eyebrow. I almost forgot what I asked her to do because I’m so amused. I laugh hard. Double over at the waist like a prawn. The last time I laughed was…let’s see…that’s right…never.
My boys bust out laughing too. Soon everyone in the dining hall is whooping.
The roars and shrieks immobilize Ha-na. She’s stuck in a back stance, brandishing her dainty little knife.
Cute sneeze. Cute expression. Cute voice. Cute knife.
Cute is for Mom.
My laughter stops as my jaw clenches. I glare at Ha-na with my deadpan face and push back the right side of my uniform jacket.
Her eyes widen.
In one graceful pull, I produce my knife. Its blade glistens when I carve the air in front of her. I toss it up and catch it. “You were saying?” I growl.
Ha-na presses her lips together into a resigned line. She closes her blade, looks away as she slides her baby knife back into her pocket. Then she bends down and picks up the cigarette butt.
“Eat it,” I say running my finger over the sharp edge of my blade.
She crinkles her nose and twists her lips. She looks at me one more time before she shuts her eyes and tilts her head back. She lets the cig butt dangle over her open mouth.
All eyes are on her.
She lets it drop.
“Chew,” I say.
She does. Slow. She gags. Her eyes fly open. She frowns and chews faster. Tears pool in her eyes, but she blinks them away.
“Swallow,” I say.
She does. She stands still for a second before grimacing and shuddering.
I smile inside. Not cute anymore.
6.
“Mommy, Mommy! Look! Look!”
A child’s bubbly voice comes at me on my left. My head drifts in that direction, and there at the end of the bench is a little boy, maybe five or six. He’s kneeling and bouncing up and down like he’s on a pogo stick.
He points to my hand. “A dragon! A dragon!” he squeals.
My arm is stretched out on the backrest. I’m gripping the top. I grip tighter to make the colors of my beast pop. I roll up my sleeve, watching the boy.
His eyelids stretch far apart when he catches a glimpse of the dragon’s body on my forearm. He looks at me, then back at the tat, pushing his tongue out of the side of his mouth. Slowly he brings his trembling finger towards the dragon’s fire.
When he’s a centimeter away, I quick jerk my hand up to meet his finger.
He shrieks in giddy terror, pulling his hand back fast. He cradles his finger. His eyebrows bump together as he inspects it. When he realizes he didn’t get burned by the fiery dragon, he looks at me and smiles.
I smile inside. I want to tousle his hair the way my dad used to tousle mine when I’d trace his tats.
That’s when the kid’s mom grabs his hand. Her face goes from pale to pure white, like new chalk. “We have to go now,” she whispers, avoiding my eyes. “It’s getting late.”
I count the black buttons on her thin overcoat. Three.
“I don’t want to go,” the little boy whines. “The dragon wants to play!” He tries to wrestle his hand away from her.
She tightens her hold. “We’re going. Right now!” She yanks his hand and drags him away.
He looks over his shoulder and waves.
I make my dragon wave back.
When mother and son are out of sight, I turn back to the Han.
I’m still. The way I want to be—need to be—after a walk.
Deep breath of cool air. Slow exhale.
Then a breeze. It skips over the surface of the gray water, coaxing gentle waves. Tall buildings in the distance pose as sleepy giants while the setting sun fights bedtime like a three-year-old, throwing its brilliant arms all over in protest.
I’m about to get a cig when my cell vibrates. It’s Braid.
“Where, boss?” he asks.
“The alley.”
“Ok.”
I light up and inhale. I wait for the smoke to nuzzle my lungs. Right on time it gets comfy inside, all warm and secure. The way I bet that little boy gets when he cuddles with his mother. When he’s not playing with some young thug.
I knock on the bench three times before I get up and head to Yeongdeungpo. The sidewalks are ultra crowded, but I still arrive at the meeting spot before my boys.
The alley is as straight and narrow as one of the pipettes we use in chemistry class, buildings packed tight, roofs jutting over the ground enough that it’s way darker in there than on the well-lit street where I am.
I enter, cobblestones underfoot and gloom all around. There are two soft lights hanging further ahead. My foot ends up kicking an empty can. It ricochets.
When my vision adjusts, I see a pair of eyes glowing yellow from behind some trash cans. They move toward me. It turns out to be a thin and scraggly alley cat. It reaches me and trills as it rubs up against my shoes. I go to pet it but my fingers stop short. I quickly pull my hand away. It’s probably filthy. Germy. Wish I had some scraps of food for it though. Then a low growl from the back of the alley. Suddenly a large tom is swiping his paw at my little friend. Another growl. Another swipe. A hiss and next thing I know, both cats are gone. I stand alone in the shadow.
It’s quiet except for the occasional squawks of the old timers haggling for Chinese imports on the main strip.
A gnawing ache in my gut. Then it rumbles. I press my belly, imagining the mother and son from earlier sitting down together for dinner. What did she make tonight?
A light wind flits and with it the pungent fragrance of wok charred garlic and ginger. Mom’s dakgalbi. I think about the last time she made it for me.
She was wearing her yellow apron. Yellow, her favorite color. The scent and sputtering sound lured Dad and me to the kitchen. We peeked in and exchanged glances. He smiled at me, then rubbed his tummy and licked his lips. Mom looked up to find us loitering near the door. She fake scowled, then chased us away with her wooden spoon.
The magenta letters of Zero Cafe gleam under a small bulb. An unexpected gust rattles the splintered wooden door open a crack. Another whiff. This time of sesame oil.
I check my pocket watch. 5:55 p.m. Five minutes until my boys show up.
I toe walk from cobblestone to cobblestone, skipping exactly three in between. There’s an old wooden pole under a dim streetlamp. Eight meters away I’d say. On top of the layers and layers of stapled advertisements for upcoming events, a white paper with a big red “X” in the middle—an ad for a well-known beer—calls out for my blade’s attention.
Thunk.
The tip pierces the exact middle of the X.
Heavy footsteps. One set is distinctive. Braid’s. He always misses the heel strike on the third step. I turn around. Sure enough.
“Boss,” he says, stepping into the low light. Patch and Strike are right behind. They’re all slick as usual in our mini TSP matching suits. Their white band collars almost sparkle.
We stroll into the restaurant. Only a few tables are occupied, the diners chatting in hushed voices.
We don’t wait for the host. We don’t have to. We seat ourselves at our private table because our perks aren’t just in school.
A server rushes over carrying a large tray of banchan. He arranges the small plates of side dishes around the grill that’s in the center of the table. He reaches into his apron pocket and pulls out an ashtray. He sets it down.
Smoking is banned in public places for most people. But we’re not most people.
He prepares the charcoal.
We order soju and marinated beef short rib. The server recommends the spicy pork belly.
“Everything tastes better extra spicy, with a litt
le extra gochujang,” Mom said. She ruffled my hair. “Right, Rocky?”
“Extra spicy,” I say to the server.
The server flashes a smile, then hustles away.
Our first bottle of soju arrives quick. Braid holds the bottle off to the side and gives it a good swirl. The liquid tornado inside mesmerizes me. He supports his right arm with his left hand and fills my shot glass. Then he fills Patch’s, Strike’s, and his own.
“Gunbae,” I say, holding up my glass.
They raise theirs but take care to keep them a tad lower than mine. “Gunbae,” they echo.
We drop our heads back and shoot.
Braid pours another round. He meets my eyes but then quickly averts his. “Did you hear what happened to Kang Dong-geun?” he asks.
I scowl inside. No! How many times do I have to remind them that my dad doesn’t tell me shit? I keep my face blank when I shake my head.
“Your dad killed him,” Braid says.
It must be true. My second-in-command always gets the fresh intel from In-su, his roommate/older cousin who just happens to be one of my dad’s right-hand men, the ones who wear the red pocket squares.
I sip my soju and try to play it cool. “That Southern Gate Pa asshole of a boss must’ve deserved it,” I say.
Braid doesn’t say anything.
I spin the ashtray. Count the seconds until it stops.
Braid’s eyes dart back and forth. Patch and Strike stare at the table.
“What?” I ask.
Braid takes a sip. “Your dad—”
I massage my temples. “What already?”
Braid clears his throat. He blots the thin layer of sweat on his forehead with his handkerchief. Finally he opens his mouth. “Your dad, he didn’t just kill him.” He pauses to look at me. “He tortured the guy.”
Duh. Tell me something I don’t know. “Yeah, well, he must’ve deserved it,” I say all nonchalant.
My boys trade anxious looks.
I light up a cigarette and take an extra long drag, then release three smoke rings. I drape my arm over the back of my chair, holding the cigarette loosely between my index and middle fingers. “What did he do? Piss on the guy’s face, then bury him alive?”
Braid’s quiet as he refills our shot glasses.
That’s when the server arrives with another bottle and our meat. He lays the short ribs on one side of the mesh grill. There’s a sizzle followed by the sweet and smoky aroma of caramelizing sugar. Then he puts the spicy pork belly on the other side. Another sizzle, this time followed by a complex spicy and gingery smell.
“Anything else?” the server asks.
I shake my head.
The server leaves.
I glance at Braid as he flips the short ribs with the tongs. His eyebrows are almost touching.
“Rocky,” he says, “you need to know what your dad did.”
I take a draw on my cig and exhale my frustration in a smoky mess that ends up drifting into Braid’s face.
He doesn’t fan it away. He keeps his eyes on me.
I’m bored, but I go along with it. “Yes? What did he do?” I help myself to a piece of meat and take a bite. It’s delicious. Tender.
“Got all the scoops from In-su. He, Chul-moo, and Do-hyun had to hang the guy upside down, you know, so all the blood would drain into the guy’s head and he’d stay conscious as long as possible.” Braid pauses. Drums his fingers on the table. His face turns sallow. He grabs his water and chugs it. Then he looks over both shoulders and lowers his head. “Ok, here goes,” he says. The rest comes out fast and steady, like the perfect rhythm of punches to a speed bag. “Your dad insisted on finishing up the job himself. He tore out the guy’s tongue. Pliers. Gouged out the dude’s eyeballs. Chisel. He used a rusty saw—” Braid gags. He quickly cups his mouth and manages to keep the contents of his stomach in his stomach.
I stop chewing. I want to spit it out, but I wash it down with the rest of the soju in my glass.
Patch is frozen. His good eye huge. His chopsticks extended out in mid-air.
Strike drops his chopsticks. They land with a plink on his ceramic dish.
Braid’s sweating like he’s just sprinted five kilometers.
None of us say a word.
I push my plate away. The soju won’t touch me now. Might as well have been drinking water.
Strike goes for his soju but then changes his mind. Patch scoots his chair back. Braid hangs his head.
The server comes back to us like that and our meat and banchan untouched. He starts wringing his hands. His face and voice drop when he asks, “Is everything alright?”
I wave him away because I’m not about to spend any extra time reassuring him when my own mind is freaking out…
There’s no way my dad could do that! Could he? No. No way! It’s supposed to be an eye for an eye. But what if he really did it? Is he a psycho? Gangsters aren’t supposed to be psycho. Gangsters are supposed to be methodical. Professional.
But my face will never give me away. I’m calm on the outside when I look at my boys and say, “Let’s go.”
They nod. We get up, file out of the restaurant, then plod up the alley, crammed shoulder-to-shoulder between the walls.
Loud scraping sounds.
I look up. Fours thugs—wannabe thugs is more like it—dressed in white tank tops, gold chains (fake, I’m sure), and jeans approach, dragging bats. Even in the faint light I can tell they’re not much older than us. The one on the far left smacks his bat on the wall.
Soon we’re toe-to-toe. I cross my arms and stand in a slight lean back. I stare at the jerk in front of me.
He gives me a half smile. “You rich boys are on our turf,” he says. He brushes the lapel of my expensive suit. “You’re gonna have to pay the toll.”
I give a slow stroke to my sideburn before I slide my hands into my pockets and widen my stance a little. Then I bring my hands together in front of me and steeple my fingers when I say, “I guess you haven’t heard.”
He scoffs. “What’s that?” he asks all cocky.
“That we’ve always owned these streets. So, unfortunately, it’s you and your boys who need to pay the toll,” I say, my voice smooth as my mom’s homemade chilled tofu.
“Good one,” he says with a chuckle. He elbows one of his cronies, “Listen to this guy,” he says. He and his poser boys all laugh. But when he realizes we haven’t backed down a bit, he shuts up and straightens his face.
His boys follow his lead and zip it.
They exchange confused glances, then charge at us, bats swinging.
I roll my eyes, already in a defensive stance.
The ensuing scuffle lasts less than five minutes. We disarm the punks easily because they’re all bark and no bite.
Braid has one of them in a headlock. Patch has his knee in the back of another who’s facedown on the ground. Strike’s side kick sends a third flying a few meters back. That unlucky bastard ends up slamming into the brick wall.
I’m standing over the leader with his own bat angled dangerously above his skull. Fear flashes in his eyes. Under any other circumstance, I would’ve come down hard—but not into his skull because I’m not a murderer—I would’ve smashed the bat into his arm, or maybe his gut.
He tore out the guy’s tongue. Pliers. Gouged out the dude’s eyeballs. Chisel. He used a rusty saw—
I dry heave.
The guy gives me a baffled look.
We’re not murderers.
I drop the bat, clutching my stomach.
He reaches for it.
I kick it out of the way. “Let’s split!” I call to my boys, then start running towards the brightly lit street.
My boys are right behind.
7.
The sounds of Seoul far below fade as Pavarotti belts out Caruso for me. He declares his love for a girl as he looks into her eyes…
And I close my eyes, slide down a little on the loveseat. I tilt my head back and let my limbs fall loose. Time
stops the way it can only stop out here on the balcony—only in the presence of my number one tenor’s sorrowful exuberance. The Onkyo won’t give a shit about hours as long as I’m here to lay down the vinyl. The weather pays no attention to the city’s minute-to-minute schedule, enjoying instead the moment in untethered spontaneity. But each second for me is stuck in sweet rewind. When everything was good. When everything made sense.
I sniff. Is that sizzling scallions?
Mom with a close-mouthed smile, flipping haemul pajeon. My mouth starts to water. I tug at her yellow apron. She looks at me and winks. She slowly reaches down, her hand on my cheek, soft. Then Mom, Dad, and I are together on the balcony. Mom and Dad are on the loveseat. I climb onto Mom’s lap, curl up, releasing waves of calm like a kitten purring, paws tucked, napping in a patch of sunlight. The three of us watch the rain.
We are together.
We are together.
I smile inside, my eyes still closed. I try to melt into the cushions.
It feels nice. So nice. Like when it’s cold outside but my hands are wrapped around a ceramic cup filled with hot tea. I sip and swirl the liquid. It soothes my wintry soul, coaxing it out of hibernation into the warmth and promise of spring…
Click clack of Dad’s house slippers. One-one, two. Two-one, two. Louder. Three-one, two.
Time rushes back and slams me into the present.
We are not together.
My eyelids fly apart. A strong wind is punishing rush-hour traffic on the expressway below, and rain is coming down hard. The beeps and hum of gridlock stab me. Pavarotti’s heartbreaking voice becomes a crowbar, ripping my heart out. I push down on my chest with both hands.
Dad slithers through the open sliding glass door. He sits on the far end of the loveseat and stares at his wet, gray kingdom.
Dad lifts his small bowl of makgeolli without taking his eyes off the cityscape. I pour, keeping my head down but my eyes on him. He takes a sip, then sets the bowl on the table. He brings out a chrome cigarette tin, one I’ve never seen.
What happened to the one that matches Mom’s? Matches mine?
His finger goes back and forth over the cigs. They’re not Dunhills!
Why not?
