to Korean businessmen, so they want people who can speak the language, and they also want people they can trust. It’s the same way with the Tong in Chinatown. They bring people from back home who are scared shitless of the police, and they’re completely dependent on the gang for food, shelter, and protection. To a guy like Park here, people from back home are more trustworthy than Americans, and you know goin’ in none of them are federal agents.”
Pike glanced at Stone in the rearview.
“Where’d you get this?”
Stone had more of the kimchee.
“A couple of ex-ROK paratroops at a soju bar over here a few weeks ago. Double Dragons have these twin dragons inked on their arms, and these two assholes wanted to impress me with their ink. Hence, they gave up the farm.”
Stone grinned.
“Too much soju. Just like those shitbirds in Africa.”
We followed the Beemer only six blocks until it made a left, went two more blocks, and pulled to the curb outside a soju bar.
Stone broke into an even nastier smile.
“Is this too perfect or what? That’s the place right there-where I talked up the ROKs.”
The big guy stayed in the car, and Park went inside. He stayed for almost twenty minutes before he and another man came out. The other man was much older, with a leathery face, steel gray hair, and his eyes almost hidden by wrinkles. He didn’t look happy, and neither did Sang Ki Park.
Stone tapped the air with his chopstick.
“That would be the uncle, Young Min Park.”
“The boss?”
“That’s the man. This was the first bar the Dragons took over. He owns it.”
I twisted around, and looked at him. Stone shrugged.
“Those ROK guys wouldn’t shut up, bro. They just could not stop talking. You hear shit, you tuck it away, you never know.”
I turned back to the Beemer.
Jon Stone looked like a demented surfer with his spiky, bleached hair and pierced ear, but I knew his background with Delta. Sometimes you forget what that means. Most people think Delta, they’re thinking of Rambo, with the big gun and even bigger muscles. D-boys are deadly warriors, for sure, but you won’t find many who look like Rambo. This is because you can’t rescue hostages or snatch high-value targets from hostile villages unless you find them, so D-boys are also selected to gather intelligence. They are off-the-charts smart, look ordinary, and are trained to blend in anywhere with anyone. This is why D-boys are called operators. Jon Stone had worked the two drunk ex-ROK gangsters for no other reason than gathering intelligence was in his nature.
As we watched, the older man shook his finger angrily under Sang Ki Park’s nose. Park didn’t like it, but took it. The old man steadily grew more angry until the finger wasn’t enough. He slapped Park’s face hard, then stormed back into his bar.
Stone said, “The old man isn’t liking his nephew so much these days.”
Pike said, “What were they saying?”
“Couldn’t hear, but it’s an easy guess. The nephew here just lost two hundred thousand and a boatload of workers. They probably weren’t talking about a promotion.”
Their next stop was a large two-level strip mall on Vermont. The strip mall was in the final stages of being remodeled, with a club and a restaurant taking up most of the upper level and what looked like another bar and a karaoke lounge on the lower level. A large sign in Korean script and English hung across the front of the karaoke
lounge: OPENING SOON.
Stone said, “Y’see? This is what I was talking about. You can’t open for business without the right staff.”
I liked it. Under construction was good. Opening soon was good. The more pressure Park felt to recover his people, the more desperately he would look for ways to do so.
We stopped at two more strip malls and a large commercial building on Western Avenue. Park met people at each site, and toured the properties as if checking their progress, but no one looked happy, especially Park.
One hour and thirty-six minutes later, we followed his Beemer eleven blocks north to a small Craftsman home between Beverly and Melrose, not far from Paramount Studios. The house and front yard were small, but neat and clean with an attractive flower bed surrounding a crepe myrtle tree. A black Porsche Cabriolet was parked in the drive. The Beemer pulled in behind it, and parked. The drive was so short, the Beemer’s tail hung over the sidewalk.
Park got out, went to the front door, and let himself in without a key. The big man rolled down both front windows, and stayed in the car. He would be there for a while.
I said, “Here we go.”
Pike stopped in front of the neighboring house, and the three of us got out quickly and quietly. We crossed the neighbor’s drive and walked directly to the Beemer, Stone to the passenger side, and Pike and I to the driver’s side.
The big man glimpsed movement, and turned, but by then I had my pistol out.
“Remember me?”
He jerked sideways, but grew still when he saw the gun.
From the other side of the car, Jon Stone spoke Korean. The big man gripped the wheel, both hands, ten and two. Stone slipped into the passenger side, holding a. 45 caliber service automatic. They had a brief conversation, then Jon explained.
“He’s seeing a girlfriend. I’m good here. Go.”
“Does she have kids?”
Stone spoke again.
“No kids. Go.”
Pike and I went to the front door and quietly let ourselves into a classic Craftsman living room. The wood floors and doors and trim around the windows were so dark the wood was almost black, so we followed their voices. I thought we would find them in her bedroom, but they were in a sunroom at the end of the hall.
Sang Ki Park and a young woman were sitting at a small round table framed in a glass bay window looking out at an avocado tree. The woman was slender, Asian, and probably in her twenties. Park had taken off his suit coat, and rolled his sleeves. She was laughing at something he said, and Park was smiling. Then I stepped inside, and their laughing stopped. The girl made a surprised gasp, and Park pushed to his feet. He was smart enough not to reach for a weapon, but he grew angry, squared himself, and shouted a belligerent stream of Korean. I held my gun to the side, pointing away.
“Take it easy. We’re here to talk.”
Pike entered and moved to the right. I drifted left, and pointed my gun at the ceiling. Then I let it fall free on my index finger to hang upside down, telling him he had nothing to fear.
“We owe you three guns. We brought them back.”
Pike placed the three guns on a small wicker love seat.
Sang Ki Park watched him, then glanced at my pistol. I put it under my shirt and showed my empty hands.
“Okay?”
His rage had turned to suspicion, leaving him watchful, but curious.
“Why you here?”
“You lost two hundred thousand dollars to the Sinaloa cartel.”
He stared, but said nothing.
“The Sanchez brothers don’t have it, so you can’t get it from them. The Sinaloas have it, but you’ll have to fight them for it.”
“Yes.”
“They will probably negotiate a settlement with you, go in halves, but you still won’t have your money or your
