“A shot rang out. One of the guards had been more diligent than I thought. I dropped to the ground, breaking my ankle, and just barely managed to pick up the box and shuffle across the street into the alleys before the guard reached the fence and fired again.”
Mr. Ma looked down at his foot. “And now I have two souvenirs of that night. This bad leg, and the strength of my soul: my son, Kuang-sok.”
“You never went back to the compound after that?” I asked.
“No. It’s been ten years and I never have.”
It was an interesting enough story, I had to admit that, but he’d been out of touch too long. The Nurse had thought she was doing us a great favor by bringing us here. But this guy was just a lonely old man who wanted an audience to listen to him rave about past glories. Still, it was a touching little family, and so poor. I knew how that was.
Ernie swirled the brown barley tea in his glass. It was just a matter of time until he grew antsy and did something stupid.
Mr. Ma didn’t notice our discomfort. After cleansing his throat with more of the barley tea, he continued his dissertation.
“Slicky boys have been taking money from you Americans for many years.”
He smiled at the thought.
“Of course you have plenty. More than you need, and during the war we were starving. Sometimes I think you Americans knew that. That’s why your security was never as good as it could have been. Or as good as it had been on the army compounds when the Japanese were here. The Japanese ruled with an iron hand. In those days, to be a slicky boy you had to be very brave because if you were caught you would be either shot on the spot or executed a few days later.
“Now we go to prison. Not such a terrible fate if you’re starving to death anyway.”
We had to get out of here. Otherwise, this guy was going to chew our ears off all night. But before I could make a move, he was talking again.
“When the war ended there were independent slicky boys outside all the hundreds of U.S. compounds around our country. Many of these compounds you closed up, turned over to the Korean Army, and gradually you consolidated into the fifty or sixty big bases you have now. The slicky boys started squabbling over territory. Many men were killed. This disarray lasted for some months until we had an iron hand again.”
I looked at him and waited.
“So Boncho-ga,” he said.
I spoke in English. “Herbalist So.'’
“What’s that?”
I switched back to Korean. “I’ve heard of him,” I said.
His eyes widened. “Then you are also a very diligent guard. Not many foreigners have.”
“Is he still alive?”
“Oh, yes. Very much alive. Some say he might live forever.” Mr. Ma picked up his tea and his eyes smiled over the rim of the cup. “All those herbs, you know.”
“The herbs keep him alive?”
“Yes.”
I didn’t know about that but I did know that the Koreans spend fortunes on hanyak-Chinese medicine- and the exotic herbs and potions that go with it.
“How can I meet this Herbalist So?”
Mr. Ma shook his head. “You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“You are a foreigner.”
“Why should that make a difference?”
“It makes all the difference. No foreigner has ever set eyes on So Boncho-ga. No foreigner ever will. That is how he survived so long.” Mr. Ma raised his forefinger. “Caution.”
“I can appreciate caution,” I said. “Maybe there is someone who can tell him of my concerns.”
“None that I know of.”
“Maybe you.”
Mr. Ma laughed. “I am long retired,” he said. “And nothing more than a poor custodian and a collector of bottles and cans. Such an important man as Herbalist So would never listen to the likes of me.”
“Then where can I find someone who he will listen to?”
“That I cannot answer.”
The paper-paneled door slid back. Kuang-sok stepped into the room and sat down next to his father. He hadn’t brought the newspaper, I noticed, but that wasn’t my problem. Disciplining children was beyond the purview of the Criminal Investigation Division.
I downed the last of my barley tea. Ernie did the same. A waste of time, I thought. Another waste.
I thanked Mr. Ma and stood up. He rose and slipped on his shoes and followed Ernie and me to the door:
When I looked back, the last thing I saw was Kuang-sok peering at us with great relief, his arms clutched tightly around his father’s waist.
Outside, stars glimmered. The moon was rising slowly above peaked tile roofs.
We turned down an alley. In it, two men stood with their backs to us. As we approached, they swiveled. In the growing moonlight, I could see they were young, hair long, disheveled. Both wore brightly colored workout outfits. The emblem of a martial arts training dojang was emblazoned on the chest.
They stared at us.
Had I been alone, I would’ve ignored their hard looks. Routine survival procedure in East L.A. But I was with Ernie. I knew he would never ignore them. I was right.
He jerked his thumb in their direction. “What do these dorks want?”
“I don-'t know, Ernie. Don’t pay any attention to them. They’ll go away.”
Ernie’s walk took on more bounce and he thrust out his chest. What a study he would make for some scientist. Dominant male in a pack of baboons.
Something landed heavily behind us. I looked back. More men. Dropping from a tiled roof. Three of them. Four. Five. In front of us, six more figures appeared.
Slicky boys. At long last. Somehow I wasn’t filled with joy.
They closed in on us. Clubs appeared from coats.
I stood loose. Trying to make it seem as if I were ready for them.
Ernie backed up against a wall, found a large stone, and knocked it against cement to check its firmness.
“Time for some ass-kicking,” he said happily.
“Who’s going to be doing the kicking?”
“We are!” He tossed the rock at the first guy coming in and charged. Errol Flynn couldn’t have done it better.
No time to think now. I did the same, leaping forward with a solid side-kick, catching a slicky boy in the ribs. Swinging fists crunched skull and jaw.
All in all, I’d say Ernie and I made a pretty good account of ourselves. I remember two, maybe three guys going down. I dodged a couple of bat swings and most of their karate kicks slid off of me like bullets ricocheting off armor. But it didn’t last long. The flesh is weak. Especially when you’re outnumbered six to one.
Somewhere along the line, I plowed headfirst into the snow. Before I could rise, hands grabbed my arms and punches and kicks rained down on my legs and my spine.
I struggled upward beneath the thudding onslaught, making progress, until something clunked on my head. I felt myself falling. As the world faded into blackness, I wondered what had hit me.
Looking back now, I think it was a brick.
