deep whiff, as he always did when he re-entered the ’hood: Itaewon was a little chunk of America in an overcrowded land of dog-eaters and rice-lovers. The army base was right round the corner from Burger King, and up there on the mountain’s flank, just below the Hyatt Hotel and the New York Deli, the trashiest trailer-park blonde in Seoul shook her tail-feathers just for him, on the biggest, baddest bed in town.
Last night’s dip in performance had just been a blip. Could happen to any guy. Pleasantly horny now and still glowing from the OxyPops, Johnny trawled slowly through Itaewon like he was in a John Woo movie: past stores overflowing with cheap shoes, suitcases, bed linens; street stalls dripping with leather belts and wallets, knock-off watches, MoPhos, fake Chanel, and anything from mugs to teddy bears that it was possible to emblazon with the Korean national flag. There were restaurants everywhere, of course—mostly Western, thank fuck—and black market alleyways crawling 24/7 with ajummas in stained aprons ready to exchange huge wads of cash, no questions asked. At the foot of the road to Johnny’s apartment a clutch of antiques dealers lent a veneer of class to the street, selling brightly polished brass deer and turtles, and memento mori from medals to bomb casings. Not that the war was over, mind. In this churning sea of Asian tat and guile, it was good to know that Itaewon was full of US soldiers, all keeping up their strength on burgers and fries.
He parked on the main drag outside the Hamilton Hotel, a hunk of concrete clad in orange fake brick. A fat bitch at a tanning salon, Johnny always joked about the place. Sydney didn’t think it was funny, but it still made him chuckle. He slammed the car door shut, feeling good, and pushing through beer-bellied tourists, hippy English teachers and flat-topped GIs, he headed to Hollywood’s, Itaewon’s premiere “leisure lady” night spot.
Rattail was a civil servant, with access to all sorts of secret files. He had said he would be on the third barstool from the left. Could you possibly get more anal , Johnny thought as he thrust open Hollywood’s padded red door. A Korean man blowing smoke rings at the bar turned and nodded. Yup, third barstool. Sigh .
Otherwise the place was virtually empty. Ignoring the auto-smiles of bored hostesses, Johnny crossed the worn crimson carpet, negotiating the cheap Formica tables arranged haphazardly around the room. Without the late-night crowd of smokers, a sickly-sweet stink permeated the club. What did they pump the place full of, female underarm deodorant?
Johnny had pictured Rattail as a regular, squat Korean schmoe, but in fact he was tall and thin and fragile-looking, in his late thirties, with a bony jaw and bad skin. Despite the warmth he was dressed in a beige Aquascutum trench coat. At least he smelled of tobacco.
Johnny pulled up a stool.
“Please to meet you, Mis-tuh Joh-nee.” Rattail’s handshake was dry, almost scaly, and there was an affected, melancholy air about him that set Johnny’s teeth on edge. He ordered a rye and coke, sticking to a single. Hey, the Sandman had willpower.
“Let’s get to the point,” he growled in Korean. After ten years he knew enough of the language to haggle with any Seoul shyster—though of course sometimes he pretended not to speak the lingo; contacts could give away vital information thinking he didn’t understand.
Rattail’s glasses were too big for his nose and he kept pushing them back up to the bridge when he talked—or nodded, mostly. He showed no surprise or distaste when Johnny outlined what he wanted, just took another drag on his cigarette.
“Sure. Two place I can get you that,” he said in English. Koreans always liked to practice. “Accident ward, sure, sure—but has to be body no one claim. No family. No friend. Don’t come in every day.”
“When, then?”
“One week, one month. Molayo .”
Molayo , molayo . Who knows? The
Last night’s dip in performance had just been a blip. Could happen to any guy. Pleasantly horny now and still glowing from the OxyPops, Johnny trawled slowly through Itaewon like he was in a John Woo movie: past stores overflowing with cheap shoes, suitcases, bed linens; street stalls dripping with leather belts and wallets, knock-off watches, MoPhos, fake Chanel, and anything from mugs to teddy bears that it was possible to emblazon with the Korean national flag. There were restaurants everywhere, of course—mostly Western, thank fuck—and black market alleyways crawling 24/7 with ajummas in stained aprons ready to exchange huge wads of cash, no questions asked. At the foot of the road to Johnny’s apartment a clutch of antiques dealers lent a veneer of class to the street, selling brightly polished brass deer and turtles, and memento mori from medals to bomb casings. Not that the war was over, mind. In this churning sea of Asian tat and guile, it was good to know that Itaewon was full of US soldiers, all keeping up their strength on burgers and fries.
He parked on the main drag outside the Hamilton Hotel, a hunk of concrete clad in orange fake brick. A fat bitch at a tanning salon, Johnny always joked about the place. Sydney didn’t think it was funny, but it still made him chuckle. He slammed the car door shut, feeling good, and pushing through beer-bellied tourists, hippy English teachers and flat-topped GIs, he headed to Hollywood’s, Itaewon’s premiere “leisure lady” night spot.
Rattail was a civil servant, with access to all sorts of secret files. He had said he would be on the third barstool from the left. Could you possibly get more anal , Johnny thought as he thrust open Hollywood’s padded red door. A Korean man blowing smoke rings at the bar turned and nodded. Yup, third barstool. Sigh .
Otherwise the place was virtually empty. Ignoring the auto-smiles of bored hostesses, Johnny crossed the worn crimson carpet, negotiating the cheap Formica tables arranged haphazardly around the room. Without the late-night crowd of smokers, a sickly-sweet stink permeated the club. What did they pump the place full of, female underarm deodorant?
Johnny had pictured Rattail as a regular, squat Korean schmoe, but in fact he was tall and thin and fragile-looking, in his late thirties, with a bony jaw and bad skin. Despite the warmth he was dressed in a beige Aquascutum trench coat. At least he smelled of tobacco.
Johnny pulled up a stool.
“Please to meet you, Mis-tuh Joh-nee.” Rattail’s handshake was dry, almost scaly, and there was an affected, melancholy air about him that set Johnny’s teeth on edge. He ordered a rye and coke, sticking to a single. Hey, the Sandman had willpower.
“Let’s get to the point,” he growled in Korean. After ten years he knew enough of the language to haggle with any Seoul shyster—though of course sometimes he pretended not to speak the lingo; contacts could give away vital information thinking he didn’t understand.
Rattail’s glasses were too big for his nose and he kept pushing them back up to the bridge when he talked—or nodded, mostly. He showed no surprise or distaste when Johnny outlined what he wanted, just took another drag on his cigarette.
“Sure. Two place I can get you that,” he said in English. Koreans always liked to practice. “Accident ward, sure, sure—but has to be body no one claim. No family. No friend. Don’t come in every day.”
“When, then?”
“One week, one month. Molayo .”
Molayo , molayo . Who knows? The
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