“There it is,” said Tommy, pointing to the restaurant.
Jake drove past slowly, sizing up the business. The chipped and faded exterior paint was less than inviting. Then he spotted a C in the window, meaning the health inspectors deemed this eating establishment just a little better than dining in a toxic waste dump.
“Can’t you ever take me to a place with a Zagat rating?” said Jake with genuine disgust.
“We’re not here to eat,” said Tommy.
“Don’t worry, I won’t be. Health inspectors must come to Koreatown to make their quotas.”
“I can take your racial insensitivity and ethnic slurs, but I suggest you clean up your act once we get inside. Mr. Yeong doesn’t like American humor.”
“You don’t think I got a shot on Korean Comedy Central?”
When Tommy pointed to a parking spot across the street from the restaurant, Jake shook his head. “Does this place have a back entrance?”
“Yeah,” said Tommy, “through the alley.”
“We’ll use that. I’m betting they don’t get much non-Asian business. No sense bringing undue attention to ourselves.”
Jake pulled around the corner and parked. When they hopped out of the Range Rover and headed down the alley they were greeted by the smells of backstreet L.A.: rotten produce and putrefied water.
A rat darted out from behind a dumpster.
“Is this the year of the rat?” asked Jake.
“Does it matter?”
“I don’t like rats,” said Jake, knowing the irony in that statement.
“Actually rat is good. It’s the symbol of luck. The rat is clever, quick-witted, and successful.”
“Sort of like me, huh?” said Jake.
“There you go, whitey, flattering yourself again.”
Jake and Tommy crossed the alley and Tommy pointed to a wooden screen door just past a large green dumpster. Even with the lid closed the smell of garbage was pronounced. As Tommy grabbed a broken handle on the frame and opened the back door to the restaurant, Jake noted the torn netting, which allowed the flies to enter at will. Both stepped into the kitchen and were greeted by the contrasting aromas from the alley: sesame oil, garlic, ginger, peppers, and gochujang, all used in traditional Korean cooking. Two employees were busy with the dinner rush and paid little attention to the recent visitors.
The place wasn’t exactly appetizing but the undercover agent loved playing the bold and brazen role. As Jake walked past the servers’ counter, one of the cooks threw a plate of yaki-mandu, Korean egg rolls, under the heat lamp. Jake grabbed one, popped it in his mouth, and kept walking. The cook shouted something, which Jake assumed to be Korean expletives referencing the undercover agent’s mother in some capacity.
Tommy turned in time to see Jake munching on the Korean appetizer and smiling ear to ear.
The restaurant was larger than Jake expected. From the street he assumed there were not much more than a few tables, but there was a fully stocked bar running the width of the building and several dozen worn tables scattered throughout the darkened open area. Ragged Asian décor accented the walls.
Only about a third of the tables were occupied but it was early, and based upon what Tommy said, he guessed things didn’t pick up until later in the evening. All the patrons were older and appeared non-menacing, so Jake figured the diners weren’t part of some Asian hit squad ready to take him down.
Jake was drawn to a tall African-American man standing at the far end of the bar and the attractive Asian woman seated on a bar stool across from him. The slender female had long black hair, a perfect complexion, and appeared to be in her early twenties. She shot out from her seat when Tommy entered the dining room, offering a seductive smile as she raced toward Jake’s criminal associate. Tommy responded with a quick embrace as the two met at the middle of the bar.
“How you doing, baby,” said Tommy.
“I fine, especially now you here.”
Jake was following and Tommy turned to introduce the two. “Candy, this is Jake.”
She did a slight bow. “Mr. Jake, it nice to finally meet you. Tommy tell me much about you.”
Her smile seemed genuine and Jake countered, “Tommy has told me a lot about you. He said you were beautiful, but I thought that was just blind love. You really are very beautiful.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jake,” she said. Her quick blush and tilt of her head were convincing.
“Please just call me Jake.”
She continued her smile and nodded. “Thank you, Jake.”
Tommy was pleased Jake found his girlfriend so attractive but needed to get on with business. He turned to Jake. “Sit at the bar. I’ll go upstairs and see if Mr. Yeong is ready.”
As Tommy headed toward the stairs Candy said to him, “I need talk to you.”
“Can we talk later? Mr. Yeong is waiting.”
“It only take minute. It important. Please, Tommy,” begged Candy.
Tommy stopped, hoping any further delay wouldn’t upset Yeong.
“Did you hear about Sonny?”
“No.”
“He dead.”
“What?” said Tommy with genuine surprise.
“Two nights ago someone kill him. Shoot him.”
“No way. Where?”
“He at home. It in paper this morning,” said Candy.
“Look, we’ll talk later. I’ve got to see Mr. Yeong. He’s waiting.”
Tommy walked toward the stairs, shaking his head, confused by the news he had just received.
As the two were talking, Jake straddled a bar stool covered with aging red vinyl and tried to listen in. The African-American at the far end of the bar turned out to be the bartender and strolled down to Jake with minimal enthusiasm. “What can I get you?”
“Give me a Hite.”
“We don’t carry it.”
“But it’s Korean,” said Jake, studying the bartender.
“Yeah, and so is Taedonggang, Cass, and OB.”
“Then give me one of those.”
“We don’t carry them, either.”
Jake shook his head. “What do you have on tap?”
“Bud, Bud Light, Select, and Michelob.”
“Make it a Light.… Real ethnic bar you got here. You carry all the authentic Korean brands, huh?”
The bartender, wearing what the undercover agent assumed to be a counterfeit Polo shirt and knockoff Dolce & Gabbana jeans, caught the sarcasm dripping from Jake’s mouth as he drew a Bud Light from the tap.
“You own this place?” asked Jake.
“Nope,” said the bartender abruptly, obviously not seeking to engage in conversation or get tipped.
“Why do you work down here?”
“I’m a bartender. I needed a job. They had an opening. Besides, ricers drink as much beer as peckerwoods.”
Jake caught the references. Peckerwoods, a term typically reserved for whites in prison, was not necessarily one used in sensitivity training.
“When’d you get out?” asked Jake as he took a drink.
“A couple of years ago.”
“Still gotta tail?”
“What are you, five-o?” asked the bartender.
“I did a little time back east,” said Jake as he extended his hand. “The name’s Jake.”
“Yeah, I heard Tommy introduce you to Candy.”
Jake waited, cocking his head as if to say, “And…”
The bartender said, “Nice to meet you,” without introducing himself or shaking Jake’s hand. He then walked to the far end of the bar and continued his conversation with Candy, which apparently Jake and Tommy had interrupted.