The undercover agent had taken only a few sips of his beer when Tommy returned through the hallway and joined their quiet discussion.
Jake could barely make out what Tommy, Candy, and the bartender were saying but they appeared to be discussing the murder of Sonny. No one seemed to be offering an easy explanation, though Jake overheard Candy say she was always uncomfortable around the victim because he asked too many questions and seemed to be in everyone’s business, a trait not appreciated in Koreatown. Tommy excused himself and looked to Jake. Using his index finger in a circling motion, he signaled to the undercover agent, who left a couple of bucks on the bar and headed for the back.
“It’s time. He’s ready,” said Tommy.
Tommy kissed Candy on the cheek as he and Jake headed down the dimly lit hallway to the stairs.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Once they were away from the others, Jake said, “Sorry to hear about your friend Sonny.”
Tommy shrugged. “No great loss but I’d like to know why he was hit.”
“Is anyone offering any explanations?”
“Not yet. At least no one has heard anything.”
Jake tried to act disinterested but sought answers for the investigation. “Did you guys do much business together?”
Tommy didn’t seem to mind the inquiry and answered without hesitation. “No. He was kind of a fixture in Koreatown. He did a little of this and a little of that.”
“On the up-and-up?” asked Jake.
“Yes and no. As I understand it he got hurt in the riots back in ’92.”
Jake interrupted. “You mean injured?”
“No, not physically but he got slammed financially. He lost several businesses. Then a few years later he came back strong with overseas financing. He played both sides and moved a lot of paper.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was into negotiable notes. Not all of which were legit.”
“You mean counterfeit securities?”
“Something like that. I never quite understood what his game was. He was involved with several financial institutions both here and in Korea. He was a little too slick for me and never invited me to play. He ran with the big dogs.”
“Like who?”
“You’re meeting one today.”
“Yeong?”
Tommy nodded. “It’s Mr. Yeong to you.”
“Just keep your ears open. I don’t want anything coming back on us if this Sonny got smoked because of his walk on the wild side of Koreatown. We may be strolling down the same side of the street,” said Jake.
“That wouldn’t happen. I never had any business dealings with him unless you consider buying him a drink a business relationship.”
“You aren’t wasting any money on me. Why’d you buy him a drink?”
“He spent a lot of time here in the bar and I figured if I bought him a drink or two he might cut me in on some scam he had going, but nothing ever materialized.”
“Maybe you were lucky you weren’t involved. One of his deals may have gone south and he got laid out because of it.”
Tommy nonchalanted the comment as the two climbed the stairs.
When they came to a door at the end of the corridor, Tommy knocked twice.
Four men were in the small office, a space hardly fitting for a Mr. Yeong, someone Jake’s FBI colleagues believed to be a major player in the world of Asian organized crime. Three of the men, whom Jake didn’t recognize, stood immediately when Tommy and he entered. Two of them flanked Yeong and the third took up a position to the right and slightly behind Jake. They stayed there, unmoving, throughout the meeting.
Though the men were small in stature, Jake saw the pronounced bulges on their hips. The semi-automatic weapons they carried under their stylish Kahala Hawaiian shirts evened out any size discrepancy. Yeong, the oldest of the four, at least fifty, remained seated, smoking a cigarette.
Jake concentrated on the faces, sizing up the opposition. He wanted to establish his dominance as much as Yeong and his associates did.
The office was cold and dank. The curtains were closed and a single low-wattage lightbulb hung from the ceiling, requiring several seconds for Jake’s eyes to adjust to the darkness and the smoke.
Jake extended his hand but Yeong didn’t take it. “Mr. Yeong, thank you for trusting me enough to allow me into your office. Tommy and I have done two containers for you without incident. I am glad to have built this bond where we can finally meet.” Jake smiled and added, “You knew where I lived, but I never knew where you did business.”
“I do business all over the world. I’m not limited to this office,” said Yeong, whose thin smile quickly faded.
Jake’s face projected confidence, not a hint of fear. “Sir, I’ve enjoyed my business relationship with Tommy. It’s a pleasure to deal with honorable men, and I hope we can continue to do business for the long run.”
Yeong said nothing but took a deep draw off the cigarette. His silence only added to the mystique of the setting. He pulled two packages from beneath the scarred wooden desk where he was sitting, each the size of a Tolstoy novel. Yeong slid the packages across the desk and gestured for Jake to take them.
Jake hefted one of the packages. He guessed around two pounds — about right for a kilo of crystal methamphetamine, the new drug of choice in Los Angeles. In the early eighties it was cocaine, a party favor for the rich and famous. By the end of that decade crack or rock cocaine, a simpler, less expensive alternative to freebasing, became popular in the inner city. The Crips and Bloods financed criminal empires with the cheap high and the South Central economy flourished as criminal entrepreneurs learned the basics of the free enterprise system.
The twenty-first century saw the rise of crystal meth—“crank,” “speed,” or “ice,” as it was known on the street. The terminology changed almost monthly and even an experienced undercover agent had trouble keeping up with the street slang, but regardless of what the dealers and dopers called it, the highly addictive man-made stimulant became a multibillion-dollar industry in the underground economy.
The concoction that started out as a moneymaker for outlaw biker gangs became an epidemic criminal opportunity for anyone with an elementary knowledge of chemistry. It was as popular in the farmlands as it was in the inner city or corporate boardrooms. The stuff was so ubiquitous in Southern California that it was an accepted form of currency. By mid-2014, a kilo of high-quality crystal meth was worth more than thirty thousand dollars. Jake was only too happy to receive his payment in the controlled substance, ensuring lengthy prison sentences for all involved in the transaction.
As he examined the tightly wrapped package in clear plastic, Jake said, “It’s tough to tell in this light but from what I can see it looks good. The color is better than the last batch of meth I bought, but that was from Mexicans. It had a yellow tinge that frightened my customers.”
Yeong, always the businessman seeking to promote his product, nodded and said, “This is made in a government laboratory near Pyongyang. The state security forces protect the factory. The North Korean People’s Army ensures safe delivery and it is the finest in the world.”
Jake examined it more closely, smelling the outside of the package and holding it closer to the light. He paused for effect, hoping to gain more admissions on the tiny recording device he was wearing. “It does feel a little light. Did you weigh it?”
Tommy’s eyes widened and he snapped: “Jake, I can assure—”
“You are questioning my integrity?” asked a clearly aggravated Yeong, interrupting Tommy.
Yeong’s three associates said nothing but readied for a combative response.