He walked past several small clusters of diners who’d stepped outside for a smoke and went in. He knew he was taking a risk just walking into the restaurant unannounced, but as he had already convinced himself on the way over, he really didn’t have a choice. It was a fair bet that, whether he was a fugitive or not, Jonny’s relatives would be reluctant to call the cops to their premises whatever the circumstances. Not after everything Sokolov had done for Jonny.
The place was huge, and bustling. Even though it was almost two in the morning, the Green Dragon was almost full. Korean pop music blaring from speakers and the din of multiple conversations fought for airspace with the sound of tables being cleared and food being delivered to customers. Almost the entire clientele was Korean, though a table by the window was occupied by a group of young tourists clearly enjoying the authentic atmosphere and cuisine.
Sokolov walked over to the hostess, a petite woman in her twenties wearing a white silk dress decorated with a single green dragon that looked like it was coiled around her torso.
“Is Yaung John-Hee here?”
The woman’s expression didn’t change at all.
“I’m his teacher. Well, I was,” he explained. “I used to teach him science. At Flushing High School.”
The woman’s eyebrows slid upward almost imperceptibly.
“I need to talk to him,” he pressed on. “Tell him-tell him Mr. Soko is here. Tell him I need to see him. And tell him…” He hesitated. “Tell him I saw Kim-Jee give him something. He’ll understand.”
The hostess studied him for a second, then motioned to a waitress to cover the floor before she disappeared through the swing doors into the kitchen.
Sokolov watched her go, then turned around and sat himself down at an empty table in the back of the room. The table was still covered in half-eaten dishes, sauce-smeared plates, and empty Hite bottles. Without looking at the hostess, Sokolov removed his coat and hung it on the back of his chair, then grabbed a menu from a nearby table and started to read it.
He gazed around the large, crowded space.
He’d missed them when he’d entered because they were sitting in a booth, but the two young guys wearing leather jackets and vests over Uniqlo T-shirts had the unmistakable look of Kkangpae. One of them had the butt of a gun not-too-discreetly poking out from under his vest. Sokolov looked away in time to see the hostess coming back through the swing doors. She beckoned for him to follow her. He grabbed his coat and followed the woman to the back of the restaurant and noticed that the two guys were following him with their eyes.
She led him through the swinging doors and into the kitchen, which was deafening and bursting with frenetic staff. The hostess cut straight through the center of it all without slowing, with everyone in there moving out of her way like a parting sea. Sokolov had a tougher time, narrowly avoiding a waiter carrying two huge plates of ribs but still managing to knock a pile of empty food containers from the edge of a counter. He left the kitchen to the sound of loud swearing in Korean.
The hostess entered a tight hallway with only two exits: one a set of fire doors, the other a narrow staircase leading up to the next floor. Without looking back at him, she continued up the stairs. Sokolov followed, already struggling for breath after the first flight. When he reached the very top-three floors above the restaurant-the hostess was waiting for him by a metal door. She watched him, blank-faced, as he joined her, then she turned and knocked at the door. Seconds later, it swung open. A cloud of smoke hit Sokolov. A Korean man, young, with green streaks in his hair, a lit cigarette in his hand, and intense eyes fixed on Sokolov, stood aside to let them in.
Sokolov followed the hostess in.
Yaung John-Hee lazed on a battered leather sofa inside the dimly lit, smoke-filled room, his cowboy-booted feet up on a glass coffee table, on which sat a wrap of what Sokolov knew had to be cocaine, a razor blade, a recently licked mirror, a handgun, several cell phones, and an open silver MacBook. Jonny looked just as Sokolov remembered him: the thick black hair, long, with wild shards of it cutting across his indifferent, cool eyes. Thin, too, but Sokolov knew it was all really coiled, tight muscle, waiting to lash out if and when called upon. He was dressed in a black bomber jacket that had a big Armani logo on it, over washed-out black jeans.
Opposite the sofa stood its equally worn-out twin. Green Streaks crossed back and took up his own slouch on it. A large plasma screen hogged the side wall, with an Xbox and an array of games and controllers strewn on the floor in front of it.
The hostess and the boys exchanged a few short words, then the hostess left the room, barely glancing at Sokolov before shutting the door behind her and leaving Sokolov with nothing but words.
Still standing, Sokolov pointed at the gun. “I assume that one is yours.” The smoke was bothering him, but he did his best not to show it.
“In the sense that I’m using it for now, yeah.” Jonny gestured for Sokolov to sit opposite him.
Sokolov sat down, next to Green Streaks, careful to avoid knocking the low table. “Not in my direction, I hope.”
“We’ll see.” He took a long toke, then brushed the smallest trace of white powder from a lapel of his jacket. He blew the smoke out of his nostrils slowly, looked at Sokolov dead straight, and said, low and matter-of-factly, “We never go up against the Russians.”
Sokolov nodded, a pained half-smile breaking through his lined eyes. Jonny was as savvy as he remembered. He motioned at the TV. “You saw the news?”
Jonny nodded. “Looks bad, Mr. Soko. Me, I’d say you pushed that Russkie out your window. But then again, what do I know.” He gave him a knowing smile, then his smugness faded and his expression shifted to betray a hint of unease. “So what’s that you were saying down there? Did you really see Kim-Jee give me something?”
Sokolov held his gaze. “Of course not. But he did. We both know it.”
“No,” Jonny hissed as he sat forward, crushing his cigarette butt into an overflowing ashtray. “I killed them. All Kim-Jee did was make our aunt give me that alibi. All ’cause I didn’t throw the gun fast enough. And now look at me, right?” He sounded both proud and full of regret at the same time. “The boss-man is in Miami and we’re running the show.” He swept his arm in a casual arc across the room.
Sokolov felt as though he were going to pass out from the combination of the smoke and the effort of maintaining his composure. He became conscious of his heart thudding against his rib cage. He closed his eyes, tilted his head slightly back, and took in a couple of shallow breaths.
Jonny was silent.
Sokolov opened his eyes. “They took my wife.”
Jonny looked at his quizzically. “What you say?”
“Daphne. They took her.”
Jonny sighed and shook his head from side to side, slowly. “Aww, Mr. Soko. What did you do?”
Sokolov hated what he was about to say, but he couldn’t think of any way around it. “They’re going to kill her if I don’t pay,” he muttered. “I owe them money. Three hundred thousand.”
Jonny slapped the table, his hand splayed out flat. “Byung-shin-a. What the hell were you thinking?”
“I don’t know. Please… I need your help. I don’t want her to suffer because of my stupid mistake.”
“Gaesaekki dul jokka ra kuh hae,” Jonny rasped. “Kidnapping an old woman like that. Fucking animals.” He grabbed the razor and started cutting himself a fresh line. “I’m sick of the hule jasik Russkies. They’re all over the place. Acting like this is downtown Moscow.” He shook his head. “Who has her?”
“I don’t know exactly. I have a phone number. That’s all.”
Jonny bent forward and hovered inches from the coke, a dollar bill rolled in one hand. “You don’t got the money, do you?”