Sonia Patel - Bloody Seoul

BLOODY SEOUL. Copyright 2019 Sonia Patel. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written consent from the publisher, except for brief quotations for reviews. For further information, write Cinco Puntos Press, 701 Texas, El Paso, TX 79901; or call 1-915-838-1625.

FIRST EDITION

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Patel, Sonia, author.

Title: Bloody Seoul / by Sonia Patel.

Description: First edition. | El Paso, Texas : Cinco Puntos Press, [2019] |

Summary: Supremely loyal, sixteen-year-old Rocky expects to take over his father's notorious gang, Three Star Pa, one day but after catching his father in a lie, discovers they are not as alike as he believed.

Identifiers: LCCN 2018038398| ISBN 978-1-947627-20-8 (hbk. : alk. paper)

ISBN 978-1-947627-21-5 (pbk. : alk. paper)

ISBN 978-1-947627-22-2 (e-book)

Subjects: | CYAC: Conduct of life--Fiction. | LoyaltyFiction. | Fathers and sonsFiction. | GangsFiction. | BullyingFiction. | Seoul (Korea)Fiction. | KoreaFiction.

Classification: LCC PZ7.1.P377 Blo 2019 | DDC [Fic]--dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018038398

Cover and interior art by Zeke Pea

Book design by Rogelio Lozano / Loco Workshop

FOR MAYA AND JOAQUIN

Contents

There are times when I just have to walk.

Not stroll. Not stride.

Just walkwalk the crowded streets of Seoul.

Today I went out again, I had to. It was right after supplemental class ended. 5:59 p.m.

My boys had wanted to hang out at the internet caf, hit up some first years for all their money. Come on, boss, lets do this.

Not today, I said and turned away. I started walking, hands in my pockets. Time slowed.

I crossed the campus courtyard. A bright tiny bird was perched on a ginkgo tree, singing a wild song. Its crazy melody drowned out the popular girls gossiping in a tight huddle under the shade of the trees branches. I passed by, turning my head back to catch one more glimpse of this gorgeous flash of yellow. The bird cocked its head to the right, one eye glaring at me.

The popular girls stopped their chatter and stared at me too. Clink of bracelets and some giddy exhales as they turned in my direction. Cheeks flushed in delicate splotches. Hungry eyes stretched, reaching for a bite of my shoulders, my back.

I came to the school gate, breathed in spring the way I used to breathe in my mothers jasmine perfume. Then my soles hit the city sidewalk. I did a little slouch before I disappeared into the busy line of pedestrians.

It was almost twilight. The sun was already going down between the tall buildings. Charcoal gray clouds dotted the orange, pink, and purple of the sunset.

My mind was feasting on sounds and images. A rain of cherry blossom petals, the skyscraper forest, the rustle of papers being blown along, the distant laughter of children, the hum of car engines.

I wove through the people all stealth, not bumping anyone or anything.

Up aheadthe three towers of the Raemian Caelitus, luxury residential skyscrapers that overlook the Han River. One of them is the thirteenth tallest building in Seoul.

Yeah? And so?

I crossed the intersection. There were three buildings on my right, two regular and one high rise. On the next block, it was just red brick buildings. Six on the right, six on the left. Same number, even number.

Perfect. Nice.

The next section of sidewalk was broken. I stepped between the cracks, thinking about English class. Step on a crack, break your mothers back. Dont want to do that, right?

An old woman with gray hair is shuffling slowly in front of me. A few wisps of hair are out of place on one side of her head. Shes bent over at the waist and sways a bit with each step. On her next step, her shoe scrapes the sidewalk and she stumbles. I move forward quick, grab her shoulders, hold her upright. I wait until she regains her balance before I let go.

She totters around to face me with an unhurried, gummy smile that intensifies all her wrinkles. Cataracts cloud her eyes, but gratitude cuts through the milky lenses. Youre an angel, she says, pointing at me with her crooked finger.

She reaches for my hand. Thank you, she says when she gets a hold of it. She flips it over to pat the back. Her eyes get stuck on a ferocious black tiger surrounded by flames, its eyes glowing orange. Thats my right hand. She peeks at my left where the head of the fierce red dragon is breathing fire on a black heart. She looks back at me, her smile gone. She backs away, then takes cautious steps to turn around, hobbles off.

My right hand drifts to my belt, to the sheath where I keep my knife. I wrap my fingers around its heavy stainless steel handle. My index finger traces each of the three stars carved into it.

I get back to walking, breathing in and out, keeping track.

I end up at the Han. I always end up at the Han. A different part, but always this river.

On my left is the Banpo Bridge. It pierces the twinkling skyline while the lazy river lies under it almost still, like a sleeping sea snake. Theres no one else nearby. Just the way I like it.

The tips of my loafers touch the bottom rail of a metal fence. On the other side, a thin border of overgrown grass and wildflowers. I peer over the vegetation at the Han below. It sloshes, whispering a watery lullaby.

Its time for my kind of nightcap. I take my Dunhill International cigarette tin from my jacket, the one Ive had since I was six. It was my moms. I didnt fill it with Dunhills until two years ago when I started smoking. Ive tried other brands but Dunhill is the best. I prefer its slower burn, gives me more time to enjoy the spicy sweetness of the tobacco. More time to think, to remember.

Inside the tin is my parents old wedding photo. It fits perfectly inside the lid.

My mother is so beautiful. Shes smiling the way she used to smile at me. A news guy on TV once said she was the countrys most promising ingnue. A true rising star. I imagined throngs of fans chanting her name. Gil Bo-young! Gil Bo-young!

My dad. Yi Dae-sung. My older uncle used to say Im the spitting image of Dae-sung, his middle brother. Mom said the same thing. She used to stroke my cheek and whisper, My little Yi Kyung-seok. My little Rocky. Your eyes are icy cold black like your dads. They make you dangerously handsome, just like him.

Shes the one who gave me that nickname. Rocky. The look on your face never changes. Its steadfast. Like a rock.

I light up, take a few sips until the cherry is established, then a long draw, exhaling a smoky cloud through my mouth and nose. Nice dizzy feeling.

Car horns beep overhead on the bridge. Theres a traffic jam on the top tier.

I take one last drag and crush the burning stub on a trashcan.

Behind me, children laugh and squeal. I look over my shoulder. A brother and sister exchange fake scowls. Theyre holding hands with their grinning parents.

Suddenly I just cant get enough air. I grab at my tie, then at the collar of my white dress shirt. I open my mouth and try to gulp down some oxygen. But the air wont go in.

I quick take off my jacket and tie, pull open the collar of my shirt, busting the top button, and double over.