No Way Back (17 page)

“I’m team leader,” she says. “I am operationally in charge.”

“Oh? Really? Sort of had the impression there was a guy named Westley in charge.”

“It’s still as I told you at the start, during the prep,” Allison says. “I’m in charge, under Westley’s supervision. Supervision, understand? Not command. Back channel, I report directly to Langley.”

“Don’t mind me if I feel a bit skeptical about arrangements at this point,” I say, still working hard to sound purely professional. “You’re in command, Westley supervises you, but you get to give a kill order if some ghost at Langley says so.”

“That sums it up.”

“It sums up to a goat-fuck, Allison. I’m in some dark, dank corner of Vlad with the package, it’s about to go hot, Westley pops in and tells me one thing, you cell me telling me another. Who the fuck do I believe? Whose order do I follow? I’m getting set up here. The guy who takes the stroke if anything goes wrong, if we lose the package.”

“Wrong,” Allison says. “It is my order that counts. Westley or no Westley, ‘Bright’ overrides anything else. That’s an absolute. He won’t show, anyway. If anything goes wrong, the blame falls only on me.”

“Great. Real reassuring.” Westley won’t show? She’s underestimating the man, big time. “Then I’ve only got to worry about being the one who gets blown away.”

“But you never do, Terry. It’s your métier,” Nadya says. I notice we’ve pulled into a parking lot outside what looks like an extra-long log cabin. “We’re here, our table’s likely waiting for us. If you two have finished your natter?”

It’s a unique experience, even for me: a civilized dinner with two attractive women, one of whom has fucked me silly. And the other trying to flirt as if she’d like to, all of it theater masking the fact that she just did, in one nasty way, turning me into something like a walking smart bomb. So many high-value targets to choose from, too. Maybe the only reason I don’t explode then and there is because something manages to force its way through all the dread and despair: I know something certain Allison does not.

The final decision, if the order comes, remains all mine. Not hers. Not anyone else’s. I choose.

NOW. GOING LOUD.

Just as the sun begins gilding the vast quilt of cloud we’ve been cruising above all night, the 747 lumbers down away from the nascent golden day, through the cover and into the dull-brown fug of Busan airspace. Maybe thirty-five minutes to touchdown. My guess, anyway. No voice comes over the cabin speakers announcing a “final descent.” Weird, how commercial airlines always use “final.” You’d think they’d adopt a more optimistic word, one that doesn’t hint of possible wind shear, missed runways, collisions, a huge fireball.

Sonny comes awake—wide awake, completely alert—at the first sensation of dropping. No yawns, no stretches, not even a blink. He grabs his suitcoat, slips it on, and adjusts it just so. The table’s clear, cleanly wiped. Sonny checks me out, from neatly knotted tie to well-polished shoes. He nods, gives me the Buddha smile.

The Japanese attendant lilts in my ear like a songbird: Would Prentice-san like coffee? Yes, he would, thank
you. She only bows slightly to Sonny, who ignores her. He’s standing now, smoothing his hair, smoothing creases in the light wool of his pants, tugging lightly on his lapels. His suit’s custom-made, I figure. Extra room just under each arm, because there’s no bulge at all where the Uzis rest. He’s just sitting down again when the attendant reappears, bows as she hands him a celadon cup of green tea, then turns to me and places a silver tray bearing a white porcelain cup, a small silver coffeepot, silver creamer, silver sugar bowl, silver spoon, and white linen napkin on the table before me. She pours the first cup, then bows away.

Fresh-brewed, dark and powerful. Tastes like Sulawesi or New Caledonian. I’m dying for a cigarette, but Mister Kim doesn’t allow smoking on his plane.

“How you drink that stuff first thing in the morning, Mistah Prentice?” Sonny says, holding his cup with both hands and sipping delicately. “After lunch, after dinner, okay, I like it. But first thing, waking up? I gotta run and take a big crap, two sips only.”

“Years of practice, Sonny,” I say. “Hey, you ever going to call me Terry, like I’ve asked?”

Sonny grins. There’s a brief flash of gold near the back of his mouth; his front teeth are whatever the latest dental technology has done to make them look real. “Too many years of practice, Terry. Mistah Kim, he likes us all to be Mistah. I’m Mistah Park, you Mistah Prentice, everybody Mistah.”

“Ah, your grandmother was a Korean pleasure-girl, got knocked up by a sumo wrestler drafted into the Imperial Nipponese Army. Sonny.”

“Very good, damn straight.” Sonny laughs. “Never heard that one before. Funny guy, Mistah Prentice. But time to get serious. Duty.”

“Noted,” I say, making a little toasting gesture with
my cup. “The tiger’s second assistant trembles and obeys.”

“You some funny guy, like I say.” Sonny laughs again, then squelches himself when there’s a “bing” and the seat-belt sign comes on. The quiet, delicate girl reappears and makes the silver coffee set, the celadon teacup, and herself vanish. I buckle up and gaze out the window.

Busan. Long time coming.

But it’s just like coming into L.A. on the smoggiest day of the year. Huge urban sprawl lapping at jagged hills, topping some of the nearer ones. Traffic already bumper to bumper on the expressways. Any green space looks wilted and dull, like it’s been dusted with fine gray soot.

“Too bad, too bad,” Sonny says, pulling his face away from the porthole. Still, he’s obviously pleased to be home. “Air here usually damn clear, city looks very nice, very shiny.”

The pilot brings Dumbo the Flying Elephant—always think of 747s like that, have since I was a kid, first saw the size and awkward shape and didn’t believe anything so clumsy-looking could get airborne—down on a main runway without much bounce or tire-scream, taxis fast away from the huge commercial terminal to what seems to be Mister Kim’s own reserved area in the private aviation section of the airport. Not another corporate plane within two hundred meters of the hangar we halt before. Sonny’s already unbuckled and on his feet, gesturing to me.

“Okay, now we go to work, Mistah Prentice,” he says, moving toward the plane’s door. “Anything I do, you do, right?”

Then we’re outside on the gangway, Sonny to the right, me to the left, looking down at the tarmac. I scan: two guys who could be Sonny’s twin brothers at the foot of the steps, other guys holding open the rear doors of three identical black cars in line. God. Lincoln Town
Cars. Kim could have any marque in the world, he picks the favored vehicle of Manhattan car-service drivers. A stretch Mercedes limo would be less conspicuous; I see at least six next to other hangars in the private aviation sector. “We follow Mistah Kim down gangway. You and me, first car,” Sonny says.

Got it. Three-car convoy, Kim rides the middle, sandwiched between point car and follower. Pretty standard medium-threat security. Except for one thing: a twelve-man squad of South Korean troops form a perimeter between the rest of the vast airfield and our cars, backs to us, Daewoo 5.56mm assault rifles slung combat-style, butts near the shoulder. Just know those Daewoos are off-safety and hot.

Sonny hisses.

Nadya, Allison, and Rob emerge, descend. Nadya to the first car, Allison to Kim’s, Rob to the last.

“Good morning, Mister Park,” I hear. There’s Kim, slim and spruce in a charcoal suit on the gangway between us, shaking Sonny’s hand. Then he turns to me, offering his hand. I take it. His handshake’s firm. “Mister Prentice. Good morning. Trust the flight was satisfactory.”

“Very pleasant, Mister Kim,” I say. He’s smiling, his black eyes are in neutral, not scanning or appraising.

“Good, good,” he says. “Well, welcome to Busan. First time here, isn’t it?”

“Yes sir, it is,” I say.

“I think you’ll find it’s an enjoyable city, not at all as ugly as it appears from the air. And not at all like Vladivostok and the others business will be taking us to. Am I right on that, Mister Park?” he says, still looking easily at me.

“You bet, Mistah Kim,” Sonny says.

“Well then, gentlemen. Let’s go, shall we?” Kim starts down the gangway, Sonny on his heels, me on Sonny’s.
We walk him, flank rear, to the middle car. There’s a driver and a guy riding shotgun who gives me a hard look. The moment Kim slips into the rear seat next to Allison, Sonny and I trot to the first car, climb in the back, Nadya sandwiched between us. Sonny says something short and fast in Korean to our driver, who just grunts and goes. The convoy rolls around behind the hangar Dumbo’s parked in front of, then down a one-lane road and through a gate in heavy chain-link fence topped by coils of razor wire. Looks like a private exit, except there are four ROK army troopers with Daewoos manning it.

“Pretty heavy,” I say.

“You see the crazy driving in Busan, pretty soon you wishing we riding in tanks, Mistah Prentice,” Sonny says. “Betcha we pass two, maybe three-four crashes. Big mess. Dead bodies. Same thing, every rush hour. Lotsa crankedpots on the roads these days, damn straight.”

“Cranked pots?” Nadya giggles.

“You betcha.”

I’m a little puzzled. Why’s Sonny pretending he doesn’t understand I’m talking about the ROKs, the hot Daewoos? I know he knows. What’s the deal? Little embarrassed maybe, doing some Korean thing to cover that. I push.

“Mister Kim must have important friends,” I say, once we’ve gone a klick along the one-laner and are swinging onto a public highway. Sonny grunts, unbuttons his suitcoat and, cross-armed, loosens the Uzis slightly in their holsters before he answers. Nadya’s pushed tight to me in the process.

“Man like Mistah Kim got a lotta friends. Some surprise or something for you, Mistah Prentice?” He isn’t grinning.

“Small one. In the States, businessmen don’t usually rate regular troops like that perimeter squad and the gate guards.”

“Nothing special, this place. You a long way from America now, Mistah Prentice.”

“Yeah, I should keep that in mind.”

Really ugly urban sprawl, this Busan. Somewhere out there Westley may be installed with whatever team he requires. Or he may be roaming, not even in-country at all. Exactly where, I do not know. And I will not know for the duration, which is, what, maybe seven days? Unless there’s a situation. And for a moment I’m doubtful he’ll emerge in that bad case. He’ll probably send people, but he may not be among them, especially since Allison added that serious addition to my job description a few nights ago. Then I remember that The Man Who Isn’t There loves materializing in the hottest zones. Only problem is, you never know when or where.

So I decide I’ve got to adjust my visualization. Got to reboot my psych prep, tune it to this: I cannot count on assistance from anyone. I’m going to be on my own, in hostile territory.

Well, not alone. There’s Nadya to Vlad with me, which actually worries more than reassures me; on the job I’m cold, focused totally. But can I hold that necessary concentration, feeling what I feel for her? Not even glance her way if any troubles come? Allison’ll be there, too, but out of sight, which is better. There’s Sonny, his crew, reliability factor unknown. Sonny and I seem tight, been acting tight, but we both understand that’s provisional. Shit, even Kim has doubts about his own people, though I think he’d be very wrong if he’s including Sonny in that. Yet doubt is why he asked Westley for someone like me. If Kim
did
ask, it suddenly occurs to me. That’s only Westley’s version.

Our route turns unmappable. The freeways and tunnels and bridges blur into a maze. Best I can do is clock the trip from the airport to Kim’s place. Which turns out to be a fairly small compound in a neighborhood of compounds a couple of economic steps below Kim’s true level, perched high up on a ridge commanding a sweeping view of the downtown high-rises, the sprawl, the freeway spiderweb, and the huge bulk of wharves and ships, harborside. Exactly forty-nine minutes from the airport. Big iron gate swings open when our driver presses a button on the Lincoln’s dash, the convoy pulls into a circular drive. Standing there on the low entrance porch of the house are two guys, mid-to late fifties, dressed in what appear to be identical dark blue suits, each holding indentical black attaché cases in their left hands.

“Ah, Mistah Roh, Mistah Yoon,” Sonny murmurs. “Mistah Kim’s top assistants running business.”

“Which, may I ask, is which?” Nadya says.

“Guy with black-rim glasses, that Mistah Roh. No glasses, that Mistah Yoon. Both numbah two under old Mistah Kim, same under my Mistah Kim.”

Flanking Roh and Yoon, right rear, are a couple of Lees or Parks or Lees, unmistakably security boys, at attention military-style, thumbs aligned with the seams of their suit trousers, already bowing their heads. Except the last guy in the line, who isn’t Korean, who’s making a bad job of being serious. I blink. His hair isn’t high and tight, he’s a lot tanner than I remember, he’s added maybe ten to fifteen pounds, too. Nice suit, not dusty BDUs, and no shades. But I know that face almost as well as I know my own.

Fucking Westley. He’d said I’d be seeing one of my old Storm teammates in Busan. I’d pretty much blown it off as recruitment bullshit, promptly forgot all about it. And
never would have thought it might be this particular one, even if I’d thought hard about it.

We make eye contact soon as I’m out of that car, but maintain parade-type decorum until Kim and his corporate men, trailed by Allison, Rob, and Nadya, go inside. Once Sonny starts talking to his Korean security boys, he sidles over to me.

“You don’t deserve what you’re going to get here, you worthless bag of shit,” JoeBoy says. He punches me on the shoulder. “But hey, what the fuck! Neither do I.”

“PROB’LY YOU DON’T DESERVE AIR YOU BREATHING.”

It’s Sonny. He’s dismissed his crew to their posts, slipped up beside me and JoeBoy.

“Maybe we take it away,” he says to JoeBoy. “This day, that day, who knows? Pretty damn soon, no shit.”

“Hoo-ah!” JoeBoy says. “Sonny, man! I’m real pleased to see your pretty face again too.”

“Hunh.”

“So it seems you guys,” I say, “are longtime best buddies. How in hell did that happen?”

“Hunh. Bad luck for me, damn straight. Mistah Boy, he show up here with that Mistah Westley, maybe week, two weeks before we go to California. Very bad. Got no manners, don’t know shit. Me, I gotta teach him everything, real quick. Hardest job I do in long time.”

“Yeah,” I say. “It would be. Mister Boy, he’s some kind of animal.”

“How come you know some kind of animal like him,
Mistah Prentice? You see him in some zoo, Stateside, sometimes?”

“Much worse than that. He was my driver, a long time ago, when I was touring the desert around Kuwait. Behind Iraqi lines,” I say. “He was so bad at his job I had to fire him.”

“Ungrateful fuck never even gave me a tip, either,” JoeBoy says.

“Mistah Boy, you pretty lucky Mistah Prentice didn’t drop hammer on you, what I think,” Sonny says.

“I was going to,” I say, “but I decided to kill my tour instead, just leave the sorry bastard driving around in circles till he ran out of gas and died.”

“Too bad this don’t work so well,” Sonny says.

“Aw, man, he’s just frontin’. Some kinda Korean thing, know what I’m saying? He loves me, can’t show it,” JoeBoy says, throwing an arm around Sonny’s shoulders.
“Ay, compadre?”

Sonny shrugs off JoeBoy’s arm, spits. “Hey, Mistah Boy, think you can show Mistah Prentice where we stay, how we got things set up here? You still got map I gotta draw for you first time?”

JoeBoy taps his temple with a forefinger, nods.

“Very sorry to do this to you, Mistah Prentice. Mistah Kim, he wants to talk to me ’bout this and that. So I gotta leave you with this animal, little while. I see you later, okay?”

Soon as Sonny goes inside, JoeBoy says, “Let’s do it backward, just to fuck with him. Stroll around the grounds first? Not a good idea to talk anywhere inside, unless you like your voice on tape, ‘Mistah Prentice.’ You got some kind of first name to go with that handle?”

“Terry,” I say. I don’t ask about who he’s supposed to be. But I don’t need to.

“Me, I’m Carlos Bolívar Martinez, merchant seaman out of Costa Rica, dude. It must be true, ’cause I got a passport that says so,” JoeBoy says as we start walking the compound’s perimeter. “Fuckin’ good to see you again, dog. I knew somebody was coming, didn’t know who, though. He wouldn’t say.”

“He being a real spooky guy, calls himself Westley, right?”

“Shit yeah. I see we’re moving in the same circles again, Terry man.”

“What did you do so bad in life that got you mixed up with him? I thought you’d be teamed with the Kurds, fucking up Iraqis again.”

I hadn’t seen the man—real name José Jesus Rodriguez, born in Chicago to illegal Mex immigrants, tagged first “José Jimenez” in training camp, which morphed to JoeBoy soon because that was quicker to say—since Desert Storm. Hard to feature that was more than a decade ago. But we’d kept in touch over the years. Last I heard he was still in Special Forces. And that was just after 9/11.

“Passed up that opportunity. Me and Snake and some new guys you never met were with the Northern Alliance, hammering Taliban ragheads. We’re kickin’ ass pretty good when a cluster-fuck of CIA assholes show, start telling us how to do our jobs. Dig this: one of those stupid
cabrones
has a beard, arrives wearing a turban, starts talking in Pashto with a fuckin’ Alabama accent. Our ragheads are laughing their asses off, but he don’t notice. He thinks they like him!”

“Oh, I believe it. But you aren’t answering.”

“Okay, Luther, okay. Dig: this older guy, who don’t bother trying to disguise what he is or any other dumb shit—such as tellin’ us we ain’t handlin’ our ragheads
efficiently—he hangs for a while. Just watching, know where I’m at?”

“That’s Westley, all right.”

“Anyway, when we’re just about finished cleaning the Taliban clocks, he asks me if I’m interested in another line of work. Something, he says, that would broaden my scope. No more military chickenshit. Mucho travel, mucho adventure. It’s sounding real fine, since I ain’t much lookin’ forward to going back to the States and the fuckin’ training routine at base camp again.”

“So? You discussed options with Westley?”

“
Discuss
, yeah. That’s the exact fuckin’ word the man used. My enlistment’s running out in a few months—which he already knows somehow. He’s discussing some better pay, too. Better? Shit! Talkin’ four times what I’m getting from the army. So I don’t re-up, I sign on with Westley. Since then, a couple of neat jobs in the Philippines, a couple down Colombia way.

“Poor career move, JoeBoy.”

“Poor my ass, motherfucker! Best thing that ever happened to me. Snake, Tark, Radar, Tony Ducks from the old crew, they go into Kurdland. Fuckin’ Snake. That little sideshow against the Iranians who’d staked a claim in Iraqi Kurd territory? Medium-intensity assault, the fucks all surrender? Maybe three KIAs our side? Well, Snake’s one. Smoked, man. Figure that. No more.”

“Aw shit. Not Snake. That really sucks.”

“Yeah. So now all Professor JoeBoy does is drop into some jungle from time to time, show the locals my moves, take ’em into a little bang-bang, chopper out. Got a nice apartment in Panama City, another in Davao. Got the sweetest pussy ever, one living in each place. When I gotta work, I work for a while, maybe four-five weeks straight. But average it out, figure I’m on the job
about five days a month. Spend the rest of my time fuckin’, suckin’, going to the beach, going out to eat, going dancing. Whole lot better than barracks life. Come to that, whole lot easier than bein’ a narc. Which you were, last time we talked. What’re you doing here, Luther?”

“Got suspended for six months. Broke a little rule,” I say. “And instead of taking a nice road trip to Mexico, I fucked up again, discussed with Westley, signed on for a short-time-only gig, baby-sitting Mister Kim. And since this is damn far from Panama, Colombia, or Mindanao, and there’s no jungle but a concrete one, what the fuck are you doing here?”

“Short-time gig only. Covering some bitch’s ass in Vladivostok. Name’s Allison. You know her? Got a sweet ass? Am I gonna like pushing up against it?”

“Affirmative, both counts. Thinking love at first sight, you two. She really digs hairy-ape types, JoeBoy.”

Fucking Westley. Poor, sorry-ass JoeBoy. But at least Allison will have competent backup in Vlad, because he’s real good with his tools, and the same with his hands.

We cover the grounds, talking biz instead of bullshitting. Security’s pretty much the same deal as the Big Sur place, except there are a few more men. I’d noticed most of the neighboring places are modern, but Kim must really love big wood beams and columns and gull-winged tile roofs. Silla architecture, I think that’s what Eunkyong called it. Very old Korean vernacular. This place isn’t old, of course. And inside it’s kind of schizoid. A large room where Kim might entertain, for instance, looks like a museum, everything very traditional, very antique. Other parts of the house are right-this-minute, one room with a huge plasma TV screen dominating a wall, Samsung’s
latest video array, Bang & Olufsen sound system, leather Saporiti chairs and sofas. Same as the California place. Two underground levels here instead of one, though. First has the pool, the gym, the monitor room. Second’s staff quarters. Nice touch I notice when I’m shown my room: a big rice-paper window streaming light. Bulb light, yeah, and if you slid the window open you’d see a bare concrete wall with a fixture, but it dispels most of the feeling of being in an underground bunker. Nice staff lounge down there too, done up with the same plasma TV, the same audio and video systems I’d seen upstairs.

JoeBoy’s showing all this off as if he owns it. We finish in that lounge. Nobody else is around. I settle into a chair, he goes to a kitchen off to one side, returns with beers.

“Ahh,” he sighs, settling into the cushions of the sofa. “Easy duty, man. Everything a man could want. You want a girl? Tell one of Sonny’s guys, a girl shows up in your room. Nice young Korean girl, unless you specify Thai or Jap. I sampled, came out favoring Korean. Toned, strong bodies, amigo. Give you a hot workout.”

“Sounds like Allison,” I say. May as well jerk JoeBoy’s chain a little, just for the hell of it.

“Hoo-ah! Then I won’t be so sorry to leave.”

“Say what? You jumping ship already?”

“Jumping on one—tomorrow. I’m Carlos Martinez, going into Vlad as a Costa Rican deckhand.
No habla
Russki, what the fuck. It’s a sailors’ town. Nobody bothers you, long as you stay down in the docks district. The female-type ass I’m gonna enjoy coverin’, she flying in the day I dock. She finds me, I stick to her butt. That’s what Westley said.”

“And where’ll she find you?” Handy thing to know, just in case.

“Some seamen’s hotel called, shit, what’s the name?
‘Dumb’ something. Nah. Dom Pokrovsky, yeah. Westley said four, five days max, Allison flies away. And so do I. Back to Busan, don’t even leave the airport, make a connection to Manila. And then home to Davao. You oughta come down there when you’re done doin’ what you do. Nice beaches, great food. And my little friend knows some sizzlin’ Filipinas just dying to meet a man like you. You ain’t done the juicy with a Filipina, you ain’t lived yet, amigo.”

“Might do that,” I say, sure I never will.

“Good to go, motherfucker! Taxi from the airport to the Hotel Insular outside town, on the beach. Drivers all know it. Funny fuckin’ sign at the lobby entrance. Says ‘Check guns, please.
NO DURIAN.
’ Ask the desk guy where Big José stays. He’ll get you there. Real good times. Guarantee it, bro.”

Dinner’s in-house with JoeBoy, Sonny, a couple of Lees and Parks and one Kim, unrelated, plus a Chun. They don’t have a lot of surnames in Korea, Eunkyong had told me, and about thirty-five percent of the whole population is either a Kim or a Lee. Chun’s a wild card. But it’s as before: Sonny’s boys don’t want to—or can’t, because they have no English—talk. They shovel up chow, concentrated as hungry dogs, then slink off to wherever. So afterward, it’s just Sonny and JoeBoy and me in the lounge.

I last about one slow beer. In the service, JoeBoy was my brother, we were that tight. We lived tight, fought tight. But now he gets deep into the remember game. “Remember that time we choppered in…Remember how we smoked…Remember how Snake was rattlin’ those fifties…” War stories, big and braggy and mostly bullshit. I guess I talked that way once, too. But it was a long, long time ago. I was a kid, we all were kids. I’m not anymore. And pretty soon, though I feel bad for
thinking it, I am thinking JoeBoy’s a loud-mouthed asshole, a guy stuck in a time warp, drunk on the past and babbling. It’s boring, then it’s irritating, JoeBoy’s jive. But he doesn’t get it, just stays in the same groove. Clear why Sonny’s down on him; I’m heading that way, even if I don’t want to. So I start yawning, complaining about super-bad jet lag, promise I’ll catch him before he leaves, and go hit my rack. I don’t take advantage of the room services that night. I crash.

JoeBoy goes. When I wake up next morning, shower, dress and go out to the lounge, Sonny’s waiting for me with a pot of coffee. Hands me a note: “Post-op, haul to Davao, pronto. J.”

“You sleep okay, Mistah Prentice. You feeling pretty good.” It’s a statement more than question.

“Very fine. Even better when I’ve had coffee and one of these,” I say, lighting a Camel.

“Miss Allison, Miss Russki Girl, they want to see you pretty soon,” Sonny says. “Hey, maybe Miss Allison, she missing bouncy.”

“Don’t think so. She’s a serious woman. Sure she wants to talk business.”

“Hunh. Women got no business in our business, for sure. You guys making big mistakes, with women.” Sonny shakes his head. Whether it’s sorrow or pity, I can’t read.

“Ask you one thing?” Sonny doesn’t wait for a reply, just goes ahead. “How come you friends with some low-life like Mistah Boy?”

“We did some combat together. Think you must’ve heard too much about it, last night.”

The Buddha grin appears. “Yeah, know how that is. You don’t like a guy before, you like him plenty after. He’s your brother. If he’s any good. This Mistah Boy, he any good?”

“Oh yeah. You want a target lighted up, he really lights it. Never have to worry about your back either, if he’s watching it. But you don’t like him much. Any reason?”

“Yeah, that fella make too much noise in my head, someways.”

“Mine too, last night. He’s picked up some bad habits somewhere. Might change your opinion if you go into a hot zone with him, though.”

“Might. Might. But I like to feel sure before.” Sonny laughs then. “Don’t need to say it, Mistah Prentice. I know pretty good you can never be sure, before.”

“Good thing, then, those guys dropped in on us in California. Now you and me, we know, right?”

“Damn straight. You and me, good to go, okay?”

“Okay by me. Any time, any place.” Big-time lie, but one I really want him to believe. So I make it sound solid, straight.

“Pretty soon, pretty soon. Meantime, you and me got not much to do. Mistah Kim, he want to stay home, private. Miss his girlfriend pretty much,” Sonny says. “Guess you better go see your women. But I tell one story first. My father, he got the same job as me, with Mistah Kim’s father. Just my father, no more assistants, those days. Senior Mistah Kim, he die natural, some kinda cancer, old guy, you know? My Mistah Kim, he gonna die same way. Natural. Long, long time from now. Old age. I make damn sure of that, understand? No Westley, no nobody stop me.”

“Roger that,” I say. “Mister Kim, you, me, we’re all going to live to be ninety. Won’t vouch for Westley, though.”

“Nobody care much, that one go down,” Sonny says.