Ch. 58 – Their Secret

Mr. Kim was sometimes hard to find. He was usually running around the neighborhood, trying to explain his services with his broken Mandarin and hand gestures to the mostly Chinese residents of Chinatown. He was the hard-working type, who took pride in putting food on the table, so he was usually away from home during the day.

But after running around Chinatown, Derrick ended up finding Mr. Kim in front of his apartment, something jingling in his pants as he rummaged through his pocket. The man looked haggard, and rubbed his dark, bagged eyes as if trying to clear them. His foot was dangerously close to knocking over a weathered ceramic garden gnome that was sitting near the front door, which had no doubt been placed by Mrs. Kim.

Derrick rubbed his freezing hands and leapt up the short concrete stairs, slowing down as he approached as to not startle the handyman. He gripped the wrought iron railing by instinct for support, but drew his hand back as the cold metal stung his flesh. Instead, he held his hands out for balance as he walked up the last few stairs. “Mr. Kim! How are you doing?” Derrick asked, keeping his tone even, despite the pounding and unease in his heart.

Mr. Kim jumped upwards, and jerked his head towards Derrick, before turning back to face the lock. “Derrick. It’s good to see you. I am busy right now. Maybe we can talk later?”

“Sorry, Mr. Kim, but this is important. I think we should talk right now.” Derrick pointed inside the Kims’s apartment. “Can we talk inside?”

Mr. Kim perked up, eyes going wide, and he glanced around him. The street was empty except for him and Derrick. He nodded, unlocked the door, and silently gestured with his fingertips for Derrick to follow him into the apartment.

Mr. Kim closed the door behind him, and pointed at a new large plastic table, which was oversized compared to the rest of their furniture. “My wife bought it. Sit, please,” Mr. Kim said. Derrick nodded and complied. “So, what do you want to talk about?”

“Um.” Derrick hesitated. He’d practiced muttering some questions to himself while he was looking for Mr. Kim, but it was different with the man sitting in front of him. Maybe some small talk would resolve the tension. “I like the new table,” he said, knocking on it. “You could have a really big party here.”

Mr. Kim shook his head and inhaled. “My nephew was supposed to come over for his birthday party . . . .”

Derrick winced. ‘And you know how that ended up,’ was the part that Mr. Kim had left unsaid.

He couldn’t meet Mr. Kim in the eye, and studied the plastic table’s rough texture for a half a minute that stretched on for hours. Derrick took a long, deep breathe—it was cruel to keep the man in suspense. He wasn’t sure what exactly Mr. Kim knew or remembered about that day in the alleyway where Raymond died. If Mr. Kim remembered little, or just that he had gotten into an argument with Raymond and was able to escape, then Derrick could lie and say he wasn’t involved. But if Mr. Kim remembered the voice that screamed in Korean for him to run . . . if he could tell it was Derrick’s voice, then Derrick’s only choice was to come clean, and for them to cooperate.

But how could he plausibly explain that he knew what had happened, without giving away what exactly he knew? The seconds ticked by, sweat dripped down Derrick’s nape, and finally he began to speak.

“I know what happened in that alleyway—but don’t worry. I’m not here to hurt—I mean, I’m here to help you.” Derrick stumbled over the last few words, cleared his throat, and said them from his gut this time. “I’m here to help you.”

Mr. Kim’s eyes had gone wide, and he sucked in air through gritted teeth like he usually did when alarmed. The exhale from between his pursed lips sliced through the air.

Would he play dumb? Or would he confide in Derrick?

“Oh my god,” Mr. Kim said, burying his head in his hands.

#

It had taken a few minutes for Mr. Kim to stop sobbing, in which time Mrs. Kim had come down to the table to console him. She had shot a knowing glance at Derrick as well, and Derrick repeated the same message to her. “I’m here to help you.” Whether it was their long history together that convinced the Kims, or whether Derrick’s gaze and words had seemed genuine enough, Mr. Kim eventually opened up.

“Brrr, I was scared,” Mr. Kim said, miming the shivering that he had presumably felt when in the alleyway with that White Leopards. “And the next part, when I . . . ” Mr. Kim hesitated. He had hesitated many times during his telling of the events, no doubt fearing that Derrick would let one detail or another slip around dangerous company, and put him in danger.

“I won’t tell anyone. Don’t worry,” Derrick said. “I promise. I know how dangerous it is.”

Mr. Kim grunted. “I threw something at him. And then he knocked me down, and there was nothing I could do. And then, a brick dropped on his head. Someone”—his eyes flickered, and he glanced at Derrick—“yelled to run. So I ran away. I ran very far—so many blocks away, in case someone was following me. Then, I came back here.” After Mr. Kim finished, his eyes flicked up towards Derrick: his gaze piercing, as if asking ‘Now how can you help me?’

“That sounds like it was absolutely awful,” Derrick said. “That Leopard almost killed you. They’re so horrible.” His voice almost broke, and he caught himself. “I want to help you. But I do have one more question, though, an important one, so please bear with me. How about that voice that told you to run?”

“What you mean?” Mr. Kim asked.

“Did you recognize the voice at all? Did it sound like someone who you knew? You can be honest with me.”

Mr. Kim glanced up at Derrick, and then back at his wife, who was shaking her head, and mouthing something in Korean. The husband and wife stared at each other for a moment, before turning their gazes on Derrick in unison. Mrs. Kim put her hand on her husband’s back.

“That was you?” Mr. Kim half said, half asked.

Derrick glanced one final time around their home. He had already checked when he came in, but there didn’t seem to be any cameras or other recording devices. He got up and peered through the peephole at their front door. No one was eavesdropping outside the house that he could see. Derrick sat back into his seat, and looked Mr. Kim in the eye. “Yes, that was me.”

Mr. Kim exhaled, and Mrs. Kim started sobbing. “Thank you. Thank you thank you. You saved me,” Mr. Kim said. He rubbed his wife’s arm and shushed her.

Mrs. Kim grabbed Derrick’s hand. Her callused hand shook with emotion. “He told me all about it. How he thought he was going to die because of that White Leopard. But then a brick fell from the sky! Like God had sent it! Thank you, Derrick!”

Derrick grinned through his furrowed brow. The thanks melted his heart, but the gnarled vines of anxiety were still coiled in his chest. He motioned for them to calm down, and held a finger up to his lips. “It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m just glad you got away safely,” Derrick said to Mr. Kim. “But we need to keep this a secret between us, okay?”

Mr. and Mrs. Kim nodded their heads slowly. “Of course,” Mrs. Kim said. “We would never get you in trouble, even if they came for us—” She gasped and put her hand to her mouth. “What happened to that White Leopard in the end? Is he still . . .”

“Don’t worry. He’s dead. He won’t tell anybody you saved that drifter from him.”

Mrs. Kim let out a wail, which she cut short with her own hand. She sobbed violently into it, as Mr. Kim rubbed her back. “It’s better like this,” Mr. Kim said, not meeting Derrick’s eyes.

Mrs. Kim yelped again, and grit her teeth. “But Derrick, that poor boy, he killed—” This time it was Derrick’s turn to shush her.

“Shhhh. Let’s be quiet. You never know if someone someone might be listening. But, yes, I know—” Derrick said, biting his lip. “I just wanted to save—just wanted to save—” Tears came rolling out of his own eyes. Mr. and Mrs. Kim’s faces grew blurry, and all the strength that Derrick had saved up left him through his back, as if it was evaporated steam.

The three of them cried silently together at the table, locking their sobs and lamentations deep in their throats, from which only a few whimpers escaped.

“What are we going to do?” Mrs. Kim asked, after they had wiped their tears, and poured themselves each some tea. “Do you think the White Leopards will suspect us?”

“There’s always a chance,” Derrick whispered. “When I was in that alley, it was very dark, and I didn’t see any cameras pointing into it. Although, they’ve probably found the body by now.” Mr. Kim’s teacup clattered on the table, held by a shaking hand, as his face went pale. Derrick paused to take a breath before continuing. “They could have found DNA on the corpse, or the environment, but I don’t think they could find any of your DNA. Maybe mine, but I also scrubbed the brick that I threw down at the White Leopard, and I barely touched him with my own hands. I think if they were to link you to the body, it would be from eyewitnesses. Did you see any when you ran out of the alleyway with the drifter?”

Mr. Kim shook his head. “Some people walking around far away, but not watching me.”

“I didn’t see many people either when I left after you,” Derrick said. “No one was really paying attention, and I’m guessing you left quietly as well. So the question is, what happened to the drifter?”

Mr. Kim closed his eyes, and crossed his arms across his chest. “Mmm. Let me think . . . . He was a strange one. We ran out of the alleyway, and he said ‘Let me go! Let me go!’ even though he could not walk.” Mr. Kim tapped his left ribs with his fingers. “He was hurt here, where the Leopard hit him. I left him in an alley near the convenience store, because I was too tired to carry him. I don’t remember if the alley was to the left or right of the store . . . . But when I came back later, he was gone.”

“You left him in an alleyway near a convenience store . . . Do you remember which store it was?” Derrick asked.

“Yes. The one by—uh—it’s close to the closed bike shop.”

Mrs. Kim gasped. “The one with the cheap donuts?”

“Ah,” Mr. Kim and Derrick said at the same time.

“Yes, that one,” Mr. Kim said. “I hope no one there saw my face that day.”

“I hope so too,” Derrick said.

The three of them sat in silence for a while, until Derrick spoke up again.

“If it turns out that the White Leopards find out you were involved, what will you two do?”

The Kims looked at each other, and Mrs. Kim spoke up. “What can we do? Run away to another town? Where would we go? His family has moved back to Korea after his nephew passed away, and all my family is overseas too. We can’t even afford to go back to Korea now . . . there’s so little space left, and his family’s home is too small.”

“What about moving elsewhere in the states by yourselves?” Derrick asked. It was a question he had asked himself many times before, but the answer was never pretty.

Mrs. Kim held her hands out and shook her head. “Where could we go? You see refugees everywhere. We’re lucky enough to have a house here. If we leave, we’ll be just another pair of refugees begging for change. We don’t have enough money to buy someone else’s house, in a place where there’s enough work to support ourselves.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Derrick said. “I’m sorry this had to happen.”

“It’s not your fault!” Mr. Kim yelled, slamming his fist on the table. He held it there, fist still tight, but then brought his voice down to a whispered. “Those White Leopards are like poison! How can we live in peace, when they steal and kill people whenever they want?!”

Poison. It fit. The White Leopards were making Chinatown sick. That same thought had burnt a searing hole in Derrick’s brain when the Leopards had broken into Hack Alley and forced him and Tony to treat Ah Jun, a leader of the same brutish thugs that kept trampling over their life and dignity. The Leopards stole and killed as they wanted, and forced you to help them in their time of need.

Derrick gripped Mr. Kim’s fist, and said through gritted teeth, “I wish I could stop them. I wish I could protect you two, and Tony, and everyone else in this town. But . . . .”

Derrick had stabbed one Leopard to death. But how many more were there? Too many to take on. Too many violent young men, eager to bash you on the head, or pump your belly full of lead. They had the numbers, and were keen to stomp out any sign of opposition.

Derrick and the Kims would be lucky if they could get away with this one murder. If they could bury the memory of it deep inside them, and never speak of it again, they could get back to their normal—

. . . Right . . . . Their normal lives. Living in fear. Working day after day for pennies to fill a bucket with a gaping hole in it. Life could seem normal for a stretch of days at a time. But if they stepped out of line, or if a White Leopard had a bad day, nothing else mattered.

What could they do? If only anybody who mattered cared about Chinatown. If only the cops actually patrolled Chinatown’s streets, or if not the cops, at least someone with the power to put the White Leopards down. If only he had the power to put the White Leopards down.

“You’re right, Mr. Kim. It’s not my fault, or yours,” Derrick said. “Let’s just keep quiet for now. I don’t think there’s anything else we can do. Maybe save up some more money in case you have to leave suddenly.”

“Yes, that’s all we can do,” Mrs. Kim said.

“And maybe,” Derrick said, torn on the merit of the advice he was about to offer, “find something to protect yourself with. You know, in case a Leopard comes looking for trouble.”

Mr. Kim’s eyes widened, and he stood from the table, gesturing conspiratorially for Derrick to follow him. They walked out of the kitchen and toward the Kims’ bedroom, where Mr. Kim held up a hand. He went into his bedroom, and a few minutes later, returned with a gleaming hunk of metal in his hands. It was a well-oiled shotgun, a rare sight even in gang-infested Chinatown, and especially for an ordinary resident to own. In fact, it was likely illegal to own in any fashion in most states. A single blast from this would blow a Leopard’s head right off.

“We got this during the riots,” Mr. Kim whispered. “Bought it from a neighbor. I never thought we would use it again.”

“That’s good,” Derrick said, breaking his gaze off the powerful barrel to meet Mr. Kim’s eyes. “I hope you never have to use it. But I’m glad you have it.”

They said their goodbyes at the entrance, and Mr. and Mrs. Kim gave him hugs in turn. “You’re a good boy, Derrick,” Mrs. Kim said. “Stay safe.”

“Thank you. I’ll try.”

Derrick waved at the Kims, who wore weary smiles, and, after they had shut the door, made his way down the stairs one step at a time. He felt like sitting down on the steps to catch his breath, but they were as cold as popsicles, and would probably freeze his butt.

It was good, that the Kims and he had agreed to keep quiet. If they got lucky, the Leopards would never trace the murder back to them. But the drifter . . . he was the loose end. Which one of Chinatown’s many nooks and crannies might he be hiding in? Or had he already fled to a different part of the city? The sun’s reflection glared off the window of a broken down car on the streetside. The day was still young, and Derrick wouldn’t be able to focus on anything else unless he looked for some leads on the drifter.

But going directly over to the drifter’s last known location after visiting the Kims would be too suspicious. Derrick walked around the block and stopped by a grocery store, walking out with a plastic bag with a few vegetables inside—he’d been meaning to do some shopping anyways. He then meandered toward the convenience store with the cheap donuts. It wouldn’t be too strange for Derrick to be there, as long as he didn’t make a beeline for the alleyway itself.

Derrick could head into the convenience store, buy something, and pretend to eat it in the alley while he searched for signs of the Drifter’s movements. The automatic sliding doors opened, and a gust of dry air blasted Derrick’s face, making his eyes water. The store clerk gave Derrick the side-eye, and then looked back down at his smartphone.

There was one other customer in the back: an middle-aged man who held a soft drink in each hand, reading the labels on the cans. He was speaking—apparently to his wife, judging by the conversation topic—via his earpiece.

The man droned on and on about the evils of video games, as Derrick moved through the aisles, looking for some cheap snack that seemed normal enough to eat in an alleyway.

A video ad for a virtual reality headset, playing on the cheap wallpaper-screens lining the back of the shelves, followed Derrick around the store as he shopped. All the big box stores had the so-called ‘stalker’ ads already, and they were gradually filtering down to the smaller stores as the technology grew cheaper. The tinny audio of the ad jumped between the cheap speakers installed on the shelves, which made the headache-inducing jingle even more maddening.

Marcel Goldberg’s voice blared out, with as much fake enthusiasm as he could muster. “With the newest Optic Canyon, I can see virtual worlds in as crisp detail as I do when look around in real life. Even sharper, maybe, since I don’t have to worry about cleaning my glasses.”

The man talking on the phone wheeled around and pointed at Derrick. Derrick looked down and walked faster toward the end of the aisle, until he realized the man was pointing at the headset ad. the old man cried out.

The response from his wife was almost intelligible as it bled out from the man’s cellphone speakers, but Derrick kept his head down and rounded the corner to a different aisle, so that the ad wouldn’t be drawing the man’s attention anymore.

He grabbed a pack of the cheapest chips available and paid at the self checkout while the store clerk watched him, and then shuffled out of the store.

It was time to check out the alley.