Dirty Laundry (30 page)

Only to find myself being stared down by a large older black woman sitting behind her desk, her handsome, round face twisted into a skeptical frown.

“Boy, what the hell do you think you’re doing? You’re too old to pretend you’re a ninja.” Claudia’d mastered the evil eye before I’d drawn my first breath, and she used it indiscriminately, searing the skin off of my bones. “Either get your ass in here or stay outside. You’re letting all the cold air in.”

“Oh, fuck no,” I exhaled hotly. “You
cannot
be here.”

“Did you just cuss at me?” She stood up and grabbed at the cane leaning against her desk. If I wasn’t careful, she was going to lay my head open with what looked like a master pimp stick from the 1920s. “I swear I just didn’t hear that. Now close the damned door.”

When life hands one a fierce Southern-born woman who’d whipped eight boys into adulthood, one does what she says. Even though one’s death was on the horizon once said woman’s eldest son found out she was sitting in one’s office. I wouldn’t admit to trembling when I retrieved the folder from the front porch, but my hands were definitely shaking from the cold.

Except for the cane and a faint stiffness in her walk, my office manager looked good. Claudia came in ready for a battle. She’d obviously been to the hairdresser while she’d been off work. Her head of loose curls were now a dark sienna without a trace of the silver hairs she’d earned. Girded in a Sunday-go-to-meeting deep purple dress and black camisole, all she was missing was a horned hat and a halberd. Although, taking a good look at the heft of the cane she wielded, she could have had a spear hidden inside.

She toddled over to the coffee machine and refilled her cup, then carefully stirred in a packet of sugar and a dash of cream. The cane made a hard thump on the polished floor when Claudia turned back to her desk. I noticed she didn’t bring me any coffee, but I wasn’t going to say anything.

I was too busy trying to figure out a way to call Martin and still sound like a man when I threw myself on his mercy.

“Martin’s going to kick my ass,” I commented as I tried to casually skirt her to get to my desk. “Just so you know, when he’s done with me, Jae’ll get the house. He’ll probably turn this place into a photography studio, but he’ll need an office manager. I’ll put in a good word for you. Probably right before I use my last breath to tell him I love him.”

She was about to say something, probably something strong enough to wither my manhood, when Bobby breezed through the front door. The surprised look he had on his face when he spotted Claudia was priceless. I would have laughed if I hadn’t been trying to figure out the last time my will had been updated.

“Damn, Cole, Martin is going to have your fucking balls. Yep, he’s going to take them and hang ’em off the back of his truck hitch right after he skins you alive.”

He’d brought a bag of plain bagels with cream cheese, dumping them on my desk before heading to the rapidly disappearing pot of coffee. Unlike my beloved office manager, he actually brought me a travel mug of coffee, then proceeded to make another pot so there’d be plenty on hand for my wake.

“No one is killing anyone,” Claudia proclaimed loudly. “Leastwise not until I finish watching that damned show Hyunae got me addicted to.”

“How’d you get here? You didn’t drive, right?” I hadn’t spotted her sedan outside and then remembered the doctor had forbidden her to drive while she was convalescing. “Shit, tell me you didn’t have one of the kids drive you. They’re too young to die.”

“I’ll have you know, mister, I took a cab.” Claudia leaned over between our desks and stabbed me with a sharp fingernail. “The kids can take me home this afternoon when they’re done. I’ll hold down the fort until then. I even brought my own lunch so I don’t have to leave to go get something to eat.”

“How about if I drop you off before I head out to where I’m going?” I suggested. “That way, I can… oh, I don’t know… see if I can maybe bribe Martin with college scholarships for Mo and Sissy.”

“Good idea,” Bobby piped up. “He might only break your back then. You know, Bane-style.”

“You two are chewing on my last nerve.” Her tone remained steady, but there was a thin edge to it, and I knew we were dancing on the edge of disaster. “I was bored. At least I can be bored here without someone trying to get me to eat soup or nap. Swear to God above, you’d think I’d died and crawled back up out of the grave, the way those kids are.”

“That’s ’cause we love you.” I almost flinched when she turned in her chair, but instead of a slap across my head, I got a wistful, teary smile. “And you were shot.”

“Pffts, boy, you have more holes in you than a colander and you’re like that stupid pink bunny on batteries. I can take one.” She settled back into her chair and turned on her computer. “If I get tired, I can go catnap on that couch in the conference room. Besides, I left Martin a note. If he’s got any issues, he can take them up with me.”

“It’s good to see you.” I wheeled over on my chair and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She smelled of baby powder, home, and a faint hint of violets. I kissed her again, just to see her cheeks go bright pink, and Claudia slapped my thigh, pushing me away. Her system finished loading, and I heard her gasp, catching a glimpse of what looked like a sample model for silicone implants plastered over her desktop.

“How come there’s a half-naked girl on my computer screen?” I didn’t know her office chair could turn around fast enough to create a cyclone or how she could make it seem like she’d had lasers installed in her eyes during her hospital stay, but it could… and it seemed like she had. “Cole, what kind of perverted things have you been letting Mo do to my computer?”

I was saved from responding by the phone. A glance at the ID screen told me all I needed to know. I grabbed a bagel, my coffee, and Bobby, headed out quickly, and let Claudia deal with the call from her oldest son. Running had served me well in the past. I wasn’t going to give up a tried and true method of keeping my neck in one piece, especially if Claudia started talking to Martin about Mo’s choice in eye candy.

We’d gone five blocks in Bobby’s truck before he asked the obvious. Sipping from his open mug of coffee, he battled through a left lane tangle and came out the victor. “Okay, Princess, where the fuck am I going?”

“I thought I’d see what Gyong-Si was up to today.” I’d appreciated Bobby making me coffee, but it needed more sugar. I caught him up on what I’d been working on, and he grunted at the salient bits. “I don’t know who else I can shake out of the trees. Maybe Gyong-Si can think of someone from his past who’s a crazy, possessive bitch or has an insane husband.”

“Think he’d give a shit?” Bobby asked sarcastically. “That guy pisses me off on principle. Not just the whole pretending to be batting for our team—which is some sick shit already—but because if he
does
know who could be behind this crap, why the fuck isn’t he at least trying to cough up some names for the cops?”

“He struck me as the definition of selfish,” I answered. “And to be honest, after my talking with O’Byrne last night, I kind of expect someone in blue to be knocking on his door.”

“You think he knows?” He cocked his head at me, keeping his eyes on the road. The morning traffic hadn’t quite thickened to insane yet, but it still was tight in places. “About the kids he’s got, I mean.”

“Yeah, Bhak confronted him about Hong Chul. I guess he wanted to warn Gyong-Si off after Abby was born. Supposedly, the guy sent Bhak a letter saying he’d leave the family alone if Bhak invested in his fortune-telling business here in Los Angeles. I don’t know if Hong Chul’s grandfather actually coughed up any cash.”

“How the hell does someone invest in a fortune-telling place? What is he going to pay for? Crystal balls? How much fucking incense can the guy get?” Bobby snorted. “What a piece of shit.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty much what I thought too,” I agreed. “So did Jae. Ichiro too.”

“Speaking of Ichiro, how about if you tell me the truth about something, Princess?” Bobby’s face curled up with a wicked smile. “How much crying are you going to be doing once I get that tasty little brother of yours in bed? And how much of that is going to be sour grapes ’cause you wished you’d slept with me first?”

T
HERE
were certain times when one wished they had a gun on them. Most notable of those times were being caught on the wrong side of the glass in a lion’s exhibit, being trapped in an elevator during Christmas music season, and when a supposed best friend not only tells you what he wants to do with your baby brother but suggests you join in.

Luckily, he was parking in front of Gyong-Si’s place or I would have gotten us into an accident by punching him while he drove. Slamming the truck door was the closest sound I could make next to an actual shotgun blast to Bobby’s guts. It wasn’t as satisfying, but still, rattling the windows gave me some sense of satisfaction.

“Not funny, dude,” I told him over the roof of the truck. He smirked, and I slapped my hand on the painted metal to get his attention. “Bobby, I’m serious. Don’t give him any of your shit. Just ’cause I told you he dipped his toe into the pool doesn’t mean you can go take him skinny-dipping.”

“Shit, okay.” He held his hands up in mock surrender. “I will not in any way hit up your sexy little brother for anything other than a smile. Promise, Princess.”

“Just once, Bobby, stop thinking with your dick.” The last thing I wanted for Ichiro was Bobby sniffing around his ankles. “I love you, man, but you’re kind of a whore.”

“What if he approaches me first?” It was a masterful leer, suited to Bobby’s craggy, handsome face. It spent a lot of time there, usually pulled out only when we caroused at clubs, bars, or the gym.

“Then you tell me so I can set him straight, in a manner of speaking.” I went heavy on the sarcasm, but Bobby nodded. “Now, you want to come in with me or lurk out here like Mange from Powerpuff Girls?”

“You watched the Powerpuff Girls?” He trailed after me, working toward the back of the complex where Gyong-Si’s bungalow squatted in its full rainbow-hued glory.

“Dude, I was laid up for months. The Powerpuff Girls were safe,” I warned him. “Don’t
ever
turn on the Teletubbies. It’ll suck you in for hours. Worse than playing WoW. You in or out?”

“I’ll lurk. He could take you out and make a run for it.” Bobby’s eyes widened when we turned the corner and he took in the spectrum of Gyong-Si’s place. “Holy shit… that’s… wow. What’s the inside like?”

“Calmer. He went for the peaceful Zen spa look inside.” The stairs creaked a bit under our feet, and the flyers and pamphlets by the door were organized neatly, a few spots of neon next to buttery pastels. A breeze picked up the ends of the chimes, trilling harpsichord-like tones over us when we approached the door. “If he comes outside, just try not to look directly at him. I think he’s a hugger.”

I went in, leaving Bobby outside on the porch. The front room was empty of people. Terry wasn’t in, but the pack of cigarettes on his desk was the same brand I’d seen him with before. A nearly empty plastic cup of iced tea or coffee sat sentinel near a pile of papers meant he’d probably stepped out for something. Either that or he’d thrown in the towel that morning and stomped out without his caffeine and smokes.

There was a shuffling coming from down the hall, and then Gyong-Si emerged from behind the beaded curtain, throwing it back like a fake wizard failing to intimidate a little girl and her dog. When he spotted me standing in the front room, his first reaction was to utter a heartfelt, “Shit.”

Whatever Gyong-Si had been up to over the past few days, it’d eaten him alive. The flamboyant counselor was gone and in his place was an old man who looked like he’d fought a homeless bum for the stained dull-blue tracksuit he was wearing. There was no trace of the finely applied makeup he’d worn the last time I’d seen him, and in the harsh daylight, every small crater and line on his face stood up and shouted for attention. A scraggly graying stubble started someplace on his chin and worked its way up his jaw to wrap around the back of his head. Spotty patches hopscotched along the top of his skull, turning his dome into a monochromatic knockoff of Twister. The only spots of bright color on him were the fire-engine red Crocs he wore over a pair of dirty white socks.

He also smelled. Like a fifteen-day-old gym sock left in a closed-up wet locker reek.

“You!” His lips peeled back, and I inhaled a whiff of cheap alcohol on his breath. Gyong-Si reached for me and slapped his hands on my chest. He couldn’t get his feet under him, and he tilted, skewing off balance. “Get out of—”

I caught him before he stumbled to the floor. He must have been close to three hundred pounds of drunken pain, because my arms strained under his nearly dead weight. Close up, he reeked even nearer to high heaven than a six-week-old dumpster of trash left out during a heat wave. Sharp bites of pain erupted along my side and across my shoulder, and I must have squealed because Bobby was through the door before I had the chance to dump Gyong-Si on the carpet. He hesitated at helping me once he caught wind of the man’s odor.