South Central Noir

“I swear, I thought they were legit. You have to believe me.” Mike cowered, and it made Sang-woo want to throw him down, stomp him into the pavement.

He did believe him. Mike Koh was a loser, the kind of guy who spewed cash on lucky numbers, who put more chips on the table — without fail — whenever the dealer was a woman with big breasts. He was a smiling optimist, the stupidest type of gambler, who went along with whatever felt good without stopping to think for a single second in his shibal-sekki life. So yeah, Sang-woo believed him, but he didn’t care if Mike had conned him on accident instead of on purpose.

Mike wouldn’t look at Sang-woo, though he couldn’t stop himself from taking nervous peeks across the street, where Anthony and Wallace had been glaring, just as instructed. Sang-woo knew from Mike’s expression when they left the corner and started making their way across the street. He had to tamp down a grin — Anthony was putting some real menace in his step. Sang-woo owed him whether or not the policy paid, but Anthony knew as well as anyone that you couldn’t wring money from a broke Korean with a burned-out store.

“You’re gonna get me that money,” said Sang-woo, gesturing at the two Black men coming in their direction. “Or I won’t just talk to your wife. I’ll send these guys to talk to her.”

Mike stood up like something had bitten him in the ass. “Come on,” he said, almost shouting. “You might get paid still, you know? Why threaten me, huh? I’m nobody. That’s why I wasn’t ready to talk to you — because they don’t tell me anything. I promise, none of this is my fault.”

He pleaded, and Sang-woo said nothing, just tuned him out while Anthony and Wallace closed the distance.

“I’ll do my best, okay? I promise you, I’ll do my best, it’ll just take time.”

Sang-woo stood up and faced Mike, so close he could see the sweat pooling in the creases of his forehead. He stared at this idiot’s idiot forehead and before he knew what he was doing, he raised his hand and flicked it, right in the middle, as hard as he could.

Sang-woo hadn’t done that since his school days in Korea, and he was pleased to see he still had the bully’s touch — it looked like he’d almost broken skin. Mike let out an indignant sound, a choked little whimper, and cupped a hand over the fresh injury.

“Your best isn’t worth shit, Mike. Get me the money.” He threw his eyes at Anthony and Wallace, now just fifteen, maybe ten feet away. “Go.”

Mike did as he was told, all but running to his car, and Sang-woo sat back down.

Anthony sat next to him with a heavy sigh. “I don’t know, Sang. I don’t like your chances.”

Sang-woo laughed.

Maybe the moron would come through, like morons sometimes do, or maybe Sang-woo should just accept that he’d lost this one: thousands of dollars in premiums and the payoff he was owed, all burned up with his store, his only stable means of making a living. It felt bad — like getting stacked in Hold’em when he’d gotten his chips in good.

He crushed his cigarette under his shoe and put a fresh one between his lips. He took a deep, steadying breath, letting the cigarette dangle. Weeks had passed since the last of the fires went out, but he could still smell smoke in the air. It clung to the neighborhood like a grimy film, the way it stayed in Sang-woo’s clothes and hair, hot and sooty and shameful, so that Hana always knew when he’d had a smoke, when he’d let another day go by without even trying to keep his promise.

“Shibal,” he said. He snatched the unlit cigarette from his lips.

A jolt of optimism ran through him as he returned it to the pack, aligning it with the others — a small white circle, so neat, so clean. He had gambled and he had lost, yet life was long, he could make it up. He’d brought them here, hadn’t he? His wife, the kids, their lives — they were American now, wasn’t that something? He’d staked a claim on this place once, and he could do it again, why not? Eun-ji would be furious, but she was always furious, and the kids — well, he was their father.

He would quit smoking today. He could do that much. He closed his eyes and made a silent promise, a prayer, a wager: if he could make it a week without smoking, he, Sang-woo Park, could do anything.

How Hope Found Chauncey

by Jervey Tervalon

Snooty Fox Motor Inn

Hope found Chauncey in the oven where she thought he’d be. Maria ran by searching everywhere in that filthy house, but Hope saw that the oven door in the kitchen was open. She walked to it slowly, knowing if she saw the wrong thing she’d be broken. But there he was inside of that cavernous old oven in his baby blanket curled up sleeping, clutching emptiness. She gently lifted him up, determined not to wake him, but her infant brother woke with a scream. She cooed and sang to him until he rested his head on her shoulder and wearily returned to sleep.