Hidden Moon

9

“We’ll assign Inspector Yang to the security squad. He hasn’t been on the street in a long time; no one even knows what he looks like.”

“You trust him?”

A very odd question, from a foreigner. “I do.” Why would he think I might not have confidence in Yang? “Of course I trust him.” We were driving toward the river, and Boswell, as usual, was drumming his fingers on the dashboard.

“Stop the car!” Boswell’s order was so loud and so unexpected I hit the brakes and we skidded, careened, across two lines until I got control again. A traffic policeman began jogging toward us from the nearest intersection. A van behind me honked its horn, paused a moment to see if we were alright, then sped away.

“What the hell?” I don’t like to skid, it makes me nervous, and I don’t like people shouting at me.

Boswell ignored my question. “Right here. This is the spot. If something is going to happen, this is it. Look at the shadows.”

I groaned. “You and your damned shadows. Where? It’s a normal street; they’ll be speeding down the center lane; the road will be blocked, and there won’t be any traffic. You think someone is going to shoot from a window from one of these buildings? Most of them can’t even be opened, they’re so badly out of alignment.”

Boswell stuck his head out of the car and surveyed the rooftops. He paused at one, pulled out a pencil, and wrote himself a note. “Let’s walk a bit. I want to get a better sense of this stretch. I still don’t like it.”

“Fine, just don’t shout when I’m driving.”

“Inspector, I had no idea you were so sensitive.” The huge Scottish hand rested on my shoulder. “Accept my apologies. Let me take you to dinner tonight. You pick the restaurant.”

“Get out and walk around if you want. There’s nothing here. Incidentally, a long-standing request of the Germans to visit the east coast will be suddenly accepted, much to their surprise. They leave tomorrow morning and won’t be back until next week.”

Boswell hesitated, confused. Then he laughed. “Very efficient, by God. There’s something to be said for your style.”

“I’m listening.”

“Yes, I’m sure you are, but I’m not finishing the sentence. Pick out a decent restaurant, someplace they might have some liquor we can drink, would you?”

The traffic policeman, out of breath, puffed up to the car. He looked twice at my license plate, then straightened his hat, walked around to the driver’s side, and leaned into my window. His eyes took in the Scotsman beside me, but his face showed no emotion. “What’s with the brakes?” It was a traffic cop voice, sort of nasty, as if he owned the street.

“I use them to stop the car. It’s routine. You have regulations against that?”

“Look, I know who you are, Inspector. I have a friend.”

I whistled. “Miracle of miracles.”

“A friend who doesn’t particularly like you.”

“A fine citizen.”

“A friend who doesn’t like it when someone puts their paws on his arm.”

A light went on in my head. The traffic patrolman’s hands were resting on the open window. I gripped his wrist. “Tell your friend to be more polite next time someone visits your bureau. You’ll do that, won’t you?” He was pulling away violently just as I let go, so he fell backward a step.

“Get this car out of here, you and your gorilla friend with it,” he said. He adjusted his hat again, then in a quick motion kicked the side of my door. “Too bad about that.” He looked at me. “You’ve got a dent. Must have been that hard braking.” He smiled coldly and walked up the street.

Boswell had been watching the whole time. The exchange had taken place in short bursts more like gunfire than conversation, but from his face I could see he had followed most of it. “Did I hear what I thought I heard?” he said.

“Just a light discussion between brother security officials.” I shrugged. “That’s how Koreans make love, Superintendent.”

“I figured it was something like that.” He nodded toward the traffic policeman, who by now had resumed his place on the side of the intersection ahead and was reaching for the white gloves tucked in his belt. “Do you know that greasy, stringy, bad-tempered son of a bitch?”

I laughed and started the car. “For a dour breed, you Scotsmen sure can talk. Let’s get out of here.” I pulled into traffic, did an illegal U-turn in front of an old Toyota, and squealed the tires. I looked in the rearview mirror, but the traffic cop wasn’t paying attention. “Never mind him,” I said. “Let’s get a drink.”

“What about the route?”

“Screw the route. Nothing ever happens here, anyway, Superintendent. We spin our wheels endlessly chasing shadows and listening to echoes. You ever been so tired of the same thing you could punch someone?”

“Pick on someone your own size, Inspector.”

I gave him a sharp look and accelerated around a corner.

“Christ, that was a joke!” Boswell held on to the dashboard with both hands. “Not a dig at your…”

“My what?”

“Let’s just get that drink, okay? A man could go crazy around here.”

“You said it, Superintendent, I didn’t.”

The silence in the front seat was heavy for the next several minutes, while I drove through a neighborhood where I knew no traffic police lurked on corners. Finally, my protocol juices began flowing again. I put a smile on my face. “I’ve got a treat for you. I’m going to take you to someplace that’s part of an investigation. Look out for ground glass in the drinks, though. The bartender’s a tough bastard. I don’t think he likes me.”

The visitor narrowed his eyes. “Does anyone like you, Inspector?” He paused. “Besides me, I mean.”

“Good, you almost missed that one, but you came back fine. By the time you leave here, Boswell, you’ll be ready for the real world.”

“God help us all.”