You Brought the Wrong Man
Time slipped past, and before I knew it the weekend had arrived.
Today I have to meet someone important. I'd need to be careful about what I wore. Let's see. A school uniform on a Saturday would look ridiculous, and as for proper formal clothes... I had exactly one option. A bespoke suit steeped in Sir Lewis's craft. Good thing I bought it. Navy, with a pair of Alden derbies. If that wasn't the height of formal, what was?
I said goodbye to Peter and stepped out of the room.
Perhaps because it was the weekend, the corridor was unusually busy. This was the first outing since we'd enrolled, and the whole place buzzed with it. The boys had dressed themselves up as far as they could go before leaving their rooms. Jackets were a given; most had gone as far as a tie and a waistcoat. Not that any of them had put on a suit as properly as I had. If I looked buttoned to the throat, my classmates had the air of two buttons undone for comfort—the minimum of formality, and beyond that a style that was theirs alone, not their elders'.
American casual. They preferred a slack knit tie to a disciplined length of silk, and set ball caps on top of jackets that were otherwise perfectly in order. All the way from the corridor, out of the dormitory, and on toward the school gate, I studied what the students were wearing. I was looking because of the business, but it didn't feel like work. I'd been fascinated by the fashion of this era ever since my previous life.
And then—what on earth was this?
Far off, a man in a thoroughly unfamiliar outfit stood stock-still. A hood dragged low, a T-shirt worn long, baggy trousers beneath it, and skate shoes to finish the picture. Wait. That was a look that wouldn't come into fashion for another ten years or so.
Startled, I turned toward the man beside him.
"Boss!"
A voice rang out, glad enough to fill the street.
"Look! I did it!"
Jo Sudeok, of course.
We ended up in a café nearby, where his face was pure self-satisfaction. And well it might be.
"How did you find him?"
"Well, this is simply the sort of work I do."
"No, but with that little to go on, how did you..."
"Boss, who do you think I am? Jo Sudeok, of course."
Fine. Today he could preen all he liked. He had hauled a man out of that vast New York on a handful of scraps. Why wouldn't I sit through a war story?
"At first even I was at a loss."
"Of course you were."
"I drifted from place to place like duckweed, carrying the single scrap of information you gave me, but I needed a result. And then a name came to me!"
"...?"
"Ralph Warren."
Oh.
So after that he'd gone to New York, swung all the way through California, and brought back the gentleman who'd been out surfing. That was the tale.
"This fellow's a layabout by nature, the sort who waits forever for a wave beside the sea. But once I laid out the road our boss has walked, his eyes started to change."
The white man who'd been listening gave a large nod. A thoroughly satisfying reaction, it seemed, because Jo Sudeok went on with the proudest face in the world.
"Must have wanted to try it in earnest himself. Packed up a heap of T-shirts he'd designed. Brother, take what's in that bag and show him."
Since when were they brothers? In any case, the white man began fishing the shirts out one after another.
"Logo play is this fellow's specialty."
That much was dead right. A red ground, white lettering, and the word Ultimate always somewhere in the design.
"The moment I saw this logo, I understood at once. Why you sent me all the way to New York..."
"Hold on."
"A moment to admire it?"
"Not that."
"...?"
The logo was excellent. It just felt a little different from what I'd been expecting.
He must have sensed that something had gone sideways. A thin thread of unease rose across Jo Sudeok's confident face.
"Professor, you did well."
"R-right?"
"You did well. You really did."
His face asked why, if that was the end of it, there still seemed to be more to say.
"I'm sorry, but I think you'll have to go to New York one more time."
"Pardon? What do you mean..."
"You brought back someone a little different from the person I had in mind."
If the world ever held a contest for the greatest signature, Lukashi would take first without a fight. He was the man who had turned his own name into a logo and leapt overnight into stardom. Like Ultimate, he carried a strong street-fashion image, but set the logo play aside and his clothes ran rather clean, which meant the brand could sit comfortably beside ordinary casual wear. Not Ultimate's explosive force, perhaps, but a solid house with a sturdy following of its own. In money, Jo Sudeok had brought home a man worth a hundred million dollars at the very least.
And yet he wore the face of a guilty man.
"Boss, I'll pay for that fellow's room."
We were on our way back from installing Lukashi in a hotel, and Jo Sudeok still couldn't keep still.
"A suite at the finest hotel, two weeks at the minimum. You're saying you'll cover that, Professor?"
"Then we move him to a deluxe room..."
"You bring in someone that precious and stick him in a deluxe?"
"P-precious?"
"I told you. You did well."
His expression still said the man wasn't the one I'd wanted.
"I asked you to find me a house in Gangnam, and what you found me is Hannam-dong."
Perhaps that landed.
"But Hannam-dong is still..."
"A happy outcome. The Gangnam house is right where it was, and now there's a second house in Hannam-dong."
"Ah."
We changed venues soon after. We were speaking Korean, so there was no real need to worry about other ears, but just in case we moved to a restaurant with private rooms. For Jo Sudeok, who had worked hard, I ordered wine before anything else. That legendary name: Romanée-Conti.
He was a soju man, but the sommelier was already speaking.
"It is an honor to introduce this wine."
Quick to read a room, he sat up straighter at once. Two turns of the glass, and the scent came pouring out.
"Boss, I'm perfectly fine drinking it without any ceremony."
"I couldn't allow that."
"Then I'll drink it with pleasure."
He had barely taken a small sip.
"Whoa!"
Jo Sudeok stared at me, eyes round.
"The scent of flowers just explodes."
"Does it?"
"It does. Like holding a whole bouquet in my mouth. At this rate I wouldn't be surprised if flowers bloomed in there."
A breath of a laugh escaped me. Jo Sudeok exaggerated, but this probably wasn't exaggeration. It was a legendary wine, in the literal sense.
"I-it feels a little wrong, drinking it by myself."
"It's all right. Drink."
"Even so."
"Once I'm grown, I intend to drink until my nose goes crooked every single day."
"Wow."
After Jo Sudeok had emptied the glass clean, I turned to business in earnest: how the fashion venture would unfold. Calmly, I set out things I had told no one. Everything except the IMF.
By the time I finished, Jo Sudeok looked stunned.
"Boss, do you have a staff of advisers I don't know about?"
"Hardly."
"Then you're saying you planned all of this alone?"
"That's what being the boss is for."
He scratched at his head.
"Being amazed by your ability at this late date does feel a bit belated, but..."
"Stop being amazed and let's get to work."
"Yes, yes."
Jo Sudeok hauled his chair in tight against the table.
"But, Boss."
"Yes?"
"That final step you mentioned. If we can acquire that company, the achievement would be enormous."
"The cost won't be small. That's what you mean."
He nodded at once.
"Even a rough guess says we'd need twice what it cost to buy Manchester United. To raise that kind of money in a short time..."
"We take investment, or a business we already run has to break wide open."
Jo Sudeok sank into thought for a moment.
"Knowing your temperament, you won't want investors."
Bingo. Sharing the profits was a truly dreadful business.
"Then an existing business has to blow up."
Here he slid a glance my way—the look of a man asking whether I already had something picked out.
"Why wouldn't I?"
I answered him with a grin.
At the same moment, in Japan.
Suzuki, having brought his first work to a handsome conclusion, was living through busy days. What else was there for it? At a time like this, a senior had to step forward. He took his place before a whiteboard with a face of considerable gravity, and across from him sat Tajiri, expression frozen.
"It's Capsulemon."
"Capsulemon. Not a bad name. So what's the problem?"
"The concept's out, and the characters are more or less settled. Now I just have to keep turning them out, but I can't shake the feeling that the whole thing is stalling."
Suzuki nodded as if he knew that feeling better than anyone. The kindly moment didn't last. He spoke with the gravest eyes in the world.
Tajiri took the words down on a blank sheet.
"Once a serial starts, even if the sky splits in two, you sit down and draw. Why?"
"Because it's a promise to the readers."
"Right! You draw even if your body gives out. Even on a day when you feel you absolutely can't, you sit at the desk. Hold out for thirty minutes. Pick up the pen. Then you ask yourself: can I really not draw a single panel?"
Here Suzuki shook his head with great solemnity.
"No! If you were in bad enough shape that you couldn't draw one panel, they'd already have hauled you to the emergency room. So unless it's that bad, you draw at least one."
"E-even when your condition's bad, you can still draw one panel?"
"The important part is that one panel becomes two, and two become three. That's what I'm telling you."
"Then is that how your work got finished too, Senior?"
"Need I even say it!"
"Whoa!"
"Grab anyone at the publisher and ask them. Not one false word in it. Do I look like the shameless sort who'd order a junior to do what he can't do himself?"
"Of course not. Senior Suzuki, you're more famous than anyone for serializing without a miss..."
"So no more and no less. You follow your senior, and that's it. You hear me?"
"I-I'll take it to heart!"
Today's lecture ended roughly there. Suzuki, looking thoroughly satisfied, was just about to leave the meeting room.
"Senior, forgive me for saying so."
"...?"
"There's something I'd like to ask, purely as a reader."
"What?"
"I was wondering when your next work comes out. I'm really looking forward to it."
Suzuki had been planning to rest easy for the next five years. No—he could have retired on the spot and hardly regretted a thing. But perhaps because of the words he had already let out of his mouth—
"A-as soon as I can."
"Because it's a promise to the readers?"
"..."
Instead of answering, Suzuki only hurried his steps, as if something were chasing him.