New Beginnings (23)
He asked for help with his retirement funds. “Of course I’ll help. After everything you’ve done for me, how could I not?” Then he asked if I had time. With nothing but unemployment on my plate, I said yes. He sent me a hotel address. Hilton Hawaiian Village Waikiki Beach Resort. Text me when you land. —cleanerten(36.5)
Should I go as myself or as Eunsu? Better go as myself. You never know what might happen. I booked a last-minute flight to Hawaii and threw some things together. Hawaiian shirt, obviously. After a little over ten hours from Incheon, I landed at Honolulu Airport. Strange how every business-class passenger seemed to be on a honeymoon. Envious. I need to marry Song Miju someday. Another item added to the wishlist.
I grabbed my luggage, took a taxi to the Waikiki hotel, and texted him the moment I arrived. No point hiding anything. Somehow, I didn’t want to. It felt right that way.
Sitting in a chair with a view of the hotel’s raccoon, the rest of the world seemed to fade away. Pretty place.
“GB?”
I turned at the sound of my name. I had expected the sturdy middle-aged man who once ruled Incheon and Bucheon, so I was caught off guard.
“Senior?”
“Haha, that’s me.”
He stood less than 160 centimeters tall, his sun-browned face lined with wrinkles. When he smiled, he was missing a tooth or two. I bowed ninety degrees, pouring out my gratitude. Appearance meant nothing.
“Thank you, Senior. I’ve received so much help from you. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay it.”
“It’s fine. Just pay it forward someday.”
“I will. I’ll remember that.”
That day we talked about the old days like uncle and nephew. When I said it was my first time in Hawaii, he launched into the island’s history like a local guide. He took me to all the tourist spots. Between sightseeing we caught up on life; I asked for advice on how to run the organization and where it should head next. I laid out every problem and worry without holding back, as if we were back at the very beginning.
While in Hawaii I saw dolphins, snorkeled with sea turtles, and took a sunset cruise. Even moving between islands meant flying. We took another plane to the Big Island, rode waves the size of houses, and did a helicopter tour over the volcano. The longer we spent together, the more I felt this was the last time. He kept smiling at me, but the feeling wouldn’t leave.
After four nights and five days he drove me to Honolulu Airport. I told him I’d come back and to answer my calls. He only smiled. I boarded the plane with an uneasy heart.
I never expected my Eunsu life plan to fail like this. Never thought the accountant would run off with everything. I was stuck redesigning my future with no answers. What would make people say I’d done well? Feeling suffocated, I headed out to Noryangjin for some cup rice—fresh air and a full stomach.
I sighed, looking up at the sky, when I spotted the woman in the bright yellow sweater I’d seen before crossing the overpass. The weather had warmed; she wore a white short-sleeve tee. The moment I saw her I knew it was the same person. I’d regretted losing her last time. I ran after her.
“Excuse me.”
This time she didn’t disappear.
“Yes?”
Her startled expression was cute.
“……”
What should I say? My mind went blank as her white T-shirt. I blurted out excuses without knowing what I was saying—that I’d seen her last winter, thought she was beautiful, chased after her only to lose her, and had kept thinking about her ever since. Then I happened to see her again today and ran over because she was still there. The next words she spoke made me feel like I owned the world.
“Want my number?”
From that moment I was completely wrapped up in her. The organization faded into the background. If I was happy, what else mattered? She’d been carrying a pharmacology textbook, so I guessed she was a pharmacy student. When I asked, she said Ewha Womans University College of Pharmacy. Elite. I was just a high-school equivalency graduate. Her name was Song Miju, twenty-two years old. Learning each new detail about her felt like pure happiness.
I told her the truth—mostly. I said I ran an organization that sold medicine and owned a house, a hideout, two farms, and a factory. I left out the rest. I mentioned I’d passed the equivalency exam, landed a job at a media company that went under after three months, and had been catching my breath when I saw her. Then I asked her out for the weekend. I couldn’t bring myself to suggest Friday, so I just sent a “good night” message and set the phone down. I’d text her first thing in the morning.
The next day I contacted her the moment I woke up. She left me on read. I stared at my phone all day waiting for a reply, searching for weekend plans and imagining our dates. I was a pedestrian, of course, but the company car I’d barely driven was gone from the lot. What the hell? The accountant wasn’t answering either. It had to be those coins he’d explained.
What now? The holidays were still two months away.
Song Miju’s reply still hadn’t come. An hour later I checked again.
Serious trouble. Our organization had never had trouble selling product—why was there surplus? This was my fault. I’d been feeding everything to the Americans and Cider for manufacturing. After complaints from Itaewon I stopped moving regular-grade stuff. The Americans sent 500 grams a month, Cider 2 kg. Cider had been selling the premium I gave him and dumping the regular grade back on me. I let it slide because it still looked profitable, but now the numbers didn’t add up for the shisha and hashish we needed to make.
I’d been paying the Americans and Cider on delivery and forwarding the product to Nguyen and Ali, but apparently it wasn’t moving. Even during Seollal he’d complained about excess stock. Why was he in such a rush now? The cash-out was only two months away.
What? Had he only been making this? Six months’ worth. He hadn’t sold much since Seollal. Cash wasn’t flowing. I knew nothing about retail pricing, so I asked outright.
Two million won per gram? When a merchant says they’re not making money, it usually means the opposite. Hold on—last time he said regular grade mixed thirty-to-one for hashish. Five hundred grams would make 15 kg. At 50,000 won that’s 750 million. This bastard thought I was a consumer. I was a supplier too, dammit. If Nguyen wouldn’t take it I could tell Cider I couldn’t meet the contracted volume. The American stuff I had to accept—losing that connection would cost the whole deal. Shisha needed a steady supply anyway.
I pushed back. The next reply took a while. I had one distribution channel left—the Philippines. I wanted to check their price too.
This time the reply came quickly.
I floated the question casually. How much?
Ten minutes later:
We only dealt in pure grade anyway.
I wanted to speak directly with the decision-maker. I could almost hear the hushed conversation on the other end.
I threw the number out assuming I’d buy from Nguyen. No immediate reply. Unlimited, right? I’d contacted Baccara before Nguyen.
The assumption became reality.
Shit. I should have seen this coming when he asked for quick payment last time. Where would a Vietnamese laborer get that kind of money?
Now I was the loan shark.