South Central Noir

Two blocks down Avalon, he could see Mary Yoo’s hamburger stand on fire. That was a shame. Mary was a nice woman — ugly and quiet, but nice. Maybe Black people saw an ugly, quiet Korean woman and thought she was rude and racist. Or maybe they just lit the place up because they were mad and it was there. Sang-woo didn’t know what his own wife was thinking half the time, how was he supposed to know what went on in the minds of Black people?

For example: why did they torch Happy Hamburger — Happy Hamburger! poor, flat-faced, unsmiling Mary — and leave South Park Liquor alone?

South Park Liquor. It had felt like destiny, in its way — he was from South Korea, his last name was Park, it seemed like a solid business, and it came up for sale right when he had enough money to get something going. Opportunity! The whole reason he left Korea, to find opportunity, to grab it with both hands the moment it appeared.

Eun-ji had told him to stay home, said it was too dangerous to go back. She wasn’t wrong, he knew that, and if she’d begged him instead of scolding him in that huffy way she had, like he was an insufferable idiot, like it wasn’t about this thing, today, but every decision he’d ever made — why did he lease a Camaro, why did he throw money away at the casino, why did he move her across the ocean, away from her family and friends, so she could live like a pauper? — maybe he would’ve listened. He’d closed the store early yesterday, after the verdict came down, and stayed away for over twenty-four hours, watching the riot unfold on TV. He wanted to give it some time, and besides, there was no reason to open up. All his paying customers would be waiting out the chaos at home.

That’s what he thought, anyway, but there was Anthony, right in front of the closed doors, facing the street like a palace guard. He was a fat man, the kind of fat where his pants fell down, not on purpose like the young guys, just drooped low every five minutes so he was always pulling them back up and tightening his belt in frustration. Maybe he was young too — Sang-woo could never tell how old Black people were, and he hadn’t bothered to ask. Anthony had kids, Sang-woo knew that much. Two of them, their picture in his wallet. Sang-woo saw their chubby faces whenever Anthony turned the wallet inside out, looking for hidden dollars.

Sang-woo got out of the car, threw his cigarette on the street, and put a new one between his lips.

Anthony nodded, like he’d been expecting him. “Crazy, huh?”

Sang-woo walked over to Anthony and lit the cigarette. He took a drag, filling his lungs with smoke, with bitter, sooty air. He shook another cigarette loose from the pack and offered it to Anthony. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

Anthony took it with a grin. “Came to check on your place,” he said. “Can’t have my luck burn down.”

Sang-woo shook his head. He was moved, he couldn’t help it, even if he knew Anthony meant exactly what he said. Anthony was a gambler, like Sang-woo — the most superstitious kind of man. They weren’t friends — Sang-woo wasn’t friends with his customers, it wasn’t like that and he didn’t pretend — but they did scratchers together every time Anthony came in, sometimes four, five times a week, ever since Anthony hit it big last July. He’d won five thousand dollars, the biggest score in the history of South Park Liquor, and neither man could believe there wasn’t more coming.

It was the same mistake, he realized now, the same one that defined Sang-woo’s entire American existence. The notion that this — South Park Shibal-Sekki Liquor — was some kind of golden goose, a place of good fortune, and not a shithole money pit where all his dreams came to die.

He looked at it now: his store, his life’s work, its shabby pink walls inappropriately cheerful, surrounded by so much destruction. He thought of a pretty Vietnamese blackjack dealer at Commerce, her nails long and shell-pink as she tapped the felt, shaking her head, then raked in another stack of Sang-woo’s chips.

He hated this place. He hated that it was supposed to make him proud, all his toil and sacrifice so his kids could have good lives, so they could go to school in America and tell him to stop smoking. If he worked hard, and they worked hard, he could pay for them to go to college. It was a good bet, American college. Positive expected value. But the return wouldn’t come to Sang-woo. That was for Hana, for Eric. He and Eun-ji would take care of themselves with what they had left. But the work was hard, and after eight years running the store, he had worse than nothing to show for it.

Somewhere nearby, he heard sirens. He wondered if they were going to Happy Hamburger or another fire — Sang-woo saw one raging on his way here, and at least a dozen buildings that had burned overnight. He asked: “You think you’re lucky, Anthony?”

The big man shrugged. “Don’t know about that. But this is my lucky spot.”

“What happened to the money? The five thousand?”