AUTHOR'S NOTE: Just your daily update again :)  Don't be surprised if a few updates from now on end up being every 2 or 3 days...but also don't be surprised if they're daily lol. I don't have exams until January so I'm just kinda coasting rn. 

Anyway, keep the comments coming, I love reading feedback as usual. 50+ Votes already is insane, thank you so much <3

Enjoy! :)

6

Codenames

She let Irene go ahead of her up the stairs to her apartment. Why, she didn’t know. She just did. They went in and set their things down and Irene poured herself a glass of water and sat on the couch whistling. When Seulgi had sorted her clothes and set the kettle to boil she came through and stood in the doorway looking at Irene there. Irene oblivious to her. Pale in the moondial windowlight. Hair falling over her shoulders. Mouth, jaw – all of it, all of her. Why did criminals have to be so good looking? Why did she.

‘What?’

She looked up. Irene was watching her now. Maybe it had only been a lapse for a second but still. ‘Nothing,’ she said.

‘Are you sure?’

‘What?’

‘Doesn’t look like nothing to me,’ Irene said. ‘Looks like you’ve got something on your mind. Something you want to say to me. Well. Do you?’

‘No.’

‘I think you do, sweetie.’

‘I’ve told you. Stop that.’

‘Are you going to make me something to eat?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I’m hungry. I told you I was hungry. Unless we can get takeout or something.’

‘You can go home if you like.’

‘I don’t like,’ Irene said. ‘Have you got anything to do around here? Anything at all. Like a piano or something. Or violin, or guitar. Or hell, at least some board games or something. No? None of that? What about a room that needs decorating? Paint that needs watching while it dries? Anything at all would be preferable to this.’

‘Like I said, you’re free to go home.’

‘I’m alright, thanks.’

‘Where do you live anyway?’

Irene shrugged. ‘Just some place,’ she said.

‘You sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘Why don’t you want to go back then?’

Irene turned to her. Suddenly any pretence of vulnerability or introspection had gone and in its place that same wicked grin, that same look on her bewitching face that was trouble and knew it. A face that knew its own power of seduction. ‘Why?’ Irene said. ‘You getting bored of me already? Or is it something else? Something…more. Come on, Seulgi. Why don’t you tell me?’

‘I’m alright, thanks.’

‘You sure? You don’t look it. You look a little hot under the collar there.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Well.’ Irene sat back again. As if content. ‘If you say so.’

Seulgi made herself a coffee and wiped the sweat from her head and sat back on the plush armchair in the livingroom, across from Irene on the couch. They looked at each other. Irene laughed.

‘What?’ Seulgi said.

‘Nothing.’

‘What?’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘Tell me,’ Seulgi said.

‘Oh, so now you want me to speak? What happened to me shutting up?’

‘Just tell me.’

Irene was quiet a minute. She seemed almost to be sizing Seulgi up and it made her feel very small under that gaze, very unsure of herself. ‘You’re a cutie,’ she said. ‘Do you know that?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You. You’re kinda cute, you know? So, I’ve got a question.’

Seulgi sipped at her piping coffee. ‘What?’ she said.

‘Wait. You’re willing to entertain me now? Makes a change.’

‘Get on with it.’

‘When was the last time you got laid?’

‘You’ve already asked me this.’

‘Yeah. And you didn’t give me an answer.’

‘Got no answer to give. Sorry.’

‘Come on. You can tell me.’

Seulgi shook her head.

‘Prude.’

‘I’ve got a question for you,’ Seulgi said. She finished about half her coffee and set the cup on the glass table. ‘What got you into art in the first place?’

‘Who said I was into art?’

‘My S.O.’

‘Ah,’ Irene said. ‘He’s got a good eye, that husband of yours.’

‘So, when was it?’

‘I don’t know. When I was a kid, I suppose. Why?’

‘Just curious,’ said Seulgi.

Irene sat back again. So that she had full jurisdiction of the couch as if it were hers. Or as if the whole house had become hers in a rather short amount of time and in truth Seulgi didn’t know how she felt about that. To watch Irene there, so carefree and lackadaisical and laidback or perhaps not really at all – perhaps it was all part of some organised ploy to lure Seulgi in, to make her drop her guard, to flaunt that oh-so-gorgeous face and flash that flashy grin and show just enough of her neck and her chest in those lowcut tops to make Seulgi stop and gawp and stare for a couple seconds before she strained her head away and told herself No! Don’t do that, Seulgi. Don’t you dare. Maybe those stares, those throaty chuckles, that persona was all crafted specifically for Seulgi. Maybe she was going to steal something from her as well. And if so then by God, it was working.

‘If I’m being honest,’ Irene said, ‘I don’t know if you can really call it a love for art. I think I was always just fascinated by the business surrounding it. The way it goes from hands to hands over years, over generations, the interest each piece accumulates – it’s like a credit rating a little bit. Each piece – each portrait, landscape, expressionist work – has its own value, rising and falling, its own audience, its own small niche of people interested in it. It’s always been something that was cool to me. Not that it’s unique. Just that it was what I found first. Or what found me.’

‘So you decided to steal them.’

Irene shrugged. ‘Sure. I guess so. I mean, theft is what I’ve always been good at, so why not combine the two, you know? Makes perfect sense, from a pragmatic point of view. Don’t you think?’

Seulgi took up her coffeecup and drank and put it back and made no attempt to reply for a while. Then she said, ‘You don’t seem too concerned with this case.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The fact that the painting we’re looking for is worth so much.’

‘I don’t really care for it,’ Irene said. ‘Not in an artistic way, mind you – I mean, have you seen it? It’s pretty much the dictionary definition of ground-breaking. The perfect combination of pre-modernist Cubism and Dadaism. With a little surrealist twist thrown in for good measure. It’s some good , really. But I don’t care. And I don’t care that it’s gone missing either, you know? I suppose I’ve got to care a little bit if we want to get it back, but I guess your husband picked the wrong person to help you.’

‘He’s not my husband.’

‘You should stop saying S.O, then. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is: Stealing something like this – what’s the point? It’s the most expensive painting in the eastern hemisphere. The most expensive painting valued in, what, fifty years? So what’s the point? I don’t think this is some random group of nobodies. This is some real organised crime . That’s what I think. But even still – why? To sell it, I guess. You could get ridiculous value from some foreign bidder for it. That’s what they do with these super expensive pieces, you know. They sell them off to rich foreigners, and then those rich foreigners hang them in their private basements, and that’s that. You never see them again. I guess this is the same thing, except whoever’s buying it’s got to have balls of ing steel. Know what I mean?’

Seulgi nodded.

‘Anyway. I’m getting off topic. You asked me when I started with this interest of art. And I’m telling you that I never had an interest in art at all. It was just the first thing I found where I enjoyed the mystery surrounding it, its own little mythos. I suspect films would’ve been the same if I’d have found them first. Or music. But you can’t really steal those, not like you can with art. So, I guess I lucked out, you know? Anyway. Again. What’s for dinner?’

‘I’m not cooking for you,’ Seulgi said. She finished the last of the coffee.

‘Why not?’

‘I’m not.’

‘You got anything in? I’ll cook.’

‘No you won’t. Not after this morning.’

‘It was a mere accident. Not to be repeated.’

‘You’re ing right not to repeated. Not in my house.’

‘Want a drink?’

‘What?’

Irene nodded to the cabinet. ‘Want a drink?’

‘Of my whiskey, you mean?’

‘Sure,’ Irene said. ‘If you like.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Come on. Just one glass.’

‘Why?’

‘Why not?’

‘We’ve got a job to be doing tomorrow.’

But Irene was already halfway to the cabinet, sauntering almost. She brought back a tall bottle of unopened whiskey and two little square glasses. ‘Come on,’ she said.

‘No.’

‘Seulgi, don’t be boring.’

She was going to say I’m not drinking but Irene had already poured two small portions. She set the bottle down on the glasstop and passed a glass to Seulgi and sat again on the couch savouring the smell of the whiskey wobbling in the glass. ‘Cheers,’ she said. She drank. Then with some reluctance so did Seulgi. By the time she said anything Irene was already onto her second glass.

‘Where do you live?’

Irene looked at her. She set the bottle down. ‘A little place in Gangnam,’ she said.

‘A little place in Gangnam.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Where do you actually live?’

‘You don’t believe me?’

Seulgi drank. Then she said, ‘You can afford to live in Gangnam?’

And Irene, with a smirk on her lips again, said, ‘Crime pays.’

‘That’s disgusting.’

‘You drive a Ferrari, sweetie. Don’t lecture me about excess.’

‘It’s not about excess.’

‘No? Then what?’

‘The fact that your reward for breaking the law repeatedly is a nice cushy house in ing Gangnam.’

‘I never said it was cushy.’

Seulgi finished the whiskey. It was hot in and it made her wince. She leant across and poured another glass and set the bottle back down. Irene laughed. ‘That’s the spirit,’ she said.

‘This is the last one.’

‘Not much of a drinker?’

‘Sometimes,’ Seulgi said. ‘But not tonight.’

‘So. Where are we going tomorrow?’

‘Stop asking questions.’

‘I will once you answer them.’

‘To an old friend’s.’

‘Who?’ Irene said.

‘Like I said, someone I know back from cyber security days.’

‘Yeah, but what does that actually mean? What the is cyber security?’

Seulgi looked at Irene over the rim of her glass. She thought better of doing it twice. There was something about her that was almost inhuman. It was almost as if she had been designed specifically to be everything that Seulgi was attracted to and yet completely devoid of any sort of moral character simultaneously. As if she was a challenge for Seulgi to overcome. A challenge she was evidently failing. She drank again and Irene was still there. ‘There were a bunch of cases a few years back involving data leaks,’ she said. ‘This woman came to us with information. Said she used to work for national security. Well, as it turns out, she did. She knew what’d happened.’

‘And?’

‘And I can’t tell you the rest.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s confidential,’ Seulgi said.

‘So? Doesn’t mean .’

‘Means I can’t tell you.’

‘Well that’s no fun. Anyway. This friend of yours – what’s she like? She cute?’

‘She’s…different. Strange.’

‘Strange.’

‘You’ll see tomorrow.’

‘Is that all you’re going to give me?’

‘Is that all you want me to give you?’

Irene grinned. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I can think of a few things. But sure. Whatever.’

She tipped back the whiskey and took up the bottle and poured herself another thin lining and set it back down. ‘Do you know why they partnered me up with you?’ she said.

‘No. Why?’

‘I don’t know. I was asking you. It’s kinda strange.’

‘I have a couple guesses,’ Seulgi said.

‘Yeah? Go on then. Spill em.’

‘Well.’

‘Well what?’

Seulgi was quiet. She tapped a finger against the side of the glass in her hand. Then she said, ‘About six months ago, I ed up. There was this case I was on – this narcotics case – and I messed it up real bad. I busted the wrong person. Nothing came of it. Not really. They didn’t go down for it or anything. But it cost the department a load of time and money. Not to mention manpower. Hongki said I was lucky I didn’t get fired. Instead he stuck me doing menial and street-level robbery cases. And barely even anything at that. Mostly it was just paperwork. Until this case came along. I guess he figured you were going to get involved somehow, so why not put you with me?’

‘He figured I was going to get involved? How? Did he think I’d have stolen it? The prick.’

Seulgi laughed. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘That’s just my theory. Maybe I’m way off.’

She looked at Irene. It occurred to her there that it had been the first time she’d laughed since meeting her. The first time in quite a while. She eyed Irene properly for quite a while. Maybe it was the whiskey – the way it totally s with your brain – or maybe it was something else, but she was being bold. She was actually looking. And Irene there, looking back at her, slender fingers wrapped around the little square glass, the whiskey sloshing back and forth slowly in its belly, Irene smiling at her, her eyes glinting in the low light, a carefully placed note of mischief somewhere not quite there, somewhere just behind that exterior. Seulgi thought there was something to that smirk, that superior winning combo. That something about it wasn’t quite straightforward or as it seems. But then again, what ever is?

She had been staring for too long. Irene giggled but otherwise was quiet. She set the glass down beside the bottle and excused herself and Irene still was silent. But she was sure Irene was watching her go, watching her rub her head and vanish into the kitchen to grab a glass of water and come back and stand awkwardly in the doorway and say, ‘I’m going to bed. I’m not feeling too good.’

‘Sure,’ Irene said. ‘And I’m the Wicked Witch.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Night, sweetie.’

Seulgi clicked her tongue. She disappeared into the dark of the bedroom and lay a while still in her clothes watching the everstill ceiling as if it might suddenly move. And what a stupid ing idea that was. But it was that or Irene. The whiskey was getting to her already. Irene had been right: it was obvious that she rarely drank and rarer still did she drink whiskey because it was awful and the line between soundly tipsy and blackout kaput was so thin it might as well have been an inevitable precipice so why had she done so? And for that matter why had she bought so much of it in the first place? Three or four bottles at minimum. Because Don Johnson drank it in Miami Vice, that’s why. Yeah, baby. Groovy.

She rolled onto her side, she slept. Sometime later she awoke still in her clothes and turned to eye the clock reading just past midnight. She rose and stumbled to the bathroom in that fugue state men and women suddenly awake find themselves often in, not quite knowing where they are or what they’re doing or whether they’re alone or in the middle of Times Square on New Years Day. Knowing only that up is up and down is down – at least most of the time. She didn’t even realise the bathroom door was half closed and the light was on.

She looked up and rubbed her eyes and looked again and blinked and rubbed them a second time to gauge perhaps whether what she was seeing was real or not. Irene was stood there by the sink dressed only in a black bra and underwear.

‘,’ Seulgi said. ‘Sorry.’

Irene turned to her. She didn’t seem to care that save her underwear she was exposed utterly. And Seulgi could barely look away.

‘You should’ve knocked.’

‘Yeah. .’

But Irene was just laughing that same throaty laugh. As if to say: Ha! Got you now.

Seulgi went back to bed and lay down and undressed herself and tried to sleep and for reasons very apparent to her could not. It was like one of those snapshots taken accidentally when trying to frame an entirely different picture. Something entirely unintended and yet magical in its own way and always to be remembered. That’s what Irene there beside the sink was, Irene in her black bra and her underwear and the curve of her hips and her pale alabstrine skin and the flush of her cheeks and the goosefleshing of her arms and that ing smile – for ’s sake, that smile.

‘God help me,’ Seulgi muttered. And she never did brush her teeth.

♣   ♣   ♣

The first words they spoke were in the car at about eleven in the morning. Seulgi would not look at Irene. She was dressed but she wasn’t. Like this strange paradox. She absolutely was wearing clothes – of course she was. But when Seulgi glimpsed her she was still there, in that bra and underwear, attired essentially in only those and that smile. Goddamn that smile.

‘Can I play some music?’ Irene said.

There was no reply.

‘Seulgi.’

‘You’ve already asked me that.’

‘When?’

‘Yesterday. And the day before.’

‘Well. Can I?

‘No,’ said Seulgi.

‘Why not?

‘I don’t want you playing any music.’

‘How far is it? To your friend’s place.’

‘About forty minutes.’

‘And you expect me to sit in silence.’

‘You can do whatever you want.’

Irene said nothing. She watched the cold sunny day and everything in it, small figures of people, zigzagging traffic all along Hannam and further to the south, the calling sirens of a police car somehow somewhere, dappled white light from the smallness of the sun, a wounded sky. When Seulgi pulled the car into the long driveway in Taepyong it was past midday and the traffic had seen to it that they were late. They stepped out and stood on the footpath leading up to the door. It looked like an old American house from the ‘burbs – houses like that were rare in Korea, especially in Seoul. It even had a little garden.

‘Does your friend know we’re coming?’ Irene said.

‘I rang her this morning. Just a warning though.’

‘What?’

‘She’s…not what you’d expect.’

‘I’m not expecting anything. Which, I suppose, would still technically make you right.’

‘Just let me do most of the talking. She’s lost a couple screws, you know?’

‘No. But I’m excited to find out.’

They stood and knocked and waited. The moment the door opened Irene took a sniff of the big stink of weed and laughed and stepped back and looked at Seulgi as if to say: Okay, fair play. That’s what you meant. The woman that answered was maybe their age, maybe a little younger. She had dark hair and a small and homely face and she wore a bright red bomber jacket with golden tassels and a pair of baggy zebrastripe Zubaz and a headband that hid half of her head behind it. Pinned to the right of her jacket was a little emblem in the shape of the Macho Man Randy Savage going Ooooh Yeah! She nodded to them sagely. And she moved rather strangely. ‘Seulgi,’ she said. ‘You’re late.’

‘Yeah. Well.’

She opened the door wider to welcome them and they went in and through the kitchen to the livingroom. It looked more like a hoarder’s den. There was nowhere to move. The clutter littering everywhere made it hard to even sit or stand for any sort of time – pots and pans and plastic containers and cardboard boxes, an old fridge unplugged, two washingmachines, another minifridge in the livingroom, a grandfather clock posted by the corner, empty pizza boxes, kebab boxes, chicken boxes, little greygreen buds of weed on plastic dishes on the table, an ashtray filled with old and snubbedout butts and two freshly rolled joints, three or four TV sets scattered about and none playing – two of them big old CRTs – a computer and keyboard on a wheelout table, a couch filled and piled with all sorts of magazines, car ones, dirty o ones, women’s mags, men’s mags, health mags, a mag that promised you could Get Fit Quick in 8 Weeks. And a big bakingtray of chocolate-chip cookies on the little table beside the weed and the cigs and the brandy. The woman sat on the very edge of the couch and pushed a bunch of books and clothes onto the floor and wheeled the tableputer over. Seulgi and Irene coughed. Everything was sort of hazy and dreamlike and everything smelled, even her. It was like a stoner’s den from a movie, how very stereotypical. So that they were half expecting some twenty-something with shaggy hair and oversized glasses to pop out of the woodwork going Yeeeeeah, radical dude! That’s like, totally cool.

‘Nice place,’ Irene said. Seulgi turned and glared at her. The woman the computer and sat up and coughed and gestured to the room.

‘Welcome to my imaginarium,’ she said. ‘Careful where you walk.’

‘Irene, this is Wendy. Wendy, Irene.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ Irene said. Wendy ignored her. She punched something into the computer and coughed into her hand and took one of the cookies and ate it in one enormous mouthful and turned to them impatiently.

‘I assume you came because you want something,’ she said.

‘Oh, no,’ Irene said, smiling falsely. ‘We just came for the cookies. Love the smell of baking.’

‘They’re store-bought.’

‘I’ve got a very good nose.’

‘Seulgi. Who is this?’

‘You don’t need to know,’ Seulgi said.

‘Is she safe?’

‘No. But she’ll do.’

‘I don’t like the sound of that. Where’s the other one? Your old partner? Not the sullen stern-faced one. The tall, roguish one. With the jawline that could cut diamond. I liked him.’

‘I doubt you even remember him.’

‘Well,’ Wendy said. Shifting her headband and then, ‘That’s what you think. Where is he, anyway? And what was his name?’

‘Taesong. And he wasn’t my partner.’

‘No?’

‘We were only on patrol together once.’

‘That can’t be right.’

‘You only met him that one time.’

‘Huh.’ She ate another cookie. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yeah,’ Seulgi said.

‘Wow. Nice guy. How’s he doing?’

‘Right now? Not too good.’

‘Oh, man. That’s sad to hear. What’s up?’

‘He was in a horrendous accident.’

‘An accident? What sort of accident?’

‘Car crash. It was a fifty-car pileup.’

‘Fifty cars!’

‘He survived.’

‘Well. I gathered that. That’s good to hear. Give him my best.’

‘But he’s paralysed permanently from the neck down.’

‘Ah. Kind of a: bad news, good news, bad news kind of deal, no?’

Irene pointed to the tray of cookies. ‘May I?’ she said.

‘Help yourself. They’re fresh.’

‘Fresh?’

‘Sure.’

‘Uh huh. Thanks.’

She took one bite and chewed and put it back on the tray again. Seulgi nodded to the computer but it seemed Wendy wasn’t really paying attention. ‘I need your help,’ she said.

‘Yeah. You always do.’

‘This is serious, Wendy. I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t. And why are you alone? Where’s Junho?’

‘Junho? No, no. No Junho anymore We don’t talk about Junho.’ Wendy took a joint from beside the ashtray and lit it and took a long drag and blew out and wheezed. ‘You want some?’ she said, holding it out to Seulgi. The stench of weed hot again.

‘I’m good, thanks.’

‘You? Goes well with the cookies.’

‘Sure,’ Irene said.

Seulgi glared at her again. ‘Irene.’

‘Suit yourselves.’

‘Wendy. What happened to Junho?’

‘Oh. Junho. Nah. He’s finished.’

‘Finished.’

‘He’s finished.’

‘Like, Graduated From School-Finished?’ Irene said. ‘Or Kray Twins-Finished?’

‘Let’s not dwell on the particularities.’

‘What have you put in these cookies?’

‘Me? I didn’t make them. I just bought them. I told you that.’

‘What? But…’

‘You’re not supposed to eat them, that’s your problem.’

‘What?’

‘You’re supposed to just em a couple times. Big ol’ tongue swipes, right around the edges.’

‘Why?’

‘All of the flavour, none of the calories. Or the added gelatine bull. Or the arsenic.’

‘What arsenic?’

‘The arsenic. You know. Arsenic.’

‘In chocolate-chip cookies?’

‘Look,’ Wendy said, ‘didn’t I say not to dwell on the particularities? Jesus, man.  Now. Why are you here? I’m guessing if not for my weed, it’s for my information?’

‘You know me too well,’ Seulgi said.

‘Yeah. Well. Maybe I do, actually. Maybe I do know you too well. Kang Seulgi. See? That’s dangerous, you know? Getting close to people. The fact you even know my name is a security risk. The fact that you know Wendy’s not my real name is probably even worse. That’s why spies used to have codenames – stops you getting too attached to people if you only know them as Galahad, or Sir Percival, and you rarely ever meet them. Unless you’ve a for English knights, I suppose. I always thought they should’ve taken it a step further and had the spies dress up in full armour and helmets, so you can’t see anyone. Their superiors, I mean. Not the ists. Did you know American cops undercover in the eighties also used to speak in code? They used to have codewords for when things went wrong, stuff like that. Whenever they’d talk on the radio they’d always start with a codeword, like they did in the war. Even when they were in person. If they ever felt like something was wrong they’d just scream this word and, boom. All the cops would know. Whole precinct shows up. It was actually genius, because soon the baddies started catching on that they were speaking in code but they couldn’t work it out. It just sounded like every day normal conversation. Because this codeword was so genius. Can’t believe it never caught on in Korea.’

‘What was it?’ Irene said.

‘What was what?’

‘The codeword. What was it?’

‘Ronald Reagan.’

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’ Wendy said.

‘Why was it Ronald Reagan?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What about the Democrats? What did they say?’

‘Oh, they just thought of the actor.’

‘Uh huh.’

Wendy took another toke of the joint. ‘Did you know the Soviet Union tried to have John Wayne assassinated twice?’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. But it kind of brings you back to earth, doesn’t it?’

‘What?’ Seulgi said.

‘I mean, they could get to anyone if they wanted to. And you two aren’t exactly being quiet, barging in here and demanding things from me.’

‘We’re not going to be assassinated.’

‘I’m sure John Wayne thought the same thing.’

‘He was never assassinated.’

‘Well,’ Wendy said. ‘The general point remains. Why are you here? What do you want?’

‘We’re looking for anyt-’

‘No. No, no.’

Seulgi sighed. She knew already better than to argue. She looked at Irene and Irene seemed to be holding in her laughter. Then she said, ‘We’re looking for Ronald Reagan.’

‘No,’ Wendy said. ‘It doesn’t work like that. Ronald Reagan was what those cops said when something was wrong. When they were in trouble. Like, if someone was about to be shot or something. Then they’d shout it. Ronald Reagan! Ronald Reagan! The president’s in trouble! Like that. But you’re not in trouble. You just want something from me. See? You’ve got to pick another codeword.’

‘Another codeword.’

‘How about Richard Nixon?’ Irene said.

Wendy grinned lazily through the weedsmoke. ‘Yeah. That works.’

‘Look,’ Seulgi said. ‘We don’t have time for this . We’re looking for something and we need your help with it, whether you like it or not. So either you can help us, or I can slap these cuffs on you and take you for a bit of sightseeing.’

‘Arrest me? What for?’

‘You do know weed is illegal in Korea, don’t you?’

‘We’re not in Korea.’

‘Yes, we are.’

‘Not here. I’m a sovereign citizen.’

‘A sovereign citizen.’

‘Yep.’

‘Right.’ Seulgi nodded to no one. ‘Now, are you going to help us?’

‘Richard Nixon,’ Irene said.

Wendy nodded to her. ‘See? Why can’t you be nice and understanding like your friend here?’

‘She’s not my friend,’ Seulgi said.

‘Uh oh.’

‘We are friends,’ said Irene.

‘We’re not. She’s just my partner.’

‘Ah,’ Wendy said. ‘I see now. Bit of a Ronald Reagan, eh?’

‘Stop playing around.’

‘Need a Richard Nixon?’

‘Shut up about Richard Nixon.’

‘Alright. You got me. Now. What do you need?’

‘We’re looking for information on a name we’ve got. We need anything you can find linking them to anyone at all. They’re linked to a case we’re on.’

‘A big case,’ Irene said.

‘The Leeum case, I presume?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Why couldn’t you have done it the old-fashioned legal way?’

Irene made a gesture as to say: That’s exactly what I asked her.

‘Because,’ Seulgi said. ‘You’re better. When you want to be.’

And finding no further fault in this Wendy said, ‘Well. What’ve you got for me?’

‘The name.’

‘That’s all you’ve got? A name?’

‘We’ve got a surname. And an initial.’

‘Ah. An initial. Like an accidental smudge. Like: Whoops, I left a bit of my name behind!’

‘Wendy.’

‘Alright. What’ve you got?’

‘Just the surname Sachs.’

‘And the initial?’

‘G.’

‘G.’

‘That’s right,’ Seulgi said.

‘Your mystery person’s name is G. Sachs.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Is their middle name Man, by any chance?’

‘What?’

Wendy took another toke and leant back against the makeshift magazine-laden couchcover and laughed. ‘You, my friend, have been played for a fool.’

‘What?’

‘G. Sachs.’

Seulgi nodded.

‘Goldman Sachs. Like the bank.’

Irene and Seulgi looked at one another.

‘Can’t believe we didn’t pick up on that,’ Irene said.

Wendy laughed. She took another long drag of the joint. ‘Yeah, well,’ she said. ‘Seulgi’s always been a slow one.’