Page 5 of Perfect Martinis
“Sent you your next assignment. The last thing we need are the Italians coming here and getting buddy-buddy with the kkangpae. They give us enough trouble.
“If you can’t get proof of the drugs, then find a way to prove the gambling I know goes on there. By any means necessary.”
When the Sergeant says that, I know he means it.
And I will. No matter if it’s learning hard choreography in a day or catching a drug runner, I always give it my all.
And I always succeed.
I go to my computer and look at the file on the owner of Sweet Cock-Tails. A woman two years older than me, from America, of Sicilian descent, who recently came into an inheritance from a mafia kingpin.
Her record is clean. She studied at SNU, went back home, and now came here once she got her money.
How did she wind up entrenched with the kkangpae? They don’t randomly go after people, especially not foreign business owners.
Well, it doesn’t matter the why or how. All that matters is I stake out the bar, maybe talk to the owner or other employees, and give them all just enough rope to hang themselves.
I’m kind, charismatic, and I was an idol. I know I’m handsome. Those things combined have helped me more in my police career than they did when I actually was an idol.
Plus, I’m going to get paid to have a drink (just one, so I don’t stand out). Can’t complain.
Sweet Cock-Tails is located in Gangnam, the trendiest area of Seoul. Currently, one of the biggest pop stars in the world is having a huge exhibition in the area, so every bar and restaurant is packed, and this one is no exception.
It will be difficult to spot any bad behavior tonight, but good for me not to be noticed. I can check the employees out from afar, map out the bar, check for back rooms and hidden exits.
The bar is tastefully done in black and blue tones, with splashes of silver. Very much my style. Minimalist but makes an impression.
I manage to grab a seat at the bar, figuring it will be a while, so I turn my back to it to scan the place.
“Annyeonghasayeo,” a soft voice says, making me jump and turn back around. I didn’t expect a bartender to approach so fast.
For the first time in years, I’m tongue-tied at the woman standing before me.
Her skin is moonlight-pale, her long dark hair done up in a bun, and her dark eyes sparkle in the low lighting. Every dip and curve of her body that I can see is being hugged within a skintight black dress.
I shake myself and return her greeting.
“What can I get you this evening?” she asks, her eyes not leaving mine.
“Perfect martini,” I say in English. An old joke, based on my old self: “Perfect Junggi”, my stage name.
Her pink-painted lips turn up in a smirk. “Perfect martini it is.”
When she returns, I pay instead of starting a tab.
“I hope you’ll return,” she says when she sees I won’t be staying long.
Giving her my best “fansign” smile, I reply, “Oh, you’ll be seeing a lot of me.”
* * *
I return twice a week for the next two weeks, not wanting to seem conspicuous. Each time, the beautiful bartender serves me and I try to talk to her, but they are always busy enough where she can’t stay for a chat.
I use the time to see where people seem to vanish to a back room, likely the gambling setup, unless she holds it here in the main room when they claim to be closed.
But most Sweet Cock-Tails bars have hidden rooms. For gambling, drugs, sex … could be anything. Each owner has their own enjoyment.
Apparently, third week is the charm as I enter the bar at my usual time to find it half empty.
