Yin Yang Tattoo by Ron McMillan Page B

club was closed down by police for a long list of ‘violations’. It was an act of contrived vengeance, Korean style. If the American thought he was going to keep the place to himself, then she had ways of showing him how far off the mark he was. It re-opened a few days later after a deal had been struck, one that reportedly cost the American a lot more than he had ever anticipated.
    Miss Kim arrived late, setting a precedent that she kept up for all the years we were together. She wore black again, another revealing low-cut number with strings for shoulder straps and a tight, fifties-style skirt that hugged her thighs and restricted her steps but didn’t stop her dancing sinuously for long spells.
    As closing time loomed I couldn’t decide. Go for broke and take the chance of spoiling a great night, or settle once more for the uncertainty of another phone call? Then she stood up, slipped one arm through the long strap of her shoulder bag, and looked at me, rising amusement parting her painted lips.
    â€˜Taxi?’ I said.
    â€˜How about your place.’ She said it with a smile that made me weak at the knees.
    I had tidied my room especially, and left the heating on to warm the freshly laundered Korean bedding that lay on the hot papered floor. Not a lot of sleep was had that night, but we did stay warm.
    After that we met at least once a week, almost always in Itaewon, usually ending up on my warm floor. In bed just as out of it, she had a strength and confidence that belied the blinkered stereotype of the demure Asian woman. We explored endlessly, experimented tirelessly, and often exploded together in spontaneous laughter.
    Sometimes we met during her lunch break near the import/export company where she worked. These were quick hot hours of passionate surrender in a small inn on a back street in the thick of Dongdaemun Market, leaving us no time for lunch before she repaired her make-up and hurried to her office and I went back to spend the rest of the day teaching English, deliciously conscious that I smelled of her sex.
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    I wandered from club to bar, led by discarded pockets of memory fogged by alcohol and years of separation from Itaewon’s singular brand of hedonism. Two hours later I sat next to the window in the top-floor Starship Bar and looked out over the lights of the city and down on the glow of the clubs and the action on the streets.
    I checked my watch. Nearly eleven o’clock, time for a change of scenery, and the Nashville was only a couple of hundred yards away, but in a separate world. Another Itaewon survivor story, the Nashville was a cluttered bar that served mostly middle-aged Westerners, civilian beer guzzlers whose personal sporting efforts stretched no further than the bar’s pool table and darts boards.
    Bobby Purves sat at a round table bent under the strain of chunky glass mugs full of foamy draft lager. When he weaved over to meet me I knew he had had a few.
    â€˜Hey-up, Jock, you look like you’ve already sunk some piss.’
    I looked around the room. ‘Then I’ll fit right in.’
    I waved through the smoke to the Korean barman, an old face I recognised from days gone by when I used to be here several nights a week. I held my palms horizontal, one far above the other, and waggled two fingers. He got straight to work. Drunks love a professional.
    â€˜I was wondering if you’d drop in.’
    â€˜Didn’t mean to. Got tired of my own company.’
    â€˜How’s the job going?’
    â€˜Alright.’ Beyond Bobby I recognised a face I knew. ‘I see our pal Martinmass is here.’ The grimace Bobby pulled was answer enough.
    â€˜I had to photograph him today along with Chang. You’re right. He is a bad-tempered arsehole.’
    â€˜He’ll be in a better mood tonight. See the guy trying to sit on his knee?’
    Beside Martinmass, a smooth-faced Korean in his early twenties and wearing a blue suit jacket