The Taste of Lies Chapter 16

“Hey, listen. They’ve been laying a highway next to town for a few years now. The hyung-nims say it’s opening this July, just in time for the summer vacation rush.”

Gicheol relayed the story he’d picked up from the gangster hyung-nims. From the way he told it, he’d clearly repeated it many times—the content was concise, easy to understand, and his tone was confident.

“Think about it. People from Seoul will come down the expanded six-lane highway to the east coast. When you think of the ocean, it’s got to be the East Sea, right? You think they’ll just come for the beach and go home? They might hit the casino, but that’s a small crowd. Where do regular people prefer to go? The answer is obvious—the nightclub. There aren’t any on the Seokho-dong side by the sea, so they’ll all flood into Mukhyeon. That’s why the hyung-nims are looking for hands. If you wait until then to look, it’ll be too late, so they’re starting now.”

The hyung-nims’ words, channeled through Gicheol, made a lot of sense. Plus, the work was clean. It wasn’t hauling candy—it was just being a waiter.

“What’s the hourly wage?”

“Ten thousand won.”

Seeing Sangtae inhale sharply, Gicheol grinned from ear to ear. It was over five times the convenience store minimum wage.

“It could go up depending on performance.”

Sangtae couldn’t hide the flush of excitement that the money brought to his body.

“Performance… how do you measure that?”

“Why would I tell you that? Trade secret. Tsk tsk.”

“After dropping out, Kwak Gicheol sure got smart. Knows the term ‘trade secret’ and all.”

“You little—acting like you’re not interested when you obviously are. Hey, give me your number.”

Gicheol held out his hand to Sangtae. Not understanding, Sangtae placed his own hand on top of Gicheol’s and asked.

“What number? My attendance number is 4.”

“Bwahaha! Attendance number, he says! Damn, this kid is so innocent!”

Gicheol’s cheekbones shot up to the sky. He rummaged through the inner pocket of his suit jacket, pulled out an object smaller than his palm, and waved it in front of Sangtae’s eyes.

“A cell phone, dumbass. Don’t you have one? Of course you don’t.”

He didn’t. Kids with money all had them, but Sangtae didn’t. Not that it would have mattered—even if he had one, he had no one to contact.

“Hey, pen!”

One of the small-timers rummaged through his bag and pulled out a ballpoint pen.

“It’s my number. Contact me if you need a job. You know? Work here for just one month and you could buy ten of these phones.”

His smug tone was irritating. Still, the phone did pique his interest somehow.

If he had one, he could contact Youngmin anytime. Youngmin sometimes didn’t come home without any notice, and Sangtae would spend sleepless nights worrying. With a phone, he wouldn’t have to wait like a stone statue for Youngmin to come back.

“You want one, don’t you?”

“I don’t need it.”

The ten-digit number starting with 016 was written on his palm. At the very end, trying to salvage his pride, Sangtae abruptly withdrew his hand, causing the last digit, 9, to stretch into a long smear.

“I’m leaving. Don’t grab me.”

Sangtae turned his back. The conversation had gone on too long. He felt anxious, thinking he might have missed the bus.

“See you around, Kim Sangtae.”

“Get lost, will you?”

The moment Gicheol and his lackeys disappeared into the shadow of the alley, Sangtae ran until he was out of breath. The bus was closing its doors and about to leave. He ran, waving his arms like a distress signal.

The bus came only twice a day. Missing it would be the end. Fortunately, before he’d gone ten meters, the bus opened its doors.

“Pant, pant, thank you.”

He barely managed to say it, forcing his burning throat.

The bus driver said, “Next time I won’t stop,” and shifted gears. Sangtae slumped wearily into the seat right behind the back door.

∞ ∞ ∞ 

The damp, heavy wind eventually turned into a rainstorm. From the bus stop to the villa where they lived, Sangtae ran with his bag on his head. But by the time he got home, his school uniform was soaked through, and he let out a loud sneeze.

Youngmin was on duty and wasn’t expected back until dawn. Sangtae took off his uniform, bundled it with the laundry in the hamper, threw it in the washing machine, and washed himself. The hot water from the showerhead loosened his stiff shoulders. That didn’t stop the sneezing, though.

Towel-drying his hair, Sangtae stepped out of the bathroom. The washing machine was still running. He threw open all the windows in the house and turned on the vacuum cleaner standing in one corner of the living room.

There were 20 minutes left until the laundry finished. Sangtae cleaned the floors, put scattered items back in their places, wiped the dust, and busied himself.

Youngmin hadn’t told him to. He’d never even hinted that he expected Sangtae to do housework.

It was purely something Sangtae wanted to do.

A household run by just two people—a police officer working shifts and a student—with no one else’s help, was full of gaps. Sangtae accepted those gaps as a legitimate reason for his presence in this house. It was his own interpretation.

When he finished cleaning, the washing machine beeped to signal the end of the cycle. Sangtae set up the indoor drying rack in the middle of the living room and brought out the laundry.

The spin cycle had tangled everything together. Shirts and pants, Youngmin’s underwear and his own, all bundled up.

“Am I catching a cold…”

His face flushed. The sweet scent of fabric softener kept making him sneeze. It seemed he really had caught a cold.

He deliberately snapped the laundry hard before hanging it on hangers. Then he brought out a fan, aimed it at the drying rack, and set it to low. That way, even if it dried indoors, it wouldn’t smell as much.

After finishing everything, Sangtae stumbled to the room. He turned up the boiler, laid out the bedding, and lay down.

Just as he was about to pull the blanket over himself, the phone number he’d written on his palm suddenly came to mind.

The middle of the ten-digit number written in oil-based pen was badly smudged. He had to squint and concentrate just to barely make it out.

Staring at his palm and deliberating, Sangtae got up. He crawled across the room and rummaged through his bag. Pulling out a damp notebook, he tore off a page from the back, then dug through the bag again for a pen. Pressing hard with the nearly-out-of-ink pen, he copied down Gicheol’s contact information, folded it in half, and tucked it into his wallet.

Just in case.

It wouldn’t hurt to have it.

Wrapping himself in the blanket, he rationalized the chaotic thoughts in his head that way.

“Ha-TCHOO!”

Sangtae woke with a sneeze. The floor was toasty from having turned up the boiler a little.

The laundry fluttered lightly in the fan’s breeze. He went over and touched it—it was mostly dry—so he pressed the stop button with his toe.

Despite the warmth in the room, his body felt chilled. He’d thought he might catch a cold, and it had come true.

His nose in particular was unbearably stuffy. The cold always started with the nose, so he couldn’t even pretend otherwise. Next would come the throat irritation, and then he’d be coughing so hard it felt like his abdominal muscles would tear before it finally let up.

He poured barley tea from the glass bottle into a mug and microwaved it. While the timer ran, Sangtae looked for tissues.

There were no tissue boxes in sight. Sangtae brought back a roll of toilet paper and the lukewarm barley tea, then lay back down. Being sick alone was miserable—and Sangtae was no exception.

“Ha-TCHOO!”

Another sneeze burst out. This time it came with a massive amount of snot. Once it started, the snot wouldn’t stop, making him wonder just how much liquid a human head could possibly hold.

Even lying down was hard. Every time his head touched the pillow, his nasal passages and throat filled with mucus, making it impossible to breathe.

Sangtae covered his lower body with the blanket, sat leaning against the wall, and kept blowing his nose. Good thing he’d brought the toilet paper. He also felt feverish and didn’t have the energy to throw away the used tissues, so he left the wads scattered around his bedding.

Eventually, even blowing his nose became exhausting, and he just sat there dazedly, barely wiping the dripping mess. The fever made his eyes glaze over. His ears felt clogged. The wall against his shoulder felt cool, and he was letting out a languid moan when—

The door burst open.

Youngmin stuck his head in. He still had his police cap pulled down low, as if he’d come straight from the substation.

“There you are? I called but you didn’t answer…”