“I gotta be me . . . I just gotta be me,” bellowed Ferguson, smiling at Sonjae as the karaoke music track pounded out the Frank Sinatra track sans vocal. It was almost four a.m.; they’d been at this for hours, and it was time to call it a night.
Past time: Sonjae’s eyelids looked like disheveled bedcovers sagging toward the floor.
Ferg reached over and killed the machine midsong.
“Ready for some rest?”
“Sounds good,” mumbled the former FBI agent. “Real good.”
Ferguson gave him a thumbs-up. Despite hitting nearly every bar and karaoke joint within five miles of Science Industries, they hadn’t come across the secretary he’d stolen the ID tag from the night before. Nor had he seen any Science Industries employees, or at least none who had admitted to Sonjae that they worked there.
A disappointment.
One of the managers came over as they were getting ready to leave and began peppering Sonjae with questions.
“He’s asking if everything was OK,” Sonjae told Ferguson. His Korean had started to improve, though he was a long way from being comfortable with it.
“Perfect.” Ferguson handed over his credit card. “Except, Sinatra was a off-key.”
“I don’t think I can translate that exactly,” said Sonjae.
“The hotel’s a couple of blocks away,” Ferguson told him. “You’ll be snoozing in a few minutes.”
“Great.” Sonjae shook his head, trying to clear it. “What do you have in mind for tomorrow?”
“We need to make a few phone calls, visit an apartment building, and look for nosey neighbors. Then I have you booked on an eleven a.m. flight to the States.”
“I’m going home?” Sonjae asked as they walked up to the limo. The driver was sleeping in his seat.
“I need you to deliver a few things for me.”
“Like what?”
“Dirt, mostly.”