Monday was the night off at the club, and in the evening we went looking for “freeloaders”, as Randy called those who agreed to play a win-win lottery with him. “Don’t get involved in anything,” he warned me. “I’ll do it all myself.” We walked up and down the main street for a long time; Randy looking into the faces of passers-by, trying to guess the victim. He only got one shot at week, and he didn’t want to miss.

“Sir!” Randy ran over to the tall gentleman who had just finished talking on the phone. “Excuse me; are you from the Imperial Hotel? Excellent choice, sir! Would you like to play the lottery? I’m sure you’ll be lucky. It’s free. Choose your ticket, please.” The man looked at Randy doubtfully and walked rudely around him, about the way one walks around a puddle or a pole on the street.

“Sir, the first prize is a trip to a palace of incomparable beauty, don’t miss your chance!” But the man walked away without looking back.

“Bastard!” my partner cursed. “I bet he would have pulled it out.” “Can I try it?” a guy with a camera appeared out of nowhere.

“Dude, what do you need that for?” Randy asked with barely concealed annoyance.

“What for? I heard you talking to that guy. What if I get lucky?”

“Kid, get out of here.” Randy looked like he wanted to get rid of the guy, but the youngster had a death grip on him. “Oh, the hell with you, pull!”

The photographer quickly reached into the bag, pulled out a sealed piece of paper and ripped it open with shaking hands.

“What have you got there?” “A cap ...” he sighed disappointedly.

“Too bad for you, dude,” Randy yawned. The guy held out his hand for the prize.

“Oh, not so fast! Come back to the Sunset Restaurant in an hour and you’ll get everything in the best possible way.” He handed the guy a business card and spat angrily as soon as the boy left:

“Missed again! Where the hell did this asshole come from? I could have had that tall dude. I bet he’s got money. I could have him right now.”

“Really?” I wondered. “I don’t think he wanted to play.”

“What do you know!” Randy’s eyes bulged and he swung at me jokingly. “Shut up or I’ll kill you!”

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“Speaking of killing, I suppose this guy is doomed?” “How should I know,” he shrugged. “It’s not up to me.” “Whose is it?” “It’s up to him.” “What if he doesn’t come?” “He will, no doubt. There’s never been a case where someone hasn’t come. All these mugs, caps, T-shirts, watches – it’s a freebie, dude, who’s going to say no?” “Doesn’t the name of the Memento Mori lottery freak anyone out? Sounds creepy.”

“Nope, they think it has something to do with the sea. Like, ‘seize the moment and get high’.”

At the appointed time, we entered the restaurant. The boy was already there, sitting at the table and waving at us.

“What did I tell you,” Randy winked at me.

“Are you going to kill him right here?” I whispered and looked around. “I don’t like this idea...”

“Dude, this isn’t Russia,” the bearded man laughed. “Do I look like a gangster? Watch and learn how the professionals work.”

He sat down at a table, ordered a beer, and started talking to the guy, word by word.

The youngster told him that he recently graduated from college in Poland and had come to Samchang for a vacation. They chatted about the weather, the local food, women and cars, discussed politics and soccer, berated the Oscar-winning movie for a long tine, and finally moved on to photography. Randy ordered another beer. While the two of them were waving their arms and arguing about the laws of composition, I was bored, but suddenly I heard a guy’s drunken exclamation:

“I’d give anything to be a famous photographer! No doubt about it!”

“Anything?” asked the bearded man, pouring a beer. “How about your life?”

“Take it all!” the photographer knocked over the bottle in a fever and for some reason reached under the table for it.

“Dude, you look ready,” Randy patted him on the back. “Can you walk?” The boy mumbled something and reached out his hand blindly to see if his camera was in place.

“Your prize,” Randy placed the cap on the table and called for the waiter.

After paying, we grabbed the poor fellow under his armpits and dragged him to the exit.

“Nah, guys I’m fine. I can take care of myself, okay?” he weakly resisted.

“Okay,” the bearded man replied. “Be healthy, don’t cough.”

For some reason, I thought the photographer would drop dead at those words, but he staggered to the freeway, took a taxi, and drove away.

“Is that all?” I looked at my companion in disappointment.

“What did you expect? That he would burst like a soap bubble or go to hell?” “Well, something like that.”

Randy grinned but said nothing.

To be continued