As usual, I was the only white guy in the place. I watched as the cordless microphone was passed down along the bar to Ban Gu, a pale-faced Korean with huge bags under his eyes. I looked up at the wall-mounted TV behind the bar. A Korean ballad began to play — words I couldn't understand. Ban Gu got deep into the tune — he was a good singer.

Once or twice, when I got really drunk, I'd try to sing in Korean. No one ever told me to shut up. No one ever grabbed the mic out of my hand. Instead they'd smile and slap me on the back as I gutted their language.

I looked over at the front door where a tall floor fan whirred and buzzed, doing its best to cool off the bar. Cars drove past. It took some getting used to — sitting in a bar and being on public view.

There was only an inch left in my bottle of Hite. At five bucks a pop I could only afford one or two a night. I looked up at the queue of songs running along the bottom of the video image. My song was next — I'd sing and then go home.

Ban Gu finished up, and Min Jee, the good-looking barmaid, took the mic out of his hand. She handed it to me with a smile. Min Jee had her hair dyed an auburn color, with streaks of blond highlights. She almost always wore golden earrings of some kind. For weeks now I'd been thinking of asking her out, but I always took a step back. I liked coming to the Saja Room every night for a song and a beer — I didn't want to do anything to fuck it up.

The first notes of "Moon River" began to play, and I looked up at the karaoke screen. I knew the lyrics by heart, but I liked the reassurance of seeing the words crawl slowly up the TV tube. The screen showed a flurry of disconnected Korean images unrelated to the song — a bungee jumper, animated cell phones, kids bouncing a ball, cherry blossoms waving in the wind — the images made no sense at all.

I weighed the mic in my hand. It had a lot of reverb, and it made almost every singer sound like he was in the shower, his voice bouncing off the tiles. There were a few singers the mic couldn't save — guys who sang angry, loud, and desperate. Most patrons would stare into their drinks when a singer like that roamed the floor — they rarely sang from their seats since they were in too much pain to sit still. But karaoke Korean style was all about flushing out the jimjams. It was no American Idol fantasy. It was a balm for the psyche.

I began to sing, enjoying the feeling. "Moon River" was my song. My grandma back in Pittsburgh used to play that tune over and over. It had gotten under my skin in an odd way, and when I first dropped into Saja and they handed me the mic, without thinking I asked for "Moon River." The regulars all had their signature song, and this was mine.

I glanced over at Ms. Tam, the owner of the bar. She was smiling. She liked it when I sang. The Koreans were middle class and were pleased when a white guy showed them respect — even a white guy like me, in jeans and a black T-shirt.

Ms. Tam looked to be in her fifties, still put together well, always wearing a sheath-like dress. I think her black hair was a wig, since it never changed shape. She always had a Marlboro pasted to her lower lip. The rest of LA had won the war against smokers, but you'd never know it in Koreatown. It seemed like everyone in Saja smoked — the air was blue with it. I didn't have the habit, but I breathed in so much secondhand smoke I'd probably have to start wearing a patch if I ever changed bars.

There was a young Korean woman standing next to Ms. Tam. I'd never seen her before. She kept her head down and leaned in toward Ms. Tam, like a shadow. Dressed in a white shift, she looked demure next to the older woman's flash. I'd noticed that most Korean women had a really hearty sensuality about them. This young woman looked bled out and shy.

I dug into the lyrics — about drifters and huckleberry friends and heartbreakers.

There was polite applause at the end of my song, and some of the patrons raised their beers in a salute. I gave a little wave of thanks and handed the mic to Min Jee.

Min Jee said, "I like the way you sing that song. So much feeling."

She brought the mic down to a gray-haired Korean, and the old guy started singing an upbeat number.

Maybe it was worth the risk, asking Min Jee out. Maybe there was a way I could approach it without feeling like a jerk if she said no. There was a fancy-looking Korean barbecue restaurant a block away. I could ask her to show me the ropes when it came to Korean cooking. I'd examined the menu on the front door a couple of times — it looked confusing as hell.

I was imagining sitting across from Min Jee, maneuvering a pair of chopsticks, eating something gooey and strange, when I saw a Korean dude walk into the bar. Instead of finding a seat, he stood in the open doorway. The guy had presence — a sense of style. He wore a sharp-looking suit without a tie; his glowing white shirt was open at the neck. He had the fresh look of a guy straight from the barbershop. It was strange the way he stood there, his eyes searching the bar. There wasn't much to see — just a long row of stools, a tiny dance floor, and a couple of restrooms off the kitchen. The guy's eyes fastened on Ms. Tam and the young woman standing close to her.

The man smiled —

Then his head exploded in a burst of shotgun fire from the street.

My ears rang as I crouched on the floor, trying to shield myself behind my bar stool. Half the patrons were screaming; the others were shocked into silence. Through the open doorway I saw a car roar off with the shooter leaning out the passenger's side. The well-dressed dude lay on the floor, flat on his stomach. Blood poured from what was left of his head.

I looked at the back of my hand and saw drops of blood. I felt my forehead and face, and there was blood there, too. I wasn't wounded — the blood had splattered over me. I started to shake. I climbed to my feet and held on to the bar with both hands. I looked around and saw what seemed to be every patron punching away at their cell phones, calling 911.

Min Jee was huddled behind the bar. She looked up at me and said, "The door. Please close the door. Lock it."

I carefully stepped around the body and closed the front door, throwing the bolt. Ms. Tam was trying to light a cigarette, looking grim. The young girl in white hid behind Ms. Tam, trembling.

A Korean guy named Kwan jerked his chin toward Ms. Tam and the girl. "It's all because of her."

I didn't understand what he was getting at, and asked, "Ms. Tam?"

"No," said Kwan. "The girl. Soo Jin. She's Nang. Nang family."

Min Jee leaned over the bar and handed me a damp towel. "Your face."

I took the towel and peered into the bar mirror, dabbing away at the blood on my forehead — and something that wasn't blood, something pulpy and white. I heard the sirens and walked over to the door and opened it. The cops would be pissed if they couldn't breeze right in. A crowd had gathered outside. They shouted some questions at me in Korean, but I ignored them and went back to my seat.

Seconds later the first cruiser pulled up to the curb, and the bar went dead silent. That's when I realized that all the police were going to get as far as testimony was a lot of "I don't know" and "I didn't see." And that's what happened. The police tried to get the story in English and got nothing much at all. When a Korean-speaking cop showed up, there was even less said.

One of the first two cops on the scene eventually got around to me. With a hand on my elbow he guided me back toward the corner of the bar, near the kitchen. He was a Latino with a rough complexion.

He glanced at the other patrons and then looked me in the eye. "What did you see?"

I told him exactly what I'd seen, leaving out the part about the car and the shooter.

He pointed at the body on the floor. "You ever seen this guy?"

"No. I don't think so."

He gave me a hard look. "What are you doing in this place?"

"Drinking beer," I said. "It's close to my apartment."

"What do you do?"

"I manage a car wash."

"I run you through the system, what am I gonna find?" asked the cop.

"Nothing. Not even a parking ticket."

He held out his hand. "Give me your ID."

He took my wallet and walked away.

I watched him make a call.

A few minutes later he came back with my wallet and handed it to me, saying, "A young guy like you hanging around here, with a bunch of bucketheads, I don't like it."

I kept my mouth shut. Growing up in Pittsburgh I learned early that the less said to cops, the better.

I walked over to Ms. Tam and the young girl I now knew was named Soo Jin. She was fresh-faced up close, delicate. She wouldn't look me in the eye.

"Ms. Tam," I asked. "You all right?"

I don't know why I asked her that — she was the toughest person in the room.

"Bad business," said Ms. Tam.

I watched my crew swarm over a green Honda Pilot, soaping it up and scrubbing it down before giving the signal to proceed through the car wash. You wouldn't find a Korean working at the Warsaw Wash. My crew was all Mexican — not one of them with papers. Hardworking guys who lived four to a room, sending most of what they earned back home to their families.

The Honda Pilot came through the car wash, and the driver stepped out, a tiny Korean lady. She took a seat in a row of chairs against the wall and watched as three workers buffed and dried her car, vacuumed the interior, and dressed her tires. When they were done she stuck a dollar in the tip jar and drove off.

A worker named Manuel, in rubber boots and black rubber apron, came over to me during a lull in the flow of cars.

Manuel bobbed his chin up and down. "So you were there, huh?"

"You talking about last night?"

"Yeah. At that karaoke club."

I looked out toward Western Avenue. "It was terrible. Bloody."

"You're lucky you didn't get shot, homes," said Manuel.

I nodded in agreement. "They say it was a shotgun."

"You ever be in the war?" asked Manuel.

"No," I said. "Never wanted to be, either."

Manuel said, "Why they didn't do that guy in the street? That stuff be pinche, shooting where they had women and all."

A car drove in, and Manuel drifted off to hose it down. I wondered if Saja would be open tonight, or if I'd find it sealed off with yellow crime scene tape.

LA may have been huge and sprawling, but my orbit was tight and contained. Saja was three blocks east of the car wash, and my apartment was two blocks north. I did my shopping at a Ralphs supermarket, one block west, and I got my reading matter and DVDs at the public library, right across from Ralphs.

I guess I wasn't much for new experiences. I'd only ever been in two places, really. I grew up in Pittsburgh. When I was nineteen a buddy of mine, Will, asked me to drive to LA with him. He was going to be an actor, and he wanted me to come along for moral support. There was nothing holding me in Pittsburgh so we drove straight across the country, taking turns driving and sleeping. Will only lasted eight months before he gave up on his dream and went back to enroll in a community college in Pittsburgh. I stayed on in LA — I had my job at the car wash. Six years later, I still had it. The only difference after Will left was I moved to the smallest apartment I could find, what they call a bachelor. It was one room and didn't have a kitchen, but that worked for me. I got along fine with a microwave, small refrigerator, and a Mr. Coffee.

A black Toyota Camry drove in to be washed. It was a gypsy cab belonging to one of my favorite customers — Yun, a Korean woman in her late thirties who worked twelve-hour shifts. I watched her get out of her car and walk back to where I was standing. She was wearing jeans, high-heeled sandals, and a burgundy Aéropostale T-shirt. She stood close to me — too close — and peered at my face. There was always a sexual charge coming off Yun. I knew she was married so it never went anywhere.

I took a step back and asked, "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Yun grinned. "They told me you had blood splashed all over your face. I was checking to see if you missed a spot."

Yun licked the tip of her finger and rubbed it lightly by the side of my lip. "There. That's better."

Yun was ten years older than me and always seemed ten steps ahead.

I said, "So you heard?"

"Lots and lots of talk," said Yun. "I'm glad you weren't hurt."

"No one got hurt. Just the poor guy who got his head blown off. Have you heard anything about them catching the guys who did it?"

"You know how it is in Koreatown," said Yun, looking away. "No one is going to talk."

The crew finished up with Yun's car. I noticed she had a photo of her kids taped to the dash.

Yun got behind the wheel and powered down the window. She gave me a serious look, unusual for her.

"I know you're gonna go back there," she said. "Be careful."

It was five minutes to closing when the owner of the car wash showed up. It was unusual to see Jules in the middle of the week. He usually rolled in on Friday afternoon before the Sabbath. He didn't really have to come in at all, since he kept track of all the deposits online. Most of the business was cash, and he liked me to deposit it directly into a savings account at a Citibank a couple blocks away. He said he trusted me, but I also think he had his ways of knowing whether or not I was skimming off the cream. I'd been tempted in my early days at the car wash and had almost taken the plunge a couple of times. But I never did fall into the trap of taking what wasn't mine. The urge to steal from Jules eventually disappeared, and I settled into running his business the best I could.

Jules was an old-school Jew pushing seventy. His kids were grown and in solid professions. I'd had a few discussions with him about me buying the place. These talks always ended with Jules saying, "What am I gonna do if I retire? Sit on the couch and watch Judge Judy?" I had a feeling that was what he was doing already, since I only saw him once a week.

He had me over for dinner a couple of times, to his house in Redondo Beach. I think in some ways he considered me his working-class son — the one who was meant to inherit the family business.

Today he looked like he had something on his mind.

Manuel fastened the chain across the entrance to the car wash, a closed sign dangling from the links.

Jules gestured toward the car wash garage doors. "Lock up and then come with me."

I secured the padlock. "Where we going?"

"Nowhere. For a sit in my car. I got something I want to talk about."

We walked over to his powder-blue Grand Marquis parked at the curb. We got in and he rolled down the windows to let in some air. Even this late in the day the heat was brutal.

"I never had a guy with me this long," said Jules. "One year — two, tops — and then they were gone. I don't know if that's a good thing or not. It's been good for me, you sticking around. But good for you, I'm not so sure."

I didn't like the sound of this, as though he was preparing to kick me to the curb. "I'm not complaining, Jules. This is what I do. I'm good at it. No one's going to give me any awards for doing it, but I'm fine with that."

"I've been at this location since seventy-two," said Jules. "It's been good to me. I'd like to see the right person get it."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm selling. I've got my reasons — some personal stuff with my wife. I don't want to get into it. But it's time to sell. You get first crack. But I'm a businessman — I'm not going to give it away."

This was happening too fast. I'd been saving for this day the last three years. Problem is I thought I had a few more years before Jules and I had this conversation.

"What's your price?"

"Two hundred K. But for you, I'll cut you a break on the down payment. Give me twenty-five grand and pay off a thousand a week and it's yours."