The helicopter’s spotlight froze the dead guy. Three holes in his chest leaked white feathers. They twirled in the rotor wash, forming a vortex—a grim snow globe.

Only thing missing was a sign: CHRISTMAS IN KOREATOWN.

Air 18 circled over a side street north of Olympic. Her cold, unforgiving beam swept the asphalt. Crooked lines of black-and-whites, flickering red and blue, pointed to the main event.

My partner Kevin Han and I got there late. We’d been on the other side of Wilshire Division when the “officer needs help” call came out. We shut down our code-3 run when someone put out a code-4—all officers accounted for.

The street was a valet’s nightmare. Ingress blocked. Forget about egress.

Kevin and I parked a block away and walked in.

He lit up a Marlboro on the way.

We joined the other blue-suited spectators watching the tan-shirted CHP guys work the scene. Their circus, not ours.

Center stage: the dead clown.

He’d led the chippies on a vehicle pursuit, got off on Vermont, then tried his luck in Koreatown.

He drove his car into a light pole, jumped out, and bum-rushed the chippies with a loaded .45.

They scored three in the ten ring. Not bad for guys who work triple-A with a badge.

Kevin lit a new cigarette off the cherry of the old one. Too windy for his Zippo.

I caught a whiff of gunpowder.

We stood near a makgeolli bar. Some guy poked his head out and ducked back in. The garlicky, spicy smell of Korean food followed him—along with the tangy, sweet scent of rice wine.

My stomach growled.

We stared at the dead guy locked in the cold spotlight. The white feathers kept rising from the bullet holes.

How many feathers could there be in a puffy jacket?

How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop?

Another person peeked through the door, releasing the scent of homesickness.

Kevin smoked his cigarette down to the butt. Flicked it into the gutter. The glowing embers bounced off the pavement and fizzed into the air.

The smell of smoke lingered.

“What a fucking idiot.”

I nodded.

Kevin got tired of staring at a dead man.

So did I. We had shit to do.

I took one last look at the eerie snow globe before we walked away.

A month later, Kevin said he was sick of working Koreatown. Transferred to Southeast Division. I never saw him again.

That was 20 years ago.

The other day I heard he jumped headfirst from an overpass onto the 101.