by Martin Limon
Before we left, I challenged Strange about being the source of leaks to Katie Byrd Worthington. He was gravely offended.
“She doesn’t have a need to know,” he said.
“How about us?”
“You have a need to know.”
“According to you,” Ernie said. “But the honchos might not agree.”
Strange shrugged. “I’m a highly-trained, classified-information expert. I make decisions on that basis.”
“Under your own authority?”
“You complaining?” Strange asked.
Ernie held up his hands as if to ward off an argument. “No. You’re right, Strange. You’re right.”
“The name’s Harvey.”
“Right. Sergeant First Class Harvey.”
After we left the snack bar, Ernie asked me, “You think he’s leaking to this Katie Byrd person?”
“Who knows? I doubt it matters. There are plenty of GIs who would be happy to talk to her. Most of them would kill for a little attention from a round-eye.”
“Not me,” Ernie said.
I wasn’t so sure about that.
“So how do we find her?” Ernie asked.
“I have an idea.”
“Don’t you always?”
We headed for the office of the Pacific Stars and Stripes.
It was in a Quonset hut painted olive drab. Above the side entrance was a colorful sign with two crossed American flags, the logo of the Stripes. We tried the door, but it was locked.
“All the news that’s fit to print,” Ernie said, “except on Sundays.”
An emergency contact form taped inside the window listed the names of four Americans. The branch editor was a civilian, and the two reporters were a Specialist 4 and a Corporal, respectively. The NCO in charge was a Master Sergeant by the name of Mortenson Cleveland.
We wandered over to the 8th Army Billeting Office and talked to the Specialist 5 working staff duty. After flashing our badges, he thumbed through his alphabetized file and determined that MSG Cleveland was assigned to Headquarters and Headquarters Company, senior NCO barracks number 7, room 109. It was almost a half-mile walk, and once we arrived, we pounded on the door of room 109, to no answer. Another GI wandered down the hallway.
“You seen Cleveland?” I asked.
“He’s probably out.”
“Where?”
“He’s got a yobo in Samgakji.”
Yobo was a term of endearment, most often used between married couples, similar to the English word “honey.” GIs used it to signify a Korean girlfriend. Samgakji, or the three-horned intersection, was the area of town on the western edge of Yongsan Compound where most of the black troops hung out.
“Do you know his yobo’s name?” I asked.
“Who wants to know?”
I showed him my badge.
“What’s he done?”
“Nothing. We just need some information.”
“From the Stars and Stripes?” the guy asked. “I thought their main function was to put a happy face on everything.”
“It is,” I told him. “But Cleveland might be able to lead us to someone else. It’s a long story.”
“Are you going to arrest that general up at the ROK Third Corps who ordered the MPs to transport hookers for him?”
“We might,” Ernie said. “If we can build a case. At this rate, nothing’s going to happen.”
The guy thought about it a moment and said, “Her name’s Coco. Cute as a button, too. Cleveland put in his paperwork.”
Marriage papers. For a GI to marry a Korean he had to receive permission from not only the US Army but also the Korean government, a process that took six to eight months.
“What club does Coco work in?” I asked.
“The Kitty Kat,” he said.
At the Kitty Kat Club, the female bartender told us Coco didn’t work there anymore. It took some time, but we bought a round of drinks and explained to her that we only wanted to talk to Coco’s yobo in order to ask about his work. Not to cause trouble. She ripped a sheet of paper from a notebook she had stashed behind the bar and drew us a map.
“She live there,” she told us. “Have a room in Hyun-suk Ohmma’s house.” The house of Hyun-suk’s mother.
I thanked her and left a five hundred won tip. About a buck.
On the way out, Ernie said, “You’re gonna spoil these people.”
After a couple of wrong turns, we found the home of Hyun-suk’s mother. Like virtually all the homes in Korean neighborhoods, it was surrounded by an eight-foot-high stone wall with a locked wooden gate in the front. But, likewise as with most local homes, during the day the small doorway carved into the gate was open. We ducked through and emerged into a dirt courtyard with a metal-handled pump atop a cement-floored drain. It occupied the center of the small, square yard and was surrounded by a few scraggly rose bushes. The inner wall on the left was lined with squat earthen kimchi jars. Beyond the courtyard, a narrow wooden porch flanked the front of an L-shaped building. One of four oil-papered latticework doors slid open, and a middle-aged Korean woman peered out.
“Anyonghaseiyo,” I said. “Coco odiseiyo?” Where is Coco?
On the opposite side of the hooch, another door slid open and a younger woman with a heart-shaped face peeked into the courtyard.
“Hi, Coco,” I said. “We’re looking for Mort Cleveland.”
Her eyes widened in surprise, but a long-fingered hand grabbed the edge of the sliding door and pulled it fully open. An American GI stared out at us suspiciously.
“Are you Master Sergeant Cleveland?” I asked, stepping forward and pulling out my badge.
“Yeah,” he said. “What’s wrong?”
He was a thin, smooth-skinned black man, and though he was seated and leaning on his elbow, from the length of his torso I guessed he was fairly tall.
“Nothing wrong,” I said. “I’m Agent Sueño. This is my partner, Agent Bascom. We’re looking for information on a person we’re trying to locate.”
“Just a minute,” Cleveland said. He slid the door closed. After a couple of minutes of hurried conversation with Coco, Cleveland slid back the door and stepped out onto the porch. I was right. He was tall, about six feet, and very thin. Wearing slacks and a green army T-shirt, he squatted on the porch, reached down, and slipped on his shoes.
Behind him, Coco reappeared, this time holding a toddler.
“Hey,” I said, “cute kid. What’s his name?”
“Mort Junior,” he told me.
So that was why Cleveland was putting in the paperwork.
“Are you guys going to question me here, or do we have to go somewhere?”
“Here’s fine,” I said.
When he was through tying his shoelaces, Mort Cleveland looked at me and said, “Am I in some sort of trouble?”
“No, nothing like that,” I replied. “Just want to ask you a few questions.”
Ernie stepped toward the middle-aged woman, who had completely emerged from her hooch and was now sitting cross-legged on her wooden porch, enjoying the show. He asked her “byonso odi?” Where’s the outhouse?
She pointed toward a narrow passageway behind the hooch. Ernie disappeared into the shadows. I knew what he was doing, reconnoitering the back. That and actually taking a leak.
I sat down on the porch a few feet from Mort Cleveland and pulled out my notebook. “Have you seen the Overseas Observer today?”
“That rag? Hell no. Why, what’d they do this time?”
“Big story. Up north. A photograph and everything. They’re claiming that the First Corps Commander had the local MP Company drive a half-dozen hookers up to the ROK Army Third Corps.”
“For what?”
“For a party sponsored there by the Third Corps Commander. One that lasted a
ll weekend.”
“This is news?”
“Well, it’s a little different this time.”
“Why?”
“The hookers aren’t Korean.”
“What are they?”
“Caucasian women.”
“Ah,” Cleveland said. “I see. The purity of the white race is under assault.”
“I guess you could say that. The MPs are angry because they were ordered to act as pimps.”
“Without the benefit of getting paid.”
“They were granted a three-day pass.”
Mortenson laughed. “God,” he said. “Leave it up to the Oversexed Observer to ferret out a story like that.”
“How many reporters do they have in-country?”
“Just one.”
“Katie Worthington?”
“None other. Although don’t discount the Byrd or she’ll bite your head off.”
“You’ve met?”
“A few times. She comes on compound occasionally, snooping around our office for leads on one thing or another. Of course, we never give her anything. Consequently, she hasn’t been around for a while.”
“Do you have any idea who might’ve given her this info on the First Corps commander?”
“None whatsoever.”
“How about your other reporters?”
“You can ask, but I doubt it. They like their jobs. Get to travel around the country, snag a few bylines. Even if they’re not staying in the army, it’ll give them a good portfolio when they get out.”
“So they wouldn’t risk talking to Katie Byrd?”
“I’d be awfully surprised.”
The little boy crawled out onto the porch. Cleveland grabbed him and lifted him into his arms. Then he hoisted him in the air and kissed his stomach, the child giggling uncontrollably.
“Your paperwork almost done?” I said, nodding toward Coco.
“We’re getting there.” He set the boy down. “How’d you know about that?”
“Just a guess.”
Ernie emerged from behind the building and flashed me our hand signal for “all clear.” We didn’t suspect Cleveland of anything. Checking our surroundings was standard procedure. In the business of law enforcement, it paid to be cautious.
“How would I find Katie Byrd Worthington?” I asked.
“She smokes a lot,” he said. “Stands outside the office sometimes and shares cigarettes with our photographer, Freddy Chang.”
“Korean hire?”
“Yeah.”
“You think he can tell me where to find her?”
“Doubt it. But one time she did pass him one of those boxes of wooden matches that Korean hotels give out. It said Bando.”
The Bando Hotel had been built by the Japanese prior to World War II, and it was one of the few multi-story buildings in the capital city to have survived the vicious artillery barrages of the Korean War.
“Okay, thanks,” I said. “How about other than that? Does the Overseas Observer have an office somewhere?”
“No. Not in Korea. The only office they have, I think, is in Germany, where they started.”
Which figured, since over a half million US servicemen—not to mention their dependents—had been stationed mostly in Germany, but also throughout the rest of Western Europe, since the end of World War II.
“So Katie works freelance?”
“I’ll say. You never know where she’ll turn up.”
I rubbed my eyes. “Yeah. We definitely know that now.” I thanked him and shook his hand. “We’ll see if we can track her down.”
“What are you gonna do? Lock her up?”
“No. We need to talk to her. It’ll probably be a waste of time.”
“With Katie Byrd Worthington, nothing’s a waste of time.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll see.” He half grinned to himself.
I stood to leave and thought of something. “By the way, how’d you get the first name Mortenson? I’m curious.”
“Oh.” He nodded, not at all offended by the question. “It’s my mom’s maiden name. Her dad died when she was an infant and she didn’t have any brothers, so she wanted to keep the family name alive somehow.”
“Sad story,” I said.
“Yeah. She’s proud of him. He was with one of the segregated black American units that fought with the French army during the First World War. He was awarded the French Legion of Honor. Posthumously.”
“No wonder you joined the army,” I said.
“Yeah, I guess it was inevitable.”
“And your son will carry it on.”
“That’s why we call him Junior.” He reached out and tickled the boy’s round tummy, making him chortle.
I thanked Mort Cleveland and nodded to Coco, and we left.
“The Bando,” Ernie said. “That’s all the way downtown.”
It would’ve been a hike to retrieve Ernie’s jeep, and besides, there was little to no parking in downtown Seoul. After deciding to find a cab, we headed for the main road, walking swiftly through the narrow alleys of Samgakji.
On the way, Ernie said, “I feel guilty for not working the bank robbery case.”
“We have nothing to go on. Without some sort of break, there’s not much we can do. We might as well get this Katie Byrd Worthington business out of the way.”
We emerged from the pedestrian pathway onto a two-lane road that led to one of the side gates of Yongsan Compound on our right and left toward the main road that ran north to Seoul Station. A man pushed a wooden cart laden with yang-pa, foreign onions, and a small mountain of glimmering green Napa cabbage. He was above us on a slight incline and had apparently not been paying attention, losing his grip, which allowed his cart to roll. Out of his control, it trundled straight toward us.
Just then, a jeep parked across the street and to our right, started its engine and headed in our direction. The cart was still barreling toward us, picking up speed. I grabbed Ernie’s elbow and said, “Watch it.”
We both stepped back into the pedestrian lane.
As we did, something whizzed in front of us at eye-level like an angry wasp and exploded a portion of the brick wall to our left, turning it into a small mushroom cloud of dust.
-9-
Ernie hit the ground before I did. I suppose it was his keener reflexes from his two years in Vietnam. He yanked at my sleeve as he dove, and I realized vaguely what was happening and fell to the dirt along with him.
The produce cart hit the brick wall and jolted to a halt in front of us, and from between its bicycle-like tires, I saw the jeep pass directly opposite us and keep going. I crawled forward beneath the cart and craned my neck to see what I could of the speeding vehicle. The rear bumper was covered with black tape, leaving no visible numbers or unit designation. The jeep hit cross traffic on the main road and rammed its way forward, forcing kimchi cabs to swerve and honk their horns like a gaggle of startled geese. It completed a sharp right turn and disappeared.
“For Christ’s sake,” Ernie said. He rose cautiously to his feet, knees flexed, ready to fall back to the ground if necessary. “What the hell was that?”
“You’re the combat veteran,” I said.
He glanced both ways. “Get up. I think we’re all clear now. But somebody fired at us from that freaking jeep.”
I rose to my feet, using the side of the wooden cart for balance. The owner had stopped and was glancing back and forth as nervously as we were.
“Maybe that GI doesn’t like onions,” I said.
“That’s it,” Ernie said, laughing. “His mom forced him to eat too many shallots, and now he’s taking it out on every greengrocer he sees.”
“You think it was the bank robbers?” I said, dusting myself off.
“Probably,
” Ernie said. “Who else hates us that much? Other than a few female acquaintances, I mean.” He placed his hands on his hips and paced in a small circle, calming himself. Finally, he looked up and said, “But how the hell’d they find us?”
“I don’t know. I’m working on that.”
We could’ve called the Korean cops or marched back to the compound and reported this incident to the MPs. We decided against it because that would take too much time, and we didn’t see what good it would do. Besides, I could always slip a description of what happened into our own report, if I decided to. What we did instead was search for the spent bullet. After a few minutes, we found it. It had rebounded across the pedestrian alleyway and rolled next to a loose brick. Ernie picked it up with a snack bar napkin he had in his pocket and tucked it away for later analysis.
Keeping a wary eye out for more jeeps, we walked to the main road.
“These guys aren’t playing,” Ernie said.
“No. You saw what they did to the bank guard, and to that teller.”
“With her they were shooting to frighten everybody, and the ricochet got her. This time, they were shooting directly at us.”
“If it was them.”
“Who else would be after us?” Ernie paused, thinking about it, arms folded.
“Nobody,” I admitted.
“And how in the hell did they find us?” he asked again, the question still bothering him.
We waved down a cab and climbed in the back. The little sedans were a tight fit, but we managed. The driver pulled the front passenger seat forward, giving me more legroom. I told him we wanted to go to the Bando Hotel, and he flipped the metal flag atop the meter, and we took off.
For the first few minutes, Ernie and I were quiet, reflecting on what had happened, still trying to slow our heart rates. Outside, a guy on a sturdy Korean-made bicycle pedaled near us, cardboard pallets of fresh eggs tied with twine to the metal platform atop his rear tire. They were balanced to a height a full two feet above his head.
“If he falls,” Ernie said, “that’ll make one hell of an omelet.”
I imagined a bullet tearing through my cranium and the similar mess it would’ve made.
