by Martin Limon
Three hours later we were here, poking at our food, wasting time in this dingy little chophouse. There were about thirty bars and nightclubs in the three or four acres that comprised the tightly packed village, the main roads of which were aflame with flashing neon. We weren’t all that hungry since we’d both loaded up on hamburgers and fries at the 8th Army Snack Bar before leaving Yongsan Compound. Besides, we were trying to make our food last since this vantage point gave us a good view of the opposite side of the street and the mouth of an alley down which one of the most notorious money changers in the GI village of Yongju-gol operated. At least, according to Korean National Police Officer Kang Hey-kyong, the woman who’d startled me so badly that I probably wouldn’t need laxatives for the rest of my overseas tour.
The money changer known to GIs as Old Hwang had a little shop right here in the heart of the GI bar district, and any American soldier who dabbled in the Korean black market, which most did, soon learned that Old Hwang would treat them right. It was even reputed that he gave out payday loans, which I found surprising, since GIs who were about to leave the country could stiff him pretty easily. But maybe his profit margin was high enough to cover the losses.
“There she is,” Ernie said.
Across the street, standing beneath the glow of a yellow streetlamp, stood Officer Kang. She was no longer in uniform and wore a long beige cotton coat to protect herself from the chill fall evening. Our prearranged signal was that when she spotted something important and wanted us outside, she’d reach up to adjust the bun on the back of her head.
“There’s our cue,” Ernie said, tossing down his chopsticks.
We slipped on our nylon jackets and were out the door in about ten seconds. Officer Kang had already turned away and was stepping into the gloom of the dark alleyway. Glancing both ways, Ernie and I crossed the main drag of Yongju-gol, gazing longingly at the bars and nightclubs and sparkling neon. But instead of exploring them, we followed this certifiably mad Korean female police officer into the endless night.
Officer Kang Hey-Kyong was waiting at an intersection of two narrow pedestrian passageways. A red bulb above a locked wooden door illuminated her face. Her prominent square jaw stood out in the lowlight, and her eyes were more focused now than they had been when she’d been fiddling with her revolver in the arms room, planning to scare the crap out of us. She looked up at Ernie, then at me, and spoke in Korean.
“Old Hwang sent a boy,” she told us, “to signal me that the GI who tried to exchange the two thousand dollars is back, as he told Old Hwang he would be.”
“To collect the rest of his money?”
“Yes. At their first meeting, Old Hwang had only fifteen hundred dollars on hand. They made the exchange and the GI asked Hwang when he would be able to get more US cash. The GI said he might have as much as another two thousand dollars’ worth of won. They settled on this evening.”
She let me translate for Ernie. Then she said, “He won’t be in there long. You must act quickly.”
We had already determined that Ernie and I would make the arrest. That way, we wouldn’t have to go through the hassle of having the ROK authorities charge him with a crime and have to do the paperwork to turn him over to the US Army. We’d have him directly. No middleman.
“Be careful,” she said.
“You think we haven’t busted GIs before?” Ernie said.
She reached up and slapped him lightly on the cheek. “Wake up,” she said in English, then switched back to Korean. “Don’t let your pride lull you into a trance. Stick with what we planned. Exactly. Danger is a ruby-eyed goddess with a thousand faces.”
I didn’t bother to translate for Ernie. I wondered if Kang Hey-kyong might’ve been a Buddhist nun before becoming a cop. She seemed to view the potential of violence as some sort of cosmic lesson, one she’d tried to teach us when we’d first met her. A lesson I wasn’t too anxious to learn. Ernie and I proceeded down the narrow passageway to arrest a GI who we perversely hoped had shattered a bank guard’s jaw and shot a bank teller who was a wife and a mother of three.
“He ain’t getting away this time,” Ernie muttered.
A glow emanated from the dirt-smudged plate glass window of Old Hwang’s shop. Ostensibly, he sold used clothing and farm equipment, although everyone knew that the bulk of his income came from changing money for GIs and those Korean businessmen who ended up with US dollars—of which there were many in Yongju-gol.
A GI stood at the wooden counter. He was wearing civilian clothes. Blue jeans and sneakers. Broad shoulders were crammed into a light-blue windbreaker; bristly black hair was combed tightly backward along his skull.
“A bodybuilder,” I said. “Fits the description given by the bank employees.”
“Musclebound,” Ernie replied. “That’s good. Clumsy. Easy to take down.”
I liked his attitude, though the guy looked pretty strong to me.
Voices were raised. The GI and Old Hwang were arguing. Hwang was jabbing his finger into the air, demanding something from the GI. I stepped slightly to my left and realized that the GI had just stuffed a wad of what looked like greenbacks into his jacket pocket. Maybe he hadn’t given Hwang the stolen won yet in exchange. Hwang’s face was turning red. He reached beneath the counter and pulled out a naht, the short-handled sickle with a wickedly curved iron blade used by Korean farmers for centuries to harvest backbreaking acres of rice and other types of grain. Old Hwang waved it at the GI’s face, swinging it back and forth expertly.
The GI recoiled, and when Hwang swung again, the GI surprised both me and Ernie by leaping forward like a cat charging a bird. With one hand, he grabbed Hwang by the neck, and with the other hand he yanked the iron sickle out of his grip. Still holding on to the man, he climbed over the counter, shoved Hwang to the ground, and finally, warning the old man to stay put, searched the small shop for more money.
“Now,” Ernie said, stepping forward.
“Wait.” I grabbed him by the elbow. “Let him come out of the shop. That way the robbery is completed, no question. And we won’t have to wrestle him boxed in by all those counters and shelves.”
“What if he hurts Hwang?”
“Too late now. Hwang’s already down.”
If we’d gone in earlier, the GI could’ve claimed there was no robbery, that he’d just been haggling with Hwang over a transaction. Anyway, it became a moot point because the GI finished his search, apparently found nothing other than the cash he’d already pocketed. He hopped back over the counter and pushed through the narrow door out into the street.
Ernie and I walked quickly toward him, me holding my badge up and shouting, “Military Police! Hold it right there.”
The guy froze for a millisecond, then darted to his right. Ernie and I veered after him, and since Ernie already had a running start, he reached the muscular GI just as he entered another narrow pedestrian passageway. Ernie hit him like a deep safety tackling a tight end. The two men went down and rolled on the ground, punching one another. I joined the melee, searching for one of the GI’s wrists to grab, slap a handcuff on, and twist until the other wrist was behind his back and likewise locked in cold metal. Which was the way it usually worked. The way I expected it to.
Until two other demons ran screaming out of the darkness.
They jumped us without hesitation. Ernie and I were pushed back, and my handcuffs clattered onto the cobblestoned road. I jabbed with my left, caught one of them, then swiveled and landed a short front kick that I believe slammed into ribs. Too high. I would’ve preferred the groin. Ernie and I were holding our own, and the three GIs backed away from us. Within seconds, I knew they would turn and make a break for it.
I fumbled inside my jacket for my weapon, but before I could pull out the .45, somebody threw a brick and got lucky, hitting Ernie right in the forehead. He grabbed at his face and went down. I turned to check on him, bu
t instead of taking the opportunity to run off as I’d expected, the broad-shouldered guy bulled past his cohorts and rammed headfirst into my side. He kept pushing as I staggered and tripped over Ernie’s legs, and before I knew it, the world was swirling, and I slammed onto cobblestone.
Then the real nightmare started. The big guy was on top of me and reaching into my jacket for the .45 I’d checked out of the MP Arms Room. I held on for dear life, knowing that once he had the weapon, he would pop a round into my skull without hesitation, and maybe Ernie’s, too, thereby putting a stop to at least this portion of 8th Army’s criminal investigation.
I bit his finger. He screamed. Then a whistle shrilled. Officer Kang Hey-kyong, I hoped, with reinforcement. The burly GI stood up, backed away, and said, “Second time you’ve gotten away from us. Third time will be the charm.”
The voice was deep, winded, raspy, loaded with frustration and angst. He seemed aggrieved, like a person who believed that life’s sole purpose was to heap abuse on him, entirely unfairly. Footsteps pounded. He glanced in their direction, narrowed his eyes at me one more time, and turned and ran.
Officer Kang emerged from the darkness. Her long beige jacket had disappeared. She wore a black cocktail dress with a string of what I presumed were imitation pearls around her neck. I sat up and gawked. Why was she dressed like that? An undercover operation? Maybe she had a date later. But for the first time, I realized—incongruously considering I’d just been on the verge of being killed—that she had a knockout figure. Ernie started to rise also, glancing at his surroundings as if just waking up.
Officer Kang stood over us, straddling the alleyway, her revolver out and pointed down the walkway, a look of resolution on her face. I had no doubt that if those three GIs returned, she’d be more than happy to bust a cap in their mugs. And then it happened again.
A blinding flash of light.
I groaned and lay back down.
Ernie and I could’ve traveled south about five miles to the Camp Howze Dispensary. But somehow, we didn’t feel like having anything more to do with GIs that night. Instead, Officer Kang had us pile into a boxy KNP truck, and we were driven over to what Koreans called the Bopwon-ni Byongwon. The Bopwon Village Hospital. In reality, it was little more than a clinic, but that turned out to be all we needed. The nurse there checked our temperature and blood pressure, and then a doctor examined us, pointing a tiny flashlight at our eyes while ordering us to follow his finger from side to side. Once he determined our heads were too hard to be damaged, he gave orders for the nurse to clean our wounds, apply disinfectant, and bandage them with fresh gauze, which she did. She also gave us a cup of water and two aspirin each, after which we stopped at the cashier’s desk and paid the bill of 12,000 won—twenty-four bucks for the both of us—and we were discharged.
At Camp Howze, the medical care would’ve been free. But again, who needed the grief? We didn’t feel like watching the Division medics smirk at the discomfort of two CID agents.
In the waiting room, Officer Kang sat with bare legs crossed reading a Korean celebrity magazine. She set it down when we approached. Sitting next to her was a Caucasian woman. Narrow-faced, with a pointed nose and straight blonde hair with long bangs that hung down almost to her eyes. She wore blue jeans, sneakers, and a jungle fatigue shirt with a dozen large pockets. A leather strap that sat diagonally across her chest led down to a Nikon camera with flash attachment. She was neither particularly attractive nor unattractive. Her age could’ve been anywhere between thirty and sixty-two.
She stood up without offering her hand. “I’m Katie Byrd Worthington.” She paused for a moment. “Hope you boys weren’t banged up too much.”
When we didn’t answer, she said, “I have a present for you.”
I glanced at Officer Kang. She seemed perfectly relaxed, smiling for the first time since we’d known her.
“Why do you keep blinding us with that damn flash?” Ernie asked.
Katie’s eyes widened. “Because it’s nighttime. And it’s dark. How else would I get the shot?” She edged her camera slightly behind her, as if to protect it. “You want to see that present or not?”
“Why’d you run away at the Bando Hotel when we came to talk to you?”
“Why wouldn’t I? How in the hell was I supposed to know what you wanted? You didn’t call first or anything. For all I knew, you were up to no good.”
“We just wanted to ask a couple questions, for Christ’s sake.” I showed her my CID badge. “We’re not crooks. We’re not trying to mess anyone up.”
She sniffed. “Huh. Heard that one before. Like in Pleiku, when the Army helicopter pilots locked me in a room for fourteen hours so I couldn’t file a story. But I broke out and had the last laugh on them. That’s why they call me Bird.” She crossed her thumbs and fluttered her fingers. “Free as a freaking sparrow, that’s me.”
I nodded toward Officer Kang. “You two know each other?”
“Me and Kyong?” Katie Byrd asked. “We’re friends. What of it?”
“Nothing. Colonel Brace, the Provost Marshal, wants to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say.”
“Tell him to take a flying leap.” She hoisted the canvas bag from the seat behind her, swung it over her free shoulder, and said, “Me and Kyong are going to a teahouse not too far from here. You two coming or no?”
“Will we be getting that present you promised?” Ernie asked.
“Only if you’re buying.”
Ernie shrugged. “Tea? Sure, why not.”
-13-
The Dragon Goddess Tea House was located on the second floor of an old wooden building in the heart of downtown Bopwon-ni. The tables and chairs were made of varnished wood in a style that struck me as Parisian. We sat on an open balcony overseeing the traffic and bright lights below. The voices that drifted up to us were Korean, not American. Unlike Yongju-gol, a few miles north with all its bars and nightclubs, Bopwon-ni was no GI village. It was a fully Korean town, the type of place in which Ernie and I seldom hung out.
It had been a cool fall, and after the events of today, the chilled air seemed to invigorate all four of us. A large lace doily sat in the center of the table. The chair was rickety and groaned under my weight. The ladies, however, seemed perfectly comfortable. A waiter appeared wearing a black vest, a white shirt, and a bow tie. I expected Katie Byrd Worthington to order Black Dragon tea or something of the sort, but instead, she ordered a champagne cocktail. Officer Kang, still looking stunning in her black cocktail dress, ordered a double shot of Jinro soju.
“I thought you were here for tea,” Ernie protested.
“You assumed we were here for tea,” Katie replied. “It’s never smart to assume things when you’re an officer of the law.”
I asked the waiter if they had OB Beer cold, not room temperature. He said yes, but only in liter bottles. I conferred with Ernie and we ordered one bottle with two glasses. We knew that these places were far more expensive than GI bars. The joints catering to Americans kept their prices low for a couple reasons. For one, if they didn’t, GIs would complain, and eventually the post commander would pass those complaints on to the Korean mayor, who would lose face if he couldn’t provide acceptable accommodations to the brave American servicemen who were so selflessly protecting the freedom of the Korean people. Also, the GI bars might make less profit per drink served, but they more than compensated for that with the sheer volume of booze consumed by parched American soldiers.
When the waiter departed, Katie asked, “You want your present now or when the drinks get here?”
“Everything’s better with booze,” Ernie said, so we waited.
“Do you speak Korean?” I asked Katie.
“Not yet. But I’m working on it.” Then she rattled off a sentence in Vietnamese that I didn’t understand.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re as curious as a hungry monkey.” She turned toward Ernie. “You were in Vietnam for two tours and you didn’t understand that?”
“I spent most of the time hiding in my bunker,” Ernie replied.
“Stoned?”
Ernie shrugged. Then he seemed to realize something. “How’d you know I was in ’Nam?”
“Sources,” she said.
“Ones with access to personnel records?”
Now it was her turn to shrug.
“We could pull your press credential,” Ernie continued.
“Bull. You wouldn’t even be here talking to me if that were a real possibility. Your bosses would just pull my credentials, order the Korean cops to arrest me, and have me deported back to the States. And they’d do it, too, except for a little thing called the First Amendment. Some sympathetic congressmen would raise hell, and poor old Eighth Army would never hear the end of it.”
“You’re pretty confident in yourself,” I said.
“Always,” Katie replied.
The waiter arrived with our drinks. After serving the ladies, he poured a glass for me and Ernie, bowed, and departed the table.
“Cheers,” I said, raising my glass.
Officer Kang Hey-kyong said, “Dupshida.” Let’s drink.
So we drank.
“Now,” Katie said, reaching into her canvas bag. “Time for your present.”
She pulled out a sheet of stiff paper, which I quickly realized was a five-by-seven photograph. She slapped it onto the middle of the table, where it sat evenly framed by the lace doily.
“I had this printed while you boys were getting patched up,” she said. Ernie and I leaned forward, staring at it. I moved a candle to get a better look.
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Ernie said. “You can’t publish this.”
