by Martin Limon
“It’s on the outskirts of downtown, in a residential area, in one of those little catacomblike alleys leading up a hill toward a run-down yoguan.”
“A what?”
“An inn. A Korean inn.”
It was hard to believe how little Korean the First Sergeant had learned in the almost two years he’d been here. But he was like most GI’s. He didn’t want to learn.
“Late at night,” I said, “a place like that can be pretty isolated. The windows in the buildings around it are mostly boarded up, not used much. Some are warehouses. Others are kept shut during the winter to keep out the cold and to keep out burglars.”
The First Sergeant shuffled some papers.
“The Namdaemun Precinct has jurisdiction?”
“Yeah. A Lieutenant Pak will be conducting their side of the investigation. We met him last night.”
“What’d he ask you to do?”
“Get information from Whitcomb’s unit. Interview his friends. Things like that.”
The First Sergeant nodded. “I want those reports sent to him right away. Don’t get on your high horse and try to do the translation on your own, Sueño. Have the KNP Liaison Officer take care of it.”
“Lieutenant Pak’s English is pretty good.”
“Good. If we don’t have to translate them at all, so much the better. The first thing 1 want is interviews with everybody in the British Honor Guard. ASAP. Don’t concentrate on just his friends. Everybody. I also want interviews with anyone he might’ve known outside of the British contingent. And I want copies of his personnel records. If they give you a hassle, have them call me. I want this done now. Any questions?”
Neither Ernie nor I said anything. It was a lot of work but more importantly it was also stupid. Churning out a ton of paperwork looked good when you sent it up the Chain of Command—they’d be impressed with how much you’d done—but it was more important to get to the heart of the matter. I couldn’t be sure yet where the heart of the matter resided but if I had to bet I’d say it resided with Miss Ku. First, I had to make sure she was still alive. But Ernie and I both knew better than to argue with the First Shirt. That would just set him off. Better to say yes and then do what you want.
The First Sergeant lowered his voice. Confidential now. Buddy to buddy.
“I don’t have to tell you this, you guys. You’ve already guessed that the head shed is about to shit a brick over this. While they’re here in the UN Honor Guard, those British soldiers are under our protection. But that’s an agreement that can be changed. The British Ambassador has already been on the line to the CG. If we don’t catch the killer, and pronto, they might pull their troops out of the joint command.”
He let that sit for a while, waiting for us to be suitably impressed.
“Politics back home,” he said. “One of their own killed over here and they have to rely on us to investigate.”
“Tough for the country that gave us Sherlock Holmes,” Ernie said.
The First Sergeant studied him, searching for a sign of mockery. He found none. Not in his face, anyway. Mockery was sort of a way of life for Ernie.
“Yeah,” the First Sergeant said. “And tough for us too. When the Embassy is interested, you can expect the White House to be interested, and everyone up the Chain of Command is going to be watching us. The Provost Marshal plans to brief the CG on our progress this morning. You two guys are going to be under a lot of pressure, but I’ll be here to back you up a hundred and ten percent.”
I almost burst out laughing. Ernie’s eyes glazed over. The First Sergeant looked at both of us and what he saw gradually made him angry.
“Maybe you don’t want my cooperation? That’s okay too. Either way we’ll get the job done. I’ll pull you two off the case if I have to.”
A snort of air burst through Ernie’s nose.
“Not on a case like this, you won’t.” Ernie put his coffee cup down and leaned forward. “This happened downtown, amongst Koreans, and George is the only CID agent who speaks the language. Besides, we’re the best investigators in-country and you know it.”
The First Sergeant straightened his back. His hair, which already stood on end, seemed to bristle.
“Don’t push me, Bascom. Nobody’s indispensable.”
Ernie ignored him, leaned back in his chair, and went right on sipping his coffee.
The First Sergeant might want to pull us off this case but I knew he wouldn’t. Not now. Not this early. It would look bad to the honchos at the head shed to be shifting personnel for no apparent reason and having to spend the time to get two new investigators up to speed. If the First Sergeant told them the truth, that he had doubts about whether or not he could control us on a sensitive case, it would reflect badly on him. They would wonder about his leadership abilities. The First Sergeant was stuck with us, unless we screwed up. He knew it and we knew it.
“In case you guys have any ideas that you’ve got me over a barrel,” he said, “let’s get a few ground rules straight.”
A caginess crept into the First Sergeant’s eyes. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a neatly typed sheaf of paperwork. I recognized Riley’s handiwork. The First Sergeant placed it in the center of the blotter in front of him.
“Your request for extension, Bascom,” he said. “All signed and sealed and ready to go to personnel. Except it won’t go anywhere unless this case is handled in the way I say it should be handled.”
Ernie’s lips tightened. It was a low blow. To overseas GI’s like us there was nothing worse than being threatened with going back to the States. Going back to living in the barracks, doing your own laundry, swabbing the latrines, shining your own shoes. Having to put with all the petty bullshit of the Stateside army that has no mission other than readiness. Which means putting up with any sort of makebelieve training a bunch of bored officers manage to come up with.
Off post it was even worse. GI’s in the States are considered to be in the same social class as things you scrape off the soles of your shoes. Something to crinkle your nose at. American women looked at us that way too, except for the occasional bar tramp. But here in Korea we were heroes. Feted and looked up to when we went out with the locals. We were, after all, the guys who’d kept the bloodthirsty Communists at bay during the Korean War. And we were still keeping them on their side of the DMZ. Our presence was appreciated. Even treasured. Not so in the States.
“That’s all I’ve got,” the First Sergeant said. “Any questions?”
Neither of us said anything.
“Good. After you finish those interviews, report back to me. Then we’ll figure out what you’re going to do next.”
Ernie looked at his coffee, made a sour face, and carried it back to the counter as if it were contaminated. I stood up and followed him out the door.
As we clunked down the hallway, Ernie couldn’t help mouthing off.
“If that old tight-ass ever had to run a real investigation he’d probably have his dick tied in knots on the first day.”
I grabbed him and shoved him past the Admin Office. Miss Kim, the fine-looking secretary, sat up behind her typewriter. She caught Ernie’s eye, and beamed. He winked at her and waved. Riley pointed his forefinger at us and pretended to pull the trigger.
Outside, Ernie started up the jeep and gunned the engine a few times to let it warm up. A smattering of flakes drifted down from gray skies and slowly dissolved on the metal hood.
“Shit!” Ernie said.
He loosened his tie, swallowed, and let his face sag for the first time this morning.
“What is it?” I said. “You’ve been hard-assed by the First Sergeant before.”
He sat back in the seat. “Yeah, but this time he’s holding my extension.”
The engine churned. The flimsy canvas enclosure was starting to heat up.
“I know how you feel,” I told him. “Who wants to go back to the States? Back there, you’re lucky if your monthly paycheck lasts a week. Here we can usual
ly manage to stretch it out to almost four.”
“And this time there’s something extra.”
“What’s that?”
“The Nurse. Since we got back together again, she’s really trying to make it work.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
Ernie shrugged. “It cramps my style a bit, but I can live with it. It’s just that she’s taking it so seriously.”
“She wants to get married,” I said. “What do you expect?”
“It’s not just that. She acts as if this is her last chance. Her last chance to live any sort of decent life.”
It probably was, I thought, but I didn’t say so. I leaned back. “Yeah, well, they’ll put the pressure on you.”
“She keeps a razor in her purse.”
I looked at him.
“One of those straight razors, the old-fashioned kind that nobody uses anymore, and she says that if I don’t get my extension through she’ll know it was because I didn’t want to stay with her.”
He stopped talking. I waited.
“If I don’t get the extension through,” Ernie said, “she says she’ll kill herself.”
“Do you believe her?”
“I do. Her family’s already disowned her for dropping out of nursing school and taking up with a GI. She’d have nowhere to go.”
I wasn’t sure-if that was true. When the worst happens people always find some path to take. I know. I’d been through it. But I didn’t say so, to Ernie. He believed the Nurse would commit suicide and that’s what was important. And maybe he was right. In Korea, suicide is seen as a romantic act and sometimes a noble one.
Ernie shook his head. “Anyway, we got an asshole to catch. Where to? The Honor Guard barracks?”
“Hell, no.”
“I didn’t think so.”
He slammed the engine in gear and we rolled forward on the slick roadway. At Gate Number 7 the MP whistled us through and we turned left on the Main Supply Route, zigzagging through the traffic toward the greatest nightclub district in Northeast Asia.
Itaewon.
5
THE WINDOWS OF THE KAYAGUM TEAHOUSE WERE dark and fogged. Ernie pushed through the big double doors and we were greeted by the sharp tang of ammonia. Standing in the entranceway, it took a while for our eyes to adjust to the darkness after being exposed to the dull glare of the morning snow.
All the chairs were turned upside down atop the tables. A young boy, about thirteen or fourteen, mopped the tiled floor. His mouth fell open and he stopped mopping when we walked in. I went back behind the serving counter with its hot plates and teapots and urns and started rummaging through drawers. Looking for something—maybe a business card or an address ledger—anything that might give us a lead on the woman who had called herself Miss Ku.
I wasn’t worried about the rules of evidence. If I found Miss Ku, and turned her over to the Korean National Police, they wouldn’t be either.
Ernie waited by the door.
In a frail, frightened voice the boy called into the back room.
“Ajjima! Yangnom wasso.”
It wasn’t a very nice way to talk. Telling his aunt that a couple of base foreign louts had arrived. But I ignored him and continued to rummage through the drawers.
What I found mainly were knives and spoons and utensils, until finally I spotted a big hardbound ledger. I thumbed through it. It was dogeared and stained with splashes of tea and coffee, and all the entries were dates and amounts of money recorded in won, the Korean currency. I wasn’t getting very far.
Someone pushed through a beaded curtain. Apparently this was the boy’s aunt. The same woman who had greeted us at the door the night before last when we had met Miss Ku here. But today the woman looked different. She wore no makeup, her hair was tied in a red bandana, and a thick wool dress flowed to the floor. She was dressed for warmth at this time of day, not to impress guests.
Her eyes widened and her full lips formed a circle.
“Igot muoya?” What’s this?
I opened the last drawer. Spoons, ashtrays, cubes of black market sugar. Everything the well-equipped teahouse would need. I looked at the woman, raised my finger, and walked toward her.
“Two nights ago,” I said, “we were here and met a young Korean woman at that table.” I pointed to the far wall. “I want you to tell me everything you know about her.”
She stared at me, stunned. Maybe by my brazen attitude. Maybe by my rapid-fire Korean. Maybe both. She found her voice.
“I know nothing about her.”
“But you do remember her?”
“Yes. I was shocked to see such an attractive young woman talking to GI’s.”
“She was too high-class for us?”
“Yes.”
I didn’t take offense. Koreans categorize people by wealth and social position as casually as bird watchers classify red-breasted warblers by genus and species. They don’t mean anything by it. Just the facts of life.
“What was her name?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“But she comes in here often?”
“No. I’ve never seen her before.”
“But there’s someone else who comes in here often who she knows, who she talked to?”
“No. She came in here alone, said nothing to anyone until she talked to you. After you left, she paid the bill and left without saying anything. Who are you anyway? You’re the ones who know her. Not me.”
“It doesn’t matter who we are,” I said. I took a step toward her, pinched my nose with my left hand, then let it go. “You are lying. Tell me how I can find that woman or my friend will get very angry.”
Ernie had been watching me closely and spotted the signal. He took three rapid steps across the room, and as he did so the boy shrank back toward one of the booths. The woman swiveled her head. Without hesitating, Ernie leaned over, hoisted the mop bucket, and flung it twirling end over end through the air until it smashed into the stacks of porcelain cups at the end of the counter.
The woman and boy flinched and covered their faces.
“Who was she?” I asked the woman. “Tell me now or there will be more damage.”
Ernie grabbed the mop and started smashing the handle into the glass candle-holders on each table.
“Stop!” she screamed. “Tell him to stop.”
I grabbed her shoulders. “Who was that woman?”
She was crying now, in fear and anger.
“She came in here before, right?” I said. “She was friends with a woman named Eun-hi who works at the U.N. Club. Isn’t that right? Tell me! Who was she?”
“I don’t know. I only saw her that one time. She never said anything to me.”
The boy scurried away from Ernie, ran toward his aunt, and flung himself into her arms. They hugged, rocking back and forth, tears streaming from their eyes. Crystal and chairs and ashtrays continued to clatter to the floor. I looked at the woman and her nephew, feeling sorry for them. They didn’t know anything about Miss Ku and they didn’t deserve this type of treatment.
I felt ashamed of myself. I wanted to say I was sorry but fought back the urge. I turned.
“Ernie!”
He smashed one more tray of glasses, lowered the mop handle, and looked up. I stepped toward him and twisted my head toward the door. He held the mop handle out, gazed at it as if disappointed, then tossed it to the floor.
When I hit the door he was right behind me, huffing and puffing, excited by the violence.
“What’d she say? She knows where we can find that broad, right?”
“Wrong.” I kept walking. “She doesn’t know squat.”
Ernie’s face soured. He straightened his coat and, like ice quick-freezing on a lake, regained his usual composure.
“Oh, well,” he said. “Some of that glassware was due for replacement anyway.”
We kept walking. Up the hill. Toward the U.N. Club.
I tried not to think of the tears in the eyes of the wo
man and the little boy, but instead concentrated on the wounds of Cecil Whitcomb.
The U.N. Club didn’t smell nearly as antiseptic as the Kayagum Teahouse. In fact it smelled like a toilet, which is exactly what it was. The aroma of ancient cigarette smoke seemed to seep from the walls even though the cement floors were swabbed with suds. Rotted lemon, stale booze, the reek of the urinals, all of it coalesced to create a blast to the nostrils that I’d never noticed before.
Of course, every other time I’d been in here I’d been drunk. When your belly’s full of beer, the place smells like a field of roses.
An emaciated waitress in a blue smock shuffled toward us.
“You too early,” she said. “We no open until ten.”
“We’re not here for a drink,” I said. “Where’s Eun-hi?”
Emie sauntered over to the bar. The waitress’s tired eyes followed him. She turned back to me.
“Eun-hi?”
“Shit.” The tears at the teahouse had made me impatient. I pulled out my identification and shoved it in front of her face. “Where’s your VD card?”
All women who work in Itaewon bars are required by the government to have monthly medical checkups for venereal disease.
The girl stepped back and for the first time her face showed a trace of doubt. “Who are you?”
“CID. If you don’t show me your VD card, I’ll turn you over to the Korean National Police.”
“I don’t need a VD card,” she said. “I’m a waitress.”
“Bullshit! Every woman who works here needs a VD card.”
A sullen-faced Korean man emerged from the back and stood behind the bar. I recognized him. He was Lee, the guy who poured our double shots of brandy. I walked over to him, hands outstretched.
“She doesn’t have a VD card, Lee. Am I going to have to take her in?”
Ernie had plopped atop a bar stool as if he were about to order a wet one.
“No sweat,” Lee said. “She newbie. Most tick we get her VD card.”
“Better be most rickety tick,” I said. “Let me see your VD card register.”
Lee smirked, used to GI’s trying to throw their weight around, figuring he’d smooth over the whole thing with a free round of drinks.
