The Door to Bitterness gsaeb-4

by Martin Limon

  “Yes. Mom’s ashes.”

  “She took a box filled with her mom’s ashes and never came back?”

  “Never.”

  “Who was the man who attacked her?”

  “I don’t know. She no tell. She very ashamed.”

  “Ashamed? Why should she be ashamed?”

  Fanny shook her head. She didn’t know.

  “But this man,” I asked, “this man who attacked her, it was someone who knew her?”

  Fanny nodded emphatically. “Yes. Someone who knew her.”

  I showed Fanny the sketches of PFC Rodney K. Boltworks and the smiling woman’s younger brother. “Was the man who attacked her one of these men?”

  Fanny couldn’t be sure since the attacker wore a ski mask and gloves. But her impression was that he was Korean. She also told me that he was not tall, but average height, and he’d attacked just after the midnight curfew, after all GIs had left the Half Half Club. He didn’t have a weapon, but was brutal. He shoved Fanny toward the top of the stairwell, and she lost her balance and reeled backward.

  “How can you be so sure,” I asked, “that this man was after Yun Ai-ja?”

  “I don’t know. She know. She so frightened she crawl out window, almost naked, how you say… nei yi?”

  “Underwear.”

  “Yes. In underwear. When man see Yun Ai-ja not here, he leave.”

  “And you?” I asked.

  “Take go hospital. Stay two days. When no can pay more, Half Half women, they bring me back here.”

  There is no disability or workman’s compensation in Korea. No welfare or food chits or universal health insurance. Fanny told me that her mother was dead, her father a GI whom she’d never known. Since she didn’t have a family, this half-American woman was on her own.

  At midnight, I carried Fanny back upstairs to her room and lay her down on the cotton-covered sleeping mat. I was about to leave when she grabbed my hand and asked me to stay.

  The next day, I rose early. Before she woke, I left all my travel pay-about seventy dollars worth of MPC-stacked in a pile on the dresser next to her bed.

  Ernie and I didn’t pull into the parking lot of the CID headquarters in Seoul until noon. Two-story red brick buildings, built by the Japanese Imperial Army before World War II, rose above us. Ernie and I ran up cement stairs. When we entered the CID Admin Office, we discovered that the First Sergeant and the Provost Marshal were out to lunch. Lucky for us. Who needed them anyway? All they’d do is pester us for a preliminary report that, if our assumptions didn’t pan out, they’d hammer us with later. Better to keep pushing on the investigation and report to them when we were sure of what we had.

  Miss Kim sat behind her typewriter, a new pink carnation sticking out of a narrow vase on her desk. When she saw Ernie, she lit up, but then remembered how he’d been ignoring her lately and pretended to pout. Ernie strode across the room, plopped down in the chair in front of her desk, grabbed a copy of today’s Stars amp; Stripes, and pretended to read. Furiously, Miss Kim rolled paper into her typewriter and banged away on the keys, turning sideways from Ernie, pretending to be absorbed in her work.

  Both a couple of frauds. But I had to hand it to Ernie, he was playing her like a violin. Or at least he thought he was.

  I sat down next to the Admin NCO, Staff Sergeant Riley.

  Miss Kim skipped lunch to watch her figure. Riley skipped lunch because the wasted lining of his stomach no longer tolerated food. He’d been boozing heavily since he was a teenager, and now, in his mid-thirties, he looked like a skinny old man two steps away from the intensive-care ward. Sometimes I worried about him, keeping a bottle of Old Overwart in his locker back at the barracks, hitting it hard every night. But he was an adult and the decision was his. And the honchos at 8th Army CID didn’t care, because during the day, Riley worked like a Siberian tiger. Gathering information, nurturing contacts throughout 8th Army headquarters, handling all our pay and personnel needs with only the help of the diligent Miss Kim.

  12

  Riley stared at me balefully, withered lips pursed around a crooked front tooth.

  “Where you been?”

  “Up north,” I said.

  “The Provost Marshal’s about to shit a brick.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the Koreans are shitting a brick over the death of Han Ok-hi.”

  He handed me this morning’s edition of the Hankuk Ilbo, the Korea Daily. Some of the big block Chinese characters in the headline, I recognized. The name, Han Ok-hi; the name of the city, Inchon; and finally sa, the character for death.

  “The head shed wants answers,” he said. “What can I tell them?”

  “We’re working on it,” I said.

  “That’s not good enough, Sueno. Don’t mess with their minds. The Provost Marshal is already pissed off enough about you and Ernie being granted special access to General Armbrewster.” Riley shook his head. “Going over their heads.”

  “We didn’t go over their heads,” Ernie said. “Armbrewster called us.”

  Riley shrugged. “Same difference. When this shit is over, you’re going to be just a couple of no-rank CID maggots again. Nobody to protect you. Better tell the Provost Marshal something. Make him at least feel like he’s in charge.”

  “Screw him,” Ernie said. “And the First Sergeant.”

  I finished my coffee in silence. Riley had given up on Ernie, but he was still waiting for me to say something. I told Riley that Ernie and I were going to find some chow, and then we were going out to follow some leads.

  “Give me more than that, Sueno,” Riley replied. “I have to feed them some sort of line. Even if it’s bullshit.”

  I paused at the door. “Tell them we’re going out to Itaewon,” I said, “to search for a woman who might be able to crack this case wide open.”

  Riley almost smiled. “You’re that close?”

  “We’re close,” I replied. “The only problem is, for the last four or five years, the woman’s been dead.”

  Maybe it was his stomach. Maybe it was my answer. For whatever reason, Staff Sergeant Riley’s mug turned sour again.

  Ernie and I were wearing our “running the ville” outfits: blue jeans, T-shirts, sneakers, and jackets with an embroidered dragon on the back. My dragon embraced a map of Korea and said: “Frozen Chosun, Land of the Morning Calm.” Ernie’s dragon coiled itself around a beautiful Asian woman and said: “Served my Time in

  Hell, Korea, 1971–1973.”

  Without coats and ties, Ernie and I felt free again. That, along with being fed and rested and, most importantly, back on our home turf: Itaewon, the greatest GI village that ever was.

  It was late afternoon, the sun setting red and angry behind the western hills. We were checking yak bangs. The literal translation would be “medicine shops.” The more accurate translation would be “pharmacies.” Pharmacies in Korea, however, are different from pharmacies in the States. For one thing, customers don’t need prescriptions. In fact, you don’t necessarily need a doctor’s advice at all. Many people, especially those who can’t afford to see a Western-style doctor, simply stand in the yak bang and describe their symptoms. The man behind the counter probably isn’t medically trained, and might not have even finished middle school.

  That’s what was happening now. A portly middle-aged Korean woman was grabbing her back in the lumbar region, ranting about the pain she suffered daily. She crouched, stood up, bent over, moved her arms as if swimming, all in an effort to make the Korean man behind the counter fully understand the pain she was experiencing.

  The Korean behind the counter rubbed his chin and sucked in air and tilted his head, agonizing over his decision. He said something in Korean that I couldn’t understand, and his wife, who had been standing patiently beside him, brought forth from the stacks in the rear of the shop a large brown bottle filled with pills. The three of them chatted loudly for a couple of minutes, and finally a dozen pills were poured onto a sheet of paper
and the wife deftly folded the paper into the shape of a fat envelope. The middle-aged woman handed a short stack of wrinkled won notes across the counter. Then the pharmacist and his wife bowed to their customer, and the woman turned and slid open the door of the shop and walked out, the overhead bell tinkling after her.

  The pharmacist and his wife turned their attention to me.

  In the back, behind the rows of pills was a room with a warm floor and a television set, where two young children were watching cartoons.

  I told them what I wanted. Their eyes widened. I explained again, using different Korean words this time, trying to insure that I was being understood. When I finished, the pharmacist breathed in deeply and shook his head.

  Then he said something to his wife and she brought out a different brown bottle and poured out a few capsules for me to inspect. Ernie joined me now, sticking his nose in so close I was worried his hot breath might melt the gelatin.

  The capsules were bright red, packed full of powder.

  “Made in the U.S.A.,” Ernie said. “Good stuff.”

  What we were looking at was what GIs called “reds.” Barbiturates. Downers. A drug designed to relax you and put you to sleep. Taken responsibly, they’re a perfectly legitimate medication. Taken irresponsibly, they can be lethal.

  I asked the pharmacist again: how many reds would it take to knock out a GI as big as me who’d already been drinking? Knock him out so he could walk around for a short while, but in a few minutes be out cold.

  The pharmacist told me it wasn’t a good idea to drink and, at the same time, consume this drug. But if you did, probably two or three would be enough to incapacitate a man my size-if, that is, he’d already downed a lot of alcohol.

  Then we showed him the sketches.

  Ernie and I had played this routine in over a dozen pharmacies. This one was about three blocks from the nightclub and brothel area of Itaewon, but still close enough to attract an occasional GI customer. Theoretically, all Korean pharmacies are off limits to 8th Army GIs. Nobody pays much attention to the rule, however. Particularly since there are so many goodies in these yak bangs that GIs crave-and also because the rule was unenforceable. There aren’t enough MPs to monitor every pharmacy in the Republic of Korea.

  The man and his wife studied the sketches with interest. When the wife saw the smiling woman, her mouth opened in surprise.

  “Boassoyo,” she said. I’ve seen her. She glanced at her husband. “Dok kattun kot sasso.” She bought the same things, she said, pointing at the red capsules.

  Then her husband remembered. “Yes,” he told me. “She asked me the same question. How many would it take to knock out a big man who’d been drinking? I told her. Two. Maybe three.”

  “The same woman?” I asked again.

  “Yes. I’m sure. She bought the same medicine as this.”

  “How long ago was she in here?”

  He frowned and looked at his wife.

  “Maybe one week,” she said in Korean.

  That sounded about right. This pharmacy must’ve provided the medicine she’d used on me.

  “When you told her two or three capsules,” I said, “how many did she buy?”

  The pharmacist smiled. “That, I remember. She bought six. Twice as many as I recommended.” Then his face turned grave. “I told her to be very careful.”

  I translated for Ernie.

  The pharmacist interrupted. “She asked me to do an odd thing. She asked me to open all the capsules and pour the powder inside one wrapper.”

  “I did that,” his wife said proudly. “My husband is very smart, but he’s also very clumsy.”

  The pharmacist smiled as if he hadn’t heard her.

  I translated this exchange also.

  Ernie slapped me on the back. “The Dragon Lady was careful, all right,” he said. “She wanted to make sure you wouldn’t wake up while she was robbing you. Good thing you’re so big. Six reds on top of all that booze might’ve killed a lesser man.”

  It might’ve killed me too. But it didn’t.

  I asked the couple if they’d ever seen the woman again. They shook their heads emphatically. Never before and never since.

  We thanked our friendly local pharmacists and left.

  We stood on the streets of Itaewon. Gusts of cold wind threw whirlwinds of brown and yellow and red leaves into the heart of the nightclub district. I strained to see the stars, but could only make out a few. Mainly because of the glare from the main drag of Itaewon, which was likewise spangled with flashing neon: red dragons and golden butterflies, and even one sign with a blue and pink rotating yin and yang symbol.

  Why had we returned to Itaewon when the two women had been killed in Inchon and Songtan? Because all the evidence so far pointed back to these hallowed grounds.

  I’d been robbed here, my badge and my. 45 stolen.

  The casino robbery was only a thirty-minute train ride away on the most heavily traveled commuter run in Korea.

  According to the KNP report from Songtan, the second victim, Miss Jo Kyong-ah, had been arrested numerous times over the last twenty years for black marketing. Where? Itaewon. A few months ago, she’d retired and moved to Songtan.

  My final reason: Yun Ai-ja and her younger brother grew up here, in Itaewon. And their mother, while raising them, had worked for years as an Itaewon business girl.

  Packs of GIs roamed the streets, their clean-shaven jaws chomping on chewing gum, their shiny eyes studying everything around them. Business girls stood in covered doorways, or in the beaded entranceways to the bars and nightclubs. They laughed and joked and called out to the GIs as they passed.

  “Haggler Lee,” Ernie said. “That’s who we ought to talk to first.”

  Ernie was right. Haggler Lee was the biggest black market honcho in Itaewon. He’d been here for at least a decade. Since the murdered woman in Songtan, Jo Kyong-ah, had once worked the black market in Itaewon, Haggler Lee must know something about her.

  “A surprise visit,” I said. “Catch him off guard.”

  Ernie nodded, and we tromped up a dark alley, away from the nightclub district. We turned down one lane and up another. These roadways were only wide enough for one car at a time, but I knew from experience that a PX taxi could navigate up here easily. If somebody dropped off a load of duty-free military commissary and PX goods, cops like me and Ernie couldn’t sneak up on them in our jeep. Which is why we did a lot of work in Itaewon on foot.

  We turned down another cobbled street, and there before us stood the dark warehouse of Haggler Lee. Kukchei

  13

  Suchulip Gongsu. International Import Export.

  We walked around the side of the old brick building and squeezed through a passageway just wide enough to walk through single-file. At the end of the building, a candle flickered inside a dirty window.

  Someone coughed. Ernie motioned for quiet. He edged closer to the back door of the warehouse.

  Candlelight cast odd figures on the cement flooring. We heard urgent mumbling inside. Korean, but from this distance I could understand none of it.

  Ernie knelt low. He peeked around the open door, then quickly pulled back. Motioning me forward, we entered the warehouse. After a few steps, we found cover behind a plastic-sheeted pallet of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. Swirling dust clouds fogged my vision and made me want to cough. I fought the urge. Crouching, Ernie whispered in my ear.

  “Move closer,” he said. “So you can hear what they’re talking about.”

  I nodded and, as quietly as I could, I duck-walked my way to the far wall of the warehouse. I found a gap in the piled merchandise and worked my way toward the voices.

  When I was close enough, I peered around a pile of cardboard boxes full of Del Monte canned peaches. There, on a raised ondol floor, sat Haggler Lee-on his knees, as was his custom-wearing the traditional turquoise blue silk vest and white pantaloons of an ancient Korean patriarch. Lee, I guessed, was only in his early forties, but he acted as if he were a
grandfather of venerable age. Maybe he thought it gave his black-market operation more class. Maybe he was just an old-fashioned guy. Who knows? What I did know was that the mumbling we’d heard wasn’t conversation. It was chanting, coming from Haggler Lee. In front of him on a low table was a framed photograph, edged with black ribbon. On either side of the photograph, candles flickered. Lee mumbled some more, and then bowed, placing two palms flat in front of him and pressing his forehead to the floor.

  I inched forward, hoping to catch a glimpse of the photograph. Squinting, I recognized the face. It was the same plain female I had seen in the crime folder in the Songtan Police Station: Jo Kyong-ah, the retired black marketeer who’d been murdered in her home by person or persons unknown.

  All my concentration focused on Haggler Lee and the photograph and the ancient ritual that he performed.

  Four dark shapes emerged from the rows of piled merchandise. Men. All holding something in their hands. Cudgels? Knives? From this distance, I couldn’t be sure.

  Shoe leather shuffled off to my right, probably Ernie.

  The dark figures floated past and headed unerringly toward Ernie’s last hiding place.

  The blast of a. 45 reverberated throughout the warehouse.

  Haggler Lee sat on a silk cushion, shaking his head in dismay. “Why you shoot?” he asked Ernie. “Scare everybody?”

  “Your men were coming after me,” Ernie said, his neck a little too stiff.

  “They only checky checky. See who’s in warehouse.”

  The single shot fired from Ernie’s. 45 had, in fact, frightened the crap out of everybody, especially me. Ernie had held Haggler Lee’s thugs at gunpoint until I determined that they were armed with nothing more than clubs and knives. When they put those away, we agreed to a truce and Ernie slipped his. 45 back into his shoulder holster.

  We sat on the raised wooden floor in the middle of Haggler Lee’s inventory. Haggler Lee clapped his hands. A young Korean woman clad in traditional dress shuffled out of the darkness, slipped off her sandals and stepped up onto the platform. She set between us a small tray holding a round brass pot of hot water, a box of Lipton Tea bags, and a jar of Taster’s Choice freeze-dried coffee. I took coffee, black. Ernie, too. He stirred sugar into his. The woman had a smooth, pleasant round face and was as cute as a porcelain doll and Ernie couldn’t take his eyes off her. Both she and Haggler Lee ignored this rudeness. She bowed and backed away.