by Gus Lee
The phone rang at four A.M. I snapped on a flashlight and jumped out. Levine squealed and leaped behind her curtain, pulling sheets like a deckhand smothered in sail. She had probably showered and been dressing in one of her isolated moments of relative privacy, putting on underwear while one man snored fitfully, the other chewed on his pillow—and the phone rang. Her long Johns lay lonely on the floor. I picked up the phone and passed her the thermals. I hung her curtain, hiding her. “Yes,” I said. No courtesies, only anonymity.
Levine's legs were lean and corded in striated muscle.
“Urchin,” came the echoing voice, “McCrail checks out. He's who he says he is—a black-marketer. But Al Haig and the White House want the PR angle on him.” He let that sink in. “So Al called President Park.”
Park Chung-hee, the former ROK officer who had become the president of the Republic of Korea by a military coup. He was a short, stern, hard-faced man whose military austerity was thought to be offset by a smart, calmly elegant wife.
“So now we wait.” He paused. “Hombre, listen—we do have eighty-one hundred, sixty-eight Korean War MIAs. The President was shocked. He wants McCrail released, then Jimmy.”
“Dammit, forget Nixon. We're not doing politics.”
“I thought you didn't swear, culero. Do not blame him; if he brings POWs home from any war, he gets points. Right now, he is way down. Con Law, chico. He is commandante.
“Today, Kicker Magrip goes to Naktong to extract McCrail.”
“By that time, Jimmy could be dead.”
“My friend, you got hooked by the sergeant major. It was the right call, so live with it. Levine to the embassy to help the ambassador smooth McCrail's exit. Kicker takes McCrail to the 121st Evac for med clearance before he goes to Hong Kong.
“Urchin, your job is to get LeBlanc to give you Jimmy.”
“The man has no incentives. Give me something to deal.”
“Use your charm.”
“Why didn't I think of that?”
I told Levine and Magrip the plan. I told them to take the Wizard's map and overlay from his Q and to leave convincing copies in their place.
They looked at each other. Kan busting the law.
“No warrant?” asked Levine. “It won't be admissible.”
“The Wizard's up to something bigger than kid-napping. I need to know how he thinks, and I don't expect the map to taint any other evidence we find. Okay? You have Murray's plan down? Good—dump it. I have a different one.”
I laid Foss's arsenal on the desk. They looked at me; they looked at each other.
“A fine mess you've gotten me into,” said Levine.
“Fuckin’ A,” said Magrip, taking the S&W Model 29.44 magnum with the eight-inch barrel and the speed loader; Levine rolled her eyes. “Phallic, don't you think?” She pointed. “What's that?”
“Concussion grenade,” I said. “Foss's. Straighten the pin, pull it and throw. It incapacitates at three meters and stuns at five.”
Levine took it and the Airweight. Magrip took the competition.45 Colt and magazines, his clothes sagging with metal.
“Big enough, Magrip?” asked Levine.
We left before dawn to avoid the rush of seventeen thousand troops on road runs. We stopped at the provost marshal's Q. I owed Foss for finding the hogacide jeep. The senior officer Q had fresh paint—probably applied as recently as 1955.
I knocked hard on the top cop's door. He was a thick-bellied, balding, red-faced beast with small ferret eyes, short arms, and an unhappy Korean woman in his bunk. “Sir, I'm Captain Kan, IG. Major Foss is excused from the reveille run. You have a real nice day.”
“What?” he said. I repeated myself. “What?” he said.
We exited remote Gate 2 to the north. It was desolate country, filled with concertina wire to deter NKPA infil-trators. The twisting, narrow road was snowblocked, but tanks had been out last night and had cut a deep trail through the side pack. I nodded and Min turned off the road to follow the deep track trails.
I told Min to stop as I switched off headlamps. Something was moving off road. I got out. Here, the wind blew harder.
Below the ridge on the military crest, two fire-team-sized squads ran at a pace far faster than the eight-minute-mile rifleman shuffle. They ran in the fast lope of long-distance runners. They were huge men in jump boots, carrying big rucks. I pulled cold field glasses from the glove box, focusing fast.
“Come on, Kan, let's go,” said Levine. “It's freezing.”
I knew one group. Dr. Death and his happy steroidal fools with the exclusive private gym and exotic weapons.
The second group had equally immense runners, headed by a skinny officer. Henry Jubala, Army marathon champ, my fellow passenger from Japan. They reversed field, sprinting like they had left explosives on a short fuse. Flankers ran with Uzis and grenade launchers. They had seen us first.
Min stared, barely breathing.
“Sappers,” said Magrip. “The packs.” Explosives engineers, Twelve Bravos. “Never seen such big guys. You?” Saps were the diagonal ditch parallels engineers dug to besiege a fort in medieval Europe, packing gunpowder under its walls.
“No.” Sappers were runts who crawled tunnels and scooched under bridge trusses, slapping on plastic C-4 explosives and stringing green det cord.
“Can we go now?” asked Levine. This wasn't like her.
I was looking at a piece to a puzzle I felt I recognized. Sapolu had told me not to think. Jubala had concealed his job. Big runners who ate steroids for Uncle Sam meant— “Kan.” Levine. “Dawn's going to catch us. Let's go. This is none of our business, and they're better armed than we are.”
She was right. I was out of my lane again. It was time to feed the team. We drove out of Casey into Tongducheon.
A rooster crowed, dogs howled, and we turned into a district of single-storied clothing and sundries shops. Korean signs sat above the doors, like flipped-up brims on a row of baseball caps.
The street curved and hiccupped; the angles deflected bad luck and brought good feng shui, geomancy.
“Happiness Cafe, numbah one.” Min made a thumbs-up.
The cook, in a stained, padded jacket, worked over a smoking grill, cigarette dangling. I went in. The warmth was like a hug from Mother. He stared as I pounded the snow from my boots. We were deep in Tongducheon. The others entered.
“No pulgoki!” shouted Magrip. Pulgoki was barbe-cued dog.
“No goddam pulgoki!” shouted the cook. “No cook damn dog!”
“Hate this goddammed country. It eats dogs and snakes.”
“Magrip,” I said, “you would hate Heaven.”
The browned vinyl in the last booth had once been red. The table had been abused by people who had known Moses. It was like the cafes of my youth—no menus. You ate what the cook prepared and watched for dogs at your feet, hoping none were on your plate.
The cook threw plates, the scarred table surface braking their slide. He brought Chinese tea as Min described the meal.
“Bulgoki—barbecue beef. Kalbitong—soup. Kim chi— ferment cabbage.” Levine knew chopsticks; Magrip used a Gerber killing knife to sharpen a stick into a skewer. The tender bulgoki was a marvel of strong, sweet flavors and scents.
“What's the plan?” asked Magrip, meat dangling. “First,” I said, “Carlos is for equal opportunity.” Magrip nodded happily at me. “That explains you.” “Yes,” said Levine. “A woman, a Chinese, a Korean— and an idiot.”
Magrip paused in mid-bite, then laughed. “Levine, you're okay.”
“Levine,” I said, “go to the embassy in a motor-pool sedan. Then get McCrail out of Naktong and get him to the docs.”
“You're really busting Carlos's orders. ROKs don't groove on women. What impresses them is the size of your dick.”
“They haven't met you. Corporal Min and Magrip, recon Southside. Magrip, don't blow anything up. Around dusk, you and I will go in and look for Jimmy.” He nodded.
I showed the
m Foss's map. “Find doors. Check security. Find the entry point. The X is a leather shop with a red sign. Our rally point. Sixteen hundred hours. Brush your teeth, turn in your library books, and bring your grenades.
“Magrip, you're a JAGC Save evidence, don't blow it up. We hurt others only if we have to. The objectives are to rescue Jimmy and accrue evidence against the perps.”
“And while I recon?” asked Magrip, his mouth full. “I go see the Wizard and wow him with my charm.” “You have a better chance to fart to the moon.” “Something to which I have always aspired.” “Kan,” she said. “I want to go with you into Southside.”
Magrip blew out air. “That'd be cute. Reach into an ammo pouch and pull out a pair of panties—nothing personal.”
Levine arched an eyebrow. “From you, Magrip, nothing's personal. Monsieur Idiot, I wasn't talking to you.”
“Levine,” I said, “you make it back with McCrail before 1600 hours, come to the rally point. Stow McCrail on post first.”
“Christ, you're shitting me!” said Magrip, swelling. “What's this, some sort of minority, female-lib revenge party? She can't go in! You're taking her as our reserve over a sergeant major?”
I lowered my voice. “Magrip, you should know the truth. We're actually working for Gloria Steinem, Betty Friedan and Bella Abzug. I held back, knowing how you take bad news.”
Levine laughed. Magrip dropped his skewer. Min said that if so many other people—“Stinnim, Abbug and Freeman”—were going, could he come as well?
21
SONG SAE MOON
Thus inspired, they left the Happiness Cafe. It was six-thirty A.M., and patrons trickled in. I had an hour before entering the Wizard's court with the moral high ground, a weak opening statement, little evidence, and a closing argument to match. I had to make him give me Jimmy before Jimmy became bacon.
Colonel, give us Captain Buford so we can convict you on your confession, bust and disbar you, and drop you for a life term in Leavenworth. You could become the Rasputin of the legal profession. People would talk about you and then spit.
I could hear Jimmy Buford say, “Son, that dog won't hunt.”
A woman had entered the cafe and was looking at me.
“Annyonghasheemneeka, dae-wi.” The woman in white from the Las Vegas, now in a brown coat. A white fur cap above a captivating oval face. Madame Cho had said she was michaso, crazy.
I returned the greeting. I gestured to the seat.
“Thank you. You are most kind.” The coat opened to a form-fitting white turtleneck and black pants with high boots. The voice was high, pretty and melodic, tremulous with anticipation.
Thick coal-black hair hung like heavy summer fruit over her shoulders and cascaded across a high forehead. She was formally rouged. Widely spaced dark eyes, attentive and feline. A man she studied would be the object of an analysis of unknown purposes. The eyes were messengers from another time, dominating a well-defined nose and a small, precise rosebud mouth, artfully red. Her small eyebrows were dark to the point of brightness, the eyelashes long and black.
I wondered whose side she was on.
She removed gloves. Her fingers were twisted and gnarled, as if they belonged to an old Chinese boxer who had spent a lifetime hitting hard objects until the pain went away.
She angled her head and brushed back her hair, the regal Ice Queen. Her gaze had projected a superstitious light into my nervous system, setting off Chinese warning lights.
“I am Jackson Hu-chin Kan.”
“I know. I am Song Sae Moon,” she said in her musical voice, haunting big-cat eyes scanning my body. “Thank you for your politeness.” Her words lingered, sweet notes on a warm day, a voice that leaned deliber-ately on its dancing, feminine qualities.
“You are a smart Chinese firstborn son. A man with ch'ilgo chiak, ancient Confucian doctrine and culture. You are what every girl in Korea prays to Buddha for.”
She was like thin Mrs. Fan, the Chinatown oracle, foretelling by guesswork, using flattery in place of insight.
“Dae-wi, the wang mansin mudang needs to see you for the health of her village. Do you understand ‘mudang’?”
Mudangs were female shamans, sorceresses. Mediums who healed and spoke for the dead. Spirit dancers, drum beaters, spiritual snake-oil merchants, peasant manipulators.
When I was six, I had met a wu, a shaman, at Jinsha Monastery on Dongting Lake. My parents had taken me to him to cure the fever from drinking the river when the whirlpool had taken me. BaBa, who could barely swim, had saved me. The wu stood at the gate, looking at me with furrowed brows and hard eyes, spitting on the black stone path.
BaBa had growled. He spat at the diagnosis that I had a demon in me, scaring the wu. Ma argued openly with BaBa and not the shaman. I was a Taoist believer, and could feel the wu's judgment on my yeh, my karma, something a father's anger or a mother's imprecations could not wash away. I felt the hollowness of his medicine that day, offered more to placate Ma than to cure me.
The feeling about the shaman did not leave my nights until we came to America, the wide Eastern Sea swallowing the wu's opinion of me. When I lay in the medevac, Moms Bell next to me, his life bleeding out, the company still in the bush waiting for extraction, I thought of rivers and remembered the wu spitting at me, and saw the dead girl, calling me Father, feeling all the luck in my life change from good to bad. I had been hit twice and thought I was going to die, accepting the equitable judgment of God for my error. I recovered and saw that the atheists were right.
Now, those feelings returned, radiating like low bass from a radio on the other side of a long-forgotten, distant wall.
The mission memo had said that North Koreans believed in male shamans, that paksu accompanied Inmingun strike teams for good luck and to assist in operational decisions. Kim II Sung, the Great Leader of North Korea, was regarded as a paksu who could harmonize Lenin's material dialectic and Asian palm reading.
“‘Shaman,’” I said.
She had waited patiently. ‘I enjoy how you respect and remember your past. The wu at the lake, your little brothers crying for you. Yes, ‘shaman,’ a pretty word. I am kidae, her helper for music and ritual.
“Dae-wi, may I?” She took my hands, her inwardly smooth fingers tingling my palm lines. Signals ran up goose-bumped arms.
Her touch was personal, clinical, familiar and foreign. She inspected my hands in the same manner I would study a new power drill. “You are a complicated person.” She smiled innocently and it reminded me of the days before I had killed anyone. I concealed my low estimation of her occupation, my disrespect for her powers. She would know that Chinese wu could be found at the shores of lakes, and could guess that I would have younger brothers.
“You work with pens. Your hands have killed. You are firstborn but not married. God favors you, saving your life many times, but taking your brothers.”
My heart stopped.
“You are not Buddhist and are empty of faith. Your ki-bun, harmony, is good to others, bad for you. You are American and you are Chinese, happy and sad, and not in balance.
“Harmony is what all people seek. The wang man-sin, the chief mudang, works for the village's ki-bun, what the Chinese call ho”—synchronicity, peace, harmony. Zen.
“You are loyal to one who cannot love you. A woman you hurt very deeply. For this, dae-wi, you feel great and deep shame.”
Cara. I saw Mrs. Fan, who had forecast my life, sitting in her threadbare chair smoking a clove cigarette in a shadowy, mildewed room full of old, dry women. Pigeons cooed and a block away, a cable car bell rang. Mrs. Fan waited for me to get her hot tea from the old stove, never looking in the eyes of the boy who never smiled, the boy she had declared to be the future soldier, the killer.
“I am right. Someone said you would meet me. Remember?”
“Hu-ah,” my mother had said on Monday, four days ago, “Fan taitai say you go far-away mountain, meet wu lady in Korea. She give all answer, help you get jen back”—ben
evolence, my high Confucian virtue, which had died in Vietnam.
A shudder, full of tangled seaweed, sour currents and infant fevers, ran up my spine. She spoke of my hands as if she and they were old intimates from years of easy clasping on long autumn strolls, their histories cemented with shoeboxes of meaningful, admissive correspondence, free of secrets and empty of lies. She frowned, smiled, closed her eyes, mining imaginary messages in my hands. She traced scars. “Here cut by plant, burned with blood.”
She closed her eyes in pain. A tremor ran through me. I wanted my hands back.
She closed them as one would close books, her fingers warm and almost moist from effort, her cheeks flushed, her chest rising. My fingers tingled with an acupuncture-like residual ring. Maybe Jimmy went this way, following a lovely woman to the local witch doctor.
“Dae-wi, I only wish you well. I was a teacher at Ewha Haktong, Pear Blossom Institute, for two years. Child development. Ewha Haktong is a very prestige college, for women only. We spoke perfect academic English, for scholarship. Now, I talk with Vegas girls—stinko.” She pinched her nose. She turned her head, looking at me carefully, somewhat from the side.
The cook brought a brown china teacup. He cleared the table and poured for Song Sae Moon, which sur-prised me.
She smiled. “Chosumneeda, Chun shee.99 He took the smoke from his lip, bowed low, held it, and left.
She wrapped her damaged hands about the small cup, tasting the bland, earthy barley tea, looking at me over the steam. “Some people think I am a crazy person.” Customers entered and Chun yelled hoarsely at his wife. She screamed back. Chun muttered to himself and Song Sae smiled.
“I was twenty-four when meat made me ill. I could not sleep. I was outside Ewha teacher dormitory. In a nightgown.” She pulled up her sleeve; her forearms were welted with purple scars. “I had torn skin from my arms. Friends said I danced as if I had no bones. Then I hit trees, walls, breaking my fingers. I spoke in the voice of an old man who had died.
“These things happened many times. Last year, I came to Jungsan, black holy mountain, to write on a paper lantern my strong wish to be free. I hung it on a tall tree, near Heaven, asking the Buddha a favor on his birthday. Then, I had ggum, a dream of babies of kong ch'ang, prostitutes who sell their bodies to GIs. Half-Korean, half-American babies, most very lost in both worlds.” She looked at me. “I cried for them. I still cry for them.”
