by Gus Lee
Later, I described the Wizard's map of North Korea.
“Only the devil knows that man's mind. Talk about the States.”
In the spring, Hank Aaron would chase Babe Ruth's home-run record. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, a.k.a. Lew Alcindor, was the best player in the NBA, Julius Erving the best in the ABA, and O. J. Simpson was the NFL offensive player of the year. Whitey Ford had been elected to the Hall of Fame. Clothes were ugly, hair was voluminous, sideburns were massive, people used sex in lieu of afternoon matinees. Recent movies and songs were nostalgic—The Sting, The Way We Were, “Killing Me Softly,” and “You Are the Sunshine of My Life.” Big Koss headphones were in and people did their thing.
“I liked Mitch Miller and his band.” McCrail stretched. “Captain, I'm so happy I feel like sex.”
“Get you something better. Chinese food.” I missed it; it had been five days without.
“You're a sick man, sir.” The commanding deep voice, middle-American, Kansas, without a trace of brogue.
No Chinese good-luck long noodles. A bad sign.
I hoped Foss had caught LeBlanc. I could not presume that he had. “Sergeant Major, the Wizard's escaped. Where would we find him? Would he hide in Tong-ducheon or get out of the country?”
“Sir, gotta get you a first-class stogie. I don't leave for three days.” He giggled. “Fm gonna get ‘em out.”
“The Wizard, Sergeant Major. Where would he go?”
“Son, he's going to Hell in a handbasket.”
I smiled. “Thank you for your help.”
The MSR was thick with vehicular menace, but we were safer in the truck. All drivers respect bulk.
“Open the briefcase.”
He found the knife. “Pretty.”
“That's not it. Keep looking.”
He hauled out the Browning. “I like your style, Captain.”
“No cigar. Keep looking.” He found the airline tickets.
TWA, to Hong Kong and San Francisco, in his name. He studied them, then resumed looking. “A rosary.” He kissed it.
“Faugus McFinnegan! Dammit, a Bible! Jesus, Captain Kan, you're a gift to man.” Massive fingers touched the thin, fine parchment.
Bibles at the DMZ sold faster than beer. Looking at death across the wire invited scripture. He gently turned pages and found the small silver crucifix on a chain. He put it around his huge neck, slipping the rosary into his waistband as he read the inscription:
“4To Patrick T. McCrail, from his JAGC, CPT Jackson Kan, on his liberation.’”
He sniffed. Later, he said, “A fine sentiment, sir.”
McCrail read to me from the Gospel of Luke. I was surprised that I recognized most of the stories. He read until the lulling of the truck's movement brought sleep, allowing him to miss some of the world's most horrific traffic accidents. The burning wrecks looked like war. His snoring was the work of lumber mills.
Two hours later we were in the Ville. Saturday, booze night for the division. I turned off the MSR and violently pumped the soft brakes until we stopped. I checked the Browning's action and dropped it in my coat pocket. I shook him. “Sergeant Major, time for a bath, hot meal, and dry socks. Got more water in the community baths than at Casey.”
He stirred, panting, talking to himself. I told him three times who I was and where we were. He hit himself viciously, then saw the Bible, smiling when he was convinced he was awake and not in a dream. “That would be very nice. Really. All I could hope for.” Everything he said was a surprise.
“Sergeant Major, where would the Wizard run?”
He laughed thinly, put the Bible down and flexed hands.
A gaggle of Amerasian boys jumped on the running boards, chattering as McCrail sat in the cab, looking at the old buildings. Opening the door, he hauled himself out, causing the children to scream and run. “Hell, we were here. Saw the bathhouse. We were going for the water and chink mortars hit us.”
“Chinese mortars, Sergeant Major,” I said.
“Ah, you're right, son. Sorry, lad. Bad manners I have.”
He saw the community pyon-so, latrine, a low shack with a narrow fire walk. Below it was a pit filled with waste that could be smelled for two blocks. “Need the pyon-so.”
Min and the dazed truck driver pulled up.
“Sergeant Major needs a bath.” I told Min the evening's plans. The truck driver accepted my apologies for his headache. He was going to ask for money, then remembered I was an IG.
McCrail came out with a broomstick. He threw it in the truck bay, where it clattered. “The stick to pull out the poor, miserable sonofabitch who falls in the trap. Five feet of shit in there.” His eyes shone, inspired. “Fm puttin’ the Wizard in there—with no stick to pull ‘im out. Place smells like home, don't it?” He saw it all and giggled on the sharp edge of hysteria.
“You're not serious. That'd screw up Hong Kong.”
McCrail stopped giggling, his teeth feral, his voice a push in the face. “Fm as serious as a chink guard. I don't get him in there, you do it. Push his face in it.”
“I don't think I want to be your lawyer anymore.”
He didn't laugh. “You throw him in headfirst. A verdict a crap. Then the mission's accomplished for my missus and for me. C'mon, for God's sake, don't crap law on me. Not now.”
“You need a bath.” We entered the bathhouse. A dozen people chatted in the office waiting area. Everyone stood, as citizens will when King Kong drops in for tea and crumpets. It was safe. He went in. I stood guard. He was in there a long time.
At the gate I told the guards that McCrail was a visiting California senator. They passed us. We waited in Purvis's office, where McCrail lay on the floor and promptly slept.
Purvis arrived. “Another victim of an unredeemed life? How many people does he represent?” He marveled at McCrail.
“ROK solitary for seven years, Korean War POW for three. His heart hurts.” I shook him and introduced him to Purvis.
Magrip was in the hallway, sitting against the wall, long legs out straight. “G-2 says the Wizard's overlay made no sense. The objectives he circled have no military value. Inmingun isn't there; they're spread in advanced camps on the Z.”
“So what does that overlay mean?”
He shrugged. “Nothin'. Guy's no tactician. He's a paranoiac, worrying about Reds in the night.” He squinted. “Kan, after they get the Wizard, we done here?”
Monday, the lunar New Year, and twelve beefy Koreans. “No.”
“Well, I'm number-one ready to get the fuck outa here.” He looked up. “What're we doing to secure McCrail?”
“You got the duty. I didn't know you cared.”
He shrugged. “Hell, I didn't at first.”
“What changed your mind?” I sat next to him.
“It's so fucking cold I got stupid.”
“And I thought it was my leadership skills.”
“It was your pep talks. You know, LeBlanc really butt-hosed the sergeant major. He needs to be greased.”
I felt the knife in my boot. “I'm not killing. Not anymore.”
Magrip looked sadly at me. “Good thinking, Einstein. Too bad you're in the Army.”
I hung up. “Carlos is calling our families to let them know we're coming home. A follow-on IG group is in the air, bound for Casey with replacements. Jimmy's air-borne, outward bound for Walter Reed. His brains are intact. Beth and the kids will meet him at Andrews. Someone tell me the time.”
“Seven P.M.,” said Levine. “I hate the military clock.” She sat next to me, took my hand, and poured M&Ms.
I looked at the candy. “Levine, you were right on.”
“Of course,” she said smiling. “About what?”
“Curadess was McCrail. And McCrail was a key. I thought claims would be the way to get the Wizard, but McCrail and Jimmy are prima facie felonies on him, and are easier to prove up than a claims paper case.”
“We oughta throw LeBlanc in the pyon-so” said Magrip.
Levine honked.
“Where'd you go to law school, Magrip? Gulag archipelago?”
Magrip threw his last underwear and socks into his bag. “LeBlanc ain't goin’ down to a subpoena duces tecum or a general court. He's left the tribe. You think you can nail ‘im with briefcases and charges and specifications.” He zipped the bag and threw it near the door. “Kan, you oughta know better. Wizard's a punk who likes guns and explosives. Figure it out.”
“So we just go shoot him?” asked Levine.
“Be the best fucking present you could give McCrail.”
Patrick McCrail snored in my bunk. His girth overwhelmed it, stretching the springs. He had demanded a uniform. A gnomelike tailor near the tracks had a set of size-60 greens, tailor-made for a no-show customer years before. The tailor expanded them and gave them to McCrail for twenty dollars.
Levine researched McCrail's medals, racked the ribbons at the clothing store, and pinned them on his tunic. McCrail's regimental unit patch no longer existed, the Twenty-fourth Infantry having been deactivated after the Chinese slaughter.
I looked at McCrail and knew that Magrip was right; LeBlanc was less a West Point colonel and more a punk Chinese warlord. A warlord wouldn't care about courts-martial; he'd only want to run. Still, best to be careful.
“Where would LeBlanc expect us to be tonight?” I asked.
“Celebrating our asses off,” said Magrip.
“At the CG's mess or the HQ O Club,” said Levine. “I say we eat in the Ville. Pick a cafe at random.”
“Great,” said Magrip. “Barbecued dog meat.”
I had to think of tigers and was honor-bound by the limits set by a drumbeating witch doctor. I needed a pacifist solution for what were probably twelve highly trained Inmingun terrorists—hard enemy soldiers who would happily slit the throat of every American while they torched Casey. My brain turned on itself, making no smoke. I felt pangs of panic. God, I don't have a clue.
33
HAPPINESS CAFE
A Samsung stereo system played “Arirang” and other richly sentimental, heavily stringed Korean folk songs, full of hope, melancholy history, and hard separations. It was a balmy night; a warm front had crossed Manchuria, melting all frozen rivers. If the Inmingun came now, they'd need bridging. U.S. Infantry officers all over town were breathing easier.
I went outside the cafe into the darkness, listening to drainpipes gurgling, observing foot traffic and worrying about the Wizard. Magrip was checking the streets.
Min joined me. He wore unpressed fatigues. I was in class As, dressed for dinner, the Browning in my waistband. He stood awkwardly, inclined his head, eyes down. He spoke softly.
“Dae-wi, I very honored, work for you.”
I returned the bow. “Corporal, it was my honor.”
He straightened and went into the cafe.
A baby-blue Pony taxi rattled down the narrow, unpaved street. Song Sae Moon opened the door. She wore a purple, belted, form-fitting dress over black boots, her neck wrapped in a thin white scarf, and she carried her overcoat. Her eyes danced.
“I knew you would be here,” she said. The cabbie would take no fare. She stood close, loosening the scarf. “I dislike uniforms, but you look most handsome. Please walk with me?”
I put out my arm. She took it and nestled close, leading me. I was unaccustomed to having different women so close to me this often. A dog whined. I missed Noah's tail whapping my leg. Men sat in warm courtyards sipping soju, smoking King Saejong cigarettes and arguing with neighbors. She stopped at a business doorway with tall steps. She stood on them, raising her face closer to mine. She gazed at Jungsan, the mountain of her life, and leaned against me, forearms between us in a posture of submission.
I kept my eyes on the strips of brilliant stars that unfolded as unseen clouds slowly drifted like great tattered kites in a dark night, blacking out the moon. I held her as I would hold a sister, and she clung to me as if I were a life raft, pressing her cheek against mine.
“If I had not gotten sin-byong and become kidae, I would want to hold you for a long time. My disease made me dream of you, and brought me to you. Now, the religion of my disease keeps me from you, from hoping your father will ask my father to give me to you.”
It was as if all the lutes of China were playing, giving us license to proceed. She trembled, long lashes fluttering over closed eyes; she was beautiful, and I had no words.
“Kan shee, if you did not love her, could you care for me?” Her breathing was deeper and almost ragged. “I am a kidae who knows all emotions. But I cannot see your feelings for me. I have virtue, and should not be asking such a question, but I must know. Are your feelings a man's passion for any woman or for me?”
I leaned away; she followed. The moon came free of clouds and her face was from the dreams of men. I closed my eyes.
“Kan shee, it is written that I will never know the love of a man, and that you will leave Korea and never see me again.
“It is only a question. Only you and I will know of it.”
I nodded and wet my lips. “I have enjoyed seeing your face. Watching you with children. You have a great gift of love, of jen, benevolence. You are good at a thing I cannot do easily.”
Her hps parted, her fingers caressing my chest.
“You are a very good and wonderful woman. Because you are Asian, you remind me of my past, and of what, in China, I might have been. Of the family I might have had.”
She closed her eyes and pressed against me, quivering at the edge of the unknown, making me aware of my westernization, my familiarity with women's bodies. In Song Sae's breathless embrace, I felt the Eastern sacred-ness of intimacy. I felt old and too wise.
“I am of two worlds. You make me feel my past and a connection, ancient and strong. You have the face, the personality, of the woman I was expected to bring to the jiar
Her eyes were sad. “This is true?”
“If I did not know the woman I already love, I would have been very happy to meet you.” Without plan, I touched her face.
“To have children, Hu-chin?” My true name.
It would have been our job. She closed her eyes and kissed my throat, breathing on it, hands dancing on my neck.
“If I live to be an old man, I will always remember you.”
“Oh, yes, please, I pray this is true,” she whispered.
I separated from her caresses, my breathing controlled. She put her arms around herself, looking down.
“Hu-chin, do you find Western women pretty? I think their hair is thin and sad. Bodies, too full. But, I am curious.”
I looked at the moon that seventeen hours ago had looked down on Cara and her balcony, her dog, her bedroom window. “Chinese women I know confirm me as a firstborn male. Western women challenge me. I don't always like that, but I respect it. I admire women who will raise confident daughters. Daughters who believe themselves the equals of their brothers.”
Her eyes scanned me. “Hu-chin, you are a little michaso, crazy, no? This is an idea for paradise, not earth.” She shivered and looked at the mountain. “Thank you for being honest. And also kind. I can tell you want to leave. We can go, now.” Her arms still holding herself, she stepped down.
We entered the cafe, her eyes large and sad, her hair and lashes a hot ebony in the inelegant cafe light.
“Hu-chin, do you like my dress?”
“Enchanted,” breathed Doc Purvis.
Everyone was in place. A waiter gave me a towel-covered serving platter. I put it before McCrail.
“Sergeant Major, take a whiff.” I removed the towel.
“STEAK!” he roared. Diners in the next room dropped chopsticks and spilled teacups. McCrail beamed at two thick, rare T-bones, three fat baked potatoes with sour cream and butter, a row of cold bottled Miller's, and a lamentable, shriveled salad with orange Kraft's French, saved by the law of averages from the black market and framed by silverware from our own CG's mess. He emptied a beer and belched.
The steam from the potatoes rose like
Western incense. He smiled, eyes moist. Perhaps I had never been happier for a client.
McCrail lowered his head. “Lord, thanks for everything. Bless this table and these good soldiers, amen.” Sniffing loudly, he cleared his rheumy throat, and stood like Pan Ku, the Chinese world creator, his towering, oversized bulk and massive chest greater in uniform. His white brows dipped as he lifted a new bottle, the seasons of his hard life shading a lined face. He looked at us with brimming eyes and a fine, mournful mouth, seeing a wife, his missing mates and hundreds of slain comrades, remembering old battles and other military meals. It seemed the weight of them lay in his great, raised arm.
McCrail looked at me, gray eyes wet. He took a breath that was a scythe cutting wheat, filling swollen lungs.
“TO ABSENT COMRADES AND LOYAL WIVES!” The voice that could cause ships to crash on shore rang. We echoed it and drank, the saccharin in the Diet Pepsi burning like wood-still alcohol. He sat in a groaning sofa chair. The toasts went around for causes trite and true. Purvis, warm around the ears, toasted Song Sae with a romantic piece of Tang poetry: “The wind makes snow dance/Your face makes my heart float like clouds in blue sky.”
Song Sae did not want to speak, but the table insisted. She slowly shook her head. “To in-sam, harmony, in your lives.” Her delicate English winnowed into long-term memory. To harmony, borne on a voice to remember. She drank hot tea, looking at no one.
Magrip joined us, smiling perfunctorily: we were secure.
Chun shee and stern waiters arrived with the platters. Chun's cigarette pointing upward.
Fried kingfish, pan-fried beef, sauteed cuttlefish and vegetables, seasoned tripe and a pork and vegetable soup with highly spiced kim chi cabbage. The aromas mixed, grew and stimulated, and I wasn't hungry. I was bringing everyone home; I had one tac problem remaining. And it was big.
It was a small thing. When Chun had served Song Sae this morning, he had removed his cigarette to bow. Now he had not.
Maybe it was because Butt-Kicker Magrip, not following Emily Post, had put both of his big handguns on the table.
McCrail chomped steak while Magrip told him about the Oakland A's, Watergate, the new 55-mph national speed law, the Arab gas embargo, ethyl at fifty cents a gallon, and the entry of women into the professions.
