G.I. Bones

by Martin Limon

  “One-two-five dong, three-six-four ho, in Hannam-dong,” I replied. “That’s it across the street.”

  Ernie wasn’t able to read the sign but he was able to make out the sinuous dragon painted gold and red.

  “We ain’t there yet?”

  We crossed the street, ducked through the open door, and breezed past the secretary. At the back office we pushed open the door. A plaque in front of his desk said his name was Kim. When Ernie pulled his .45 and shoved the barrel up into Mr. Kim’s nostril, the middle-aged travel agent couldn’t talk fast enough.

  Unfolded on his desk was a huge album featuring wallet-sized snapshots of dozens of Korean women. His sales portfolio. Japanese businessmen arrived in country in organized junkets, usually paid for by the company they worked for. Before they left their home country, each participant had already picked out a Korean girl to act as his “hostess” upon arrival.

  I didn’t see Jessica’s photo but when I mentioned her name he knew who she was quick enough.

  “She go with Mr. Fukushima.”

  “Fuku-whatta?” Ernie asked.

  “Ondo Fukushima. Very powerful man.”

  “How powerful?” I asked.

  The manager of the Golden Dragon Travel Agency stared into the barrel of Ernie’s .45 and swallowed. “Yakuza,” he said.

  The Japanese mafia.

  “What hotel is he staying at?”

  “Not there yet. He arrive airport in Pusan one hour ago. Has many business meetings in many places: Kuangju, Taegu, Taejon. I don’t know where.”

  Ernie punched him. The travel agent howled in pain. I checked to make sure that his secretary hadn’t reached for the telephone. She hadn’t. She sat at her desk, hands flat on the lacquered wooden desk in front of her, shaking like a frightened rabbit. I felt bad about this treatment, but we had no choice but to scare the hell out of them. If I’d asked Mr. Kim questions without using intimidation, he would’ve either told me to take a hike or stalled and demanded money. Neither of which I had time for. Would he turn us in to the Korean National Police for using threats and intimidation? Probably not. Because that’s what the KNPs use themselves. In Korea, it’s an unofficial—but accepted—law-enforcement technique. I assuaged my guilt by reminding myself that many of the women in Mr. Kim’s portfolio— the lost young faces staring out at me—were forced into prostitution by threats and intimidation. This was a nice office, and Mr. Kim wore a clean pressed suit, but from wall to wall the place stank.

  “I don’t know where Mr. Fukushima go,” Kim said. “Yakuza don’t write down . . . how you say?”

  “Itinerary,” I told him.

  He nodded. “Yes. Itinerary.”

  “Is Jessica with him now?”

  “Not yet. His driver pick her up this morning, take her someplace south. She will greet Mr. Fukushima tomorrow morning and stay with him during all meetings. Tomorrow night, maybe late, they come back Seoul.”

  That was unusual. Usually the Japanese sex tourists hide their girls in their hotel rooms. Sometimes they take them to the casinos or the nightclubs, but that’s about it. Never to official business meetings.

  Kim responded to my questioning look. “Fukushima get good face,” he said. “He want everybody see American girl. Daughter of G.I. honcho. He show her to everybody.”

  “How much is he paying her?” I asked.

  “One thousand dollars. For whole weekend.”

  “What does she have to do?”

  Kim’s eyes widened. “What you mean?”

  “What service does she have to perform for the thousand dollars?”

  A look of confusion clouded Kim’s face.

  “Does she have to sleep with him?” I asked.

  Then he understood. “Of course,” he answered. “She woman. He man.”

  Ernie slapped him. Not hard. Just with his left hand.

  “When he arrives in Seoul,” Ernie asked, “what hotel will he be staying at?”

  “White Crane Hotel,” Kim answered. “New one. Best in Seoul.”

  Kim didn’t know what time they’d be arriving at the hotel. Like he said, a yakuza doesn’t advertise his itinerary. But late, he figured. Late tomorrow night.

  Before we left, Ernie pointed his .45 once more between Kim’s eyes.

  “No phone calls,” Ernie said, “to this yakuza or to any of his buddies. Or to the police. You got that?”

  Kim nodded frantically.

  “If you forget,” Ernie said, “I’ll be back.”

  Kim sat frozen as we left. The secretary was still shaking.

  Korean television news broadcasts use language that is too difficult for me to understand. The stories are read by a dignified-looking Korean man in a well-pressed suit who alternates with a gorgeous Korean woman wearing an expensive Western-style dress. As they drone on, I can pick out a few words and phrases but one thing I’ve noticed in the months I’ve been in Korea is that they seldom report on the 50,000 American soldiers stationed in their country. When they do, it is only with footage of big ROK–U.S. joint maneuvers showing ships and planes and tanks moving over hilly countryside. They never show individual G.I.s close up. And they certainly never report on American soldiers tearing through their towns and villages, drunk, on a Saturday night. So I knew that the indiscretions of Jessica Tidwell, no matter how egregious, would never be allowed to be aired on a Korean television news broadcast or on the radio or even in a newspaper. But nevertheless people would know. Everyone at 8th Army, all the thousands of members of the Korean National Police, and most importantly, officials at the top levels of the U.S. and South Korean governments; they would all know. The embarrassment would be massive: the daughter of the 8th Army J-2 selling herself to a Japanese mobster. Colonel Tidwell would lose his job, Mrs. Tidwell would never be able to show her face at the Officers’ Wives’ Club again, and the entire family would probably be run out of the country.

  “So what do you care about them?” Ernie asked. “What have they ever done for you?”

  We were in Ernie’s jeep now, heading back toward Yongsan Compound.

  “They deserve to know,” I replied. “At least Mrs. Tidwell does.”

  “Before we report it up the chain of command, you mean?”

  “Exactly.”

  Ernie shrugged. “What difference does it make? We’ll have to report it eventually.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “What the hell do you mean?”

  “If we take Jessica away from this Fukushima, return her to her mom, then nobody needs to know. But if we make it official, Eighth Army’s going to lose face.”

  “Are you nuts, Sueño?”

  “Eighth Army’s done a lot of good in this country,” I said, “despite the crime we see every day. Look at what Moretti did twenty years ago, built an orphanage, fed people who were starving. Eighth Army has built roads and aqueducts and—”

  “And we saved the south from the horrors of Communism,” Ernie said, “just like we’re going to do in Vietnam.”

  “That too,” I replied.

  Ernie sighed. “So you want to keep this quiet?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it could be dangerous, that’s why not. If Jessica Tidwell gets seriously hurt, or disappears, it’ll be on us. The provost marshal will come down on us with both feet.”

  “A little danger never bothered you before.”

  That challenge finally brought Ernie Bascom over. “If you’re game, so am I,” he replied.

  “I’m game.”

  When we reached Yongsan Compound, Ernie turned left into Gate Number 9, the easternmost entrance to 8th Army South Post. As we approached Colonel Tidwell‘s quarters, Mrs. Tidwell stood at her front door, arms crossed.

  “Apparently,” I told Mrs. Tidwell, “Jessica believes that if she can raise the thousand dollars and return it to your husband’s safe, he will drop the charges against Corporal Bernal.”

  Ernie and I sat on a leather sofa in the front room, two cu
ps of hot black coffee in front of us on a glass-topped table. Mrs. Tidwell sat on a straight-backed chair opposite, her manicured fingers folded on her lap. Her hair was combed, her face made up, and she wore a blue print dress that lay across her knees in stiff pleats.

  Mrs. Tidwell rose, turned away form us, and strode toward a plate-glass window that looked out over a row of tightly pruned cherry trees.

  “Jessica might be right,” Mrs. Tidwell said. “My husband brought the charges against Corporal Bernal. He can also drop the charges.”

  What she was telling us, I believed, was that if Jessica raised the money she would make sure her husband dropped the charges. Good. But what she needed to know now was how Jessica planned to raise the money.

  Ernie glanced at me. I swallowed and opened my mouth.

  “I think you’ll agree, Mrs. Tidwell,” I said, “that Jessica’s plan to raise the money is not a wise one.”

  Mrs. Tidwell turned away from the garden scene outside, returned, and sat down facing me.

  “Just what is her plan?”

  I spread my fingers. “According to the information we’ve uncovered, Jessica plans to engage in a business deal sponsored by the Golden Dragon Travel Agency.”

  Mrs. Tidwell stared at me blankly.

  “To be frank, ma’am,” I continued, “their practices are somewhat unsavory. Trips arranged for wealthy Japanese businessmen. Introductions made.”

  Her eyes widened. “Sex tours,” she said.

  “Not always,” I answered. “Sometimes the women act as escorts only.”

  Mrs. Tidwell kept her green eyes on me, allowing the heat of her stare to linger on my face. “Don’t lie to me,” she said.

  I didn’t answer.

  “This Golden Dragon Travel Agency is going to set Jessica up with some rich Japanese businessman here in Seoul?” Mrs. Tidwell leaned forward, intent. Somehow, the tiny muscles in her face hardened. “What fun for him,” she said. “A beautiful redheaded American girl. Only seventeen. And what good face for him. The daughter of the intelligence chief of the 8th United States Army.”

  She glared at me as if I were Jessica Tidwell’s pimp. Ernie studied the floor, not breathing.

  “That’s why we came to you first,” I said, stammering. “Before reporting anything . . . officially.”

  She sat back, breathed deeply, and turned her head as if seeing the intricately designed wallpaper for the first time. Then she snapped her attention back to me.

  “Can you find her?”

  “With the help of the Korean National Police and possibly with the—”

  “Not with them. Alone.”

  “It would be difficult.”

  “But not impossible?”

  “No,” I answered, “not impossible.” I spread my fingers again. “But we’d need to be reinstated back to our full investigative status.”

  “Reinstated?”

  I explained to her what had happened, about our search for the bones of Mori Di and about the unexpected discovery of the death of Two Bellies. I left out a lot of the details.

  “So the ROKs think you murdered this overage prostitute?” Mrs. Tidwell said.

  “They know we didn’t,” Ernie replied. “They’re just keeping the charges open to keep pressure on Eighth Army.”

  “And to save face,” she said, getting the picture immediately.

  I nodded.

  “Who’s your boss?” she asked.

  “Colonel Brace,” I told her. “The provost marshal.”

  When she rose again, she walked over to the mantelpiece. Atop it sat pictures of Jessica: when she was a baby, on a Girl Scout camping trip, laughing with other teenage girls and waving pompoms.

  “We’ve spoiled her,” Mrs. Tidwell said. “You know that.”

  Neither Ernie nor I answered. Instead, we stared into our cold coffee.

  “If we make Jessica’s . . . uh . . . indiscretions official,” Mrs. Tidwell said, “my husband would be embarrassed. The Korean government would know of our shame, and eventually the U.S. ambassador. My husband might even have to resign from his position as J-2 for 8th Army.” She shook her head. “That would kill him. The thought that every Korean policeman in the country would know that my daughter planned to sell herself to a rich Japanese, is not tolerable.”

  She walked quickly across the thick carpet, entered the den, and slid the door shut behind her.

  “What’s she doing?” Ernie asked.

  “Probably making a phone call.”

  “To who?”

  “Not to her husband, you can count on that.”

  Five minutes later she returned.

  “I just talked to Meg Waldron,” she said. “Do you know who she is?”

  I nodded. “The wife of the CG.”

  The wife of the commanding general of the 8th United States Army. Also the president of the Officers’ Wives’ Club.

  “She says that she’ll put a call in to Colonel Brace immediately. Consider yourselves reinstated. And she says that if you rescue Jessica, there is no way that the U.S. or Korean authorities are going to touch you in any way.” Mrs. Tidwell strode forward and sat back down in front of us. “You must find Jessica. You must find her right away, before she does this horrible thing. Meg Waldron and I and all the women of the Officers’ Wives’ Club will be here to protect you.”

  I believed that she meant it. But I didn’t believe it would do us much good. If somebody got hurt—really hurt—the situation would be beyond her control.

  Ernie and I rose from the sofa. She shook my hand.

  “And one more thing,” she said. “When you find Paco, don’t hurt him. Jessica would never forgive me.”

  “We’ll try not to hurt anybody, ma’am,” I said.

  We walked down the long driveway to Ernie’s jeep. Mrs. Tidwell stood at the huge entranceway to the J-2’s quarters and watched until we drove away.

  Ernie glanced at me as he rounded a corner. “Sticking our necks out for the brass. I’m not sure I like it.”

  “I figure we’re doing it for Eighth Army.”

  Ernie raised one eyebrow and asked again. “What has Eighth Army ever done for you?”

  We were just leaving Yongsan Compound South Post and crossing the MSR, the Main Supply Route. I waved my hand toward Itaewon.

  “Eighth Army’s given me all this,” I said. “And this.” I plucked the front of my white shirt and tie.

  Ernie grunted and wheeled the jeep between the barricade that led to main post.

  At the Yongsan Compound Military Police Arms Room, Staff Sergeant Palinki, the Unit Armorer, presented me with a well-oiled .45 automatic and matching shoulder holster. Ernie was already carrying. He was supposed to have turned the weapon in when we were stripped of our investigative duties but he hadn’t bothered. Ernie handed over his weapon and allowed Palinki to perform a quick maintenance check and cleaning.

  “Bad boys,” Palinki said. “This will make them think twice before messing with you two.”

  “Nobody messes with us, Palinki,” Ernie said.

  “Nobody. Sure, boss. Nobody mess with Sueño and Bascom. In case they do though . . . ” He pointed a big finger at the business end of the .45. “This is the part you point at them, brother. Make them think twice. If they don’t be good boys, you blow their fucking heads off, OK brother?”

  Ernie offered Palinki a stick of ginseng gum. The big man took two. He chomped on them both and grinned as we slipped into our leather straps, holstered the .45s with the grips pointing out, and then put on our jackets over them.

  “Nobody know you packing,” Palinki said.

  Nobody except somebody who might wonder why we had two-inch-wide bulges under our armpits.

  We saluted Sergeant Palinki and left.

  10

  I was the only CID agent—or MP for that matter—in the entire Republic of Korea who could speak Korean. Not that I received any credit for having slaved in night classes. On the contrary, I was most often accused of bei
ng “too close to the Koreans.” The honchos wouldn’t admit that actually talking to the people you’re investigating can sometimes help.

  Ernie, on the other hand, could move in any low-life circles. Whether the G.I.s off post were druggies or criminals or perverts on the prowl for unmentionable delights, Ernie could gain their confidence. Probably it was Vietnam that had done it to him. He spent two tours there. On the first he’d bought marijuana and hashish like most G.I.s but on his second tour all the marijuana and hash had disappeared, replaced now by vials of pure China White. A plan encouraged by the North Vietnamese to incapacitate American soldiers, he thought. Upon returning to the States, Ernie found the willpower to lay off drugs. He switched to booze, a perfectly acceptable alternative as far as the United States Army is concerned. I admired him for his strength of will and his ability to move chameleon-like from one world to the other.

  But what ultimately forced the provost marshal and the other honchos at 8th Army to tolerate George Sueño and Ernie Bascom was that Ernie and I were the only investigators in country willing and able to waltz right into any G.I. village and come back with the goods. The other CID agents were tight-asses. They didn’t know how to conduct themselves in nightclubs or bars or brothels and they froze up, acting stilted and embarrassed. And, of course, none of them could speak the language. Neither the language of the people of Korea nor the language of the night.

  Eighth Army needed Ernie and me. And because there was a lot more G.I. crime off compound than 8th Army liked to admit—which was the reason they kept the SIRs under lock and key—the skills of George Sueño and Ernie Bascom were, if not prized, at least tolerated. But you wouldn’t have known it by the scowling countenances of the CID first sergeant and the 8th Army Provost Marshal, Colonel Brace.

  “You went over my head,” Colonel Brace told us.

  Ernie and I kept quiet.

  “Out of nowhere,” Colonel Brace continued, “the CG’s chief of staff calls me and says that I’m to reinstate your full investigative powers and to hell with what the Korean National Police might think. And, furthermore, I’m to let you concentrate full time on the Jessica Tidwell case.”