by Martin Limon
Corporal Paco Bernal, wearing an ill-fitting black suit, had pulled Jessica away from us, right up to the edge of the waterfall. He slapped her again.
“You would go with him?”
Jessica pawed at his chest. “It was for you, Paco.” She pointed at the bills sticking out of her purse. “See? I have enough yen here to cover the thousand dollars we stole. My dad will drop the charges. He’ll have to. We’ll be OK.”
Paco Bernal looked like one of those heartthrobs I used to see in the corny old Mexican movies we used to watch in East L.A. when I was a kid. In the suit, with his hair slicked back, all he needed was a pencil-thin mustache to complete the picture. At the moment, he didn’t care about us. He didn’t care about the Japanese gangsters. All he cared about is what he perceived as Jessica Tidwell’s betrayal.
Ondo Fukushima turned his scowling face toward Paco. His lips were pursed so tight that I thought his face would burst.
Behind the counter, hotel employees whispered the word kyongchal. Police.
Now it was Fukushima’s turn to wrestle with indecision. Time was running out. If he were to pull Jessica away from her lover just as the police arrived on the scene, he’d be arrested, and the whole world would know what happened here tonight. Not that he’d do any prison time. His money and his attorneys would see to that. But more important, much more important, he’d lose face. He’d be seen as the old man in a love triangle with two good-looking young foreigners.
The thugs were no longer planning to pounce. They seemed to sense their boss’s thoughts.
In the distance, a siren wailed.
Fukushima made his decision. He barked something in guttural Japanese.
As if their batteries had been turned off, the Japanese thugs relaxed. Moving like one organism, they backed away from us, surrounded their boss, and headed at a brisk pace toward the executive elevator.
Ernie turned his .45 toward Paco.
“Move away from the girl, Paco. Assume the position against the wall. You must be familiar with it.”
As if waking from a nightmare, Paco seemed to see us clearly for the first time. Instead of pushing Jessica away, he hugged her closer and then, moving so quickly that she couldn’t react, he twirled her around, forcing his forearm up under her neck. From his pocket a gleaming blade of steel appeared.
The bayonet that had been missing from his field gear.
He pressed the tip of it lightly into Jessica’s neck.
“Paco?” she asked.
“Shut up!” He turned his attention to me and Ernie. “If you come any closer, I’ll slice her. I swear I will.”
Instead, Ernie moved to his side. Paco jabbed the bayonet a little farther into Jessica’s throat, warning me off. I lowered my .45.
“You’re a smart man, Paco,” I said. “Up to now you’re only facing a theft charge. It’s only money. Nobody’s going to come down too hard on you. But if you hurt Jessica . . .” I let the thought hang.
While Paco stared at me, Ernie inched a little closer. I knew he’d take a shot at Paco’s head if he got a clear one. He had to. An innocent person’s life was in danger. And there was no way I could stop him.
Paco kept his eyes on me, pondering my words. A moment of clarity washed over his face. His anger at Jessica faded. He was starting to see the enormity of the mistake he’d made.
“Put down the bayonet, Paco,” I said.
At the same time, Jessica seemed to realize that she’d also made an error. Her big green eyes stared down at the glistening bayonet. But she wasn’t going to go down without a fight.
The sirens grew louder. Ernie inched even closer, keeping his .45 pointed at Paco’s head. That’s when I saw the decision in Jessica’s eyes. She raised her high-heeled shoe. I knew what she was going to do. I wanted to stop her. I wanted to cry out but no sound came out of my throat. She lifted her heel and stomped it down on Paco Bernal’s toe. Paco jerked back. Ernie lowered his .45 and charged, ramming his shoulder into Paco’s side.
Paco spun away from the rock waterfall, kept his balance, and grabbed the collar of Ernie’s coat. With his free hand he raised the bayonet in the air.
I jerked my .45 up in front of me, flexed my knees, and shouted, “No!”
Jessica dropped to the floor. Before Paco could chop the blade down on Ernie, the cold steel in my hand bucked and an enormous blast filled my ears and then the odor of burnt cordite billowed in the air.
Jessica screamed. A red hole burst open in Paco Bernal’s side. He reeled backwards toward the rock retaining wall of the waterfall like a yo-yo bouncing on a string.
More sirens, louder now, screamed behind me; car doors slammed. Ernie was up, crouching over Paco. Jessica had stopped screaming but her eyes were flooded with tears. She shoved Ernie out of the way, reaching for Paco. Ernie shoved her back.
She stumbled, rose to her feet, and charged at me. I was still holding the smoking .45 pointed directly at her. She knocked it out of the way and rammed both of her small fists into my chest.
“What have you done? Why’d you shoot him?”
She punched me two more times, in the face. I held my .45 pointed at the floor and didn’t resist. Suddenly, she kicked off her high heels, and ran in her bare feet back to Paco.
Ernie was trying to stop the bleeding that pulsed from Paco’s chest. He looked around for a compress, noticed the wad of bills sticking out of Jessica’s purse. He snatched them. “Here,” he told her. “Press these down on the wound. Press hard! So the bleeding will stop.”
Jessica knelt on the bloody floor and did as she was told. Ernie hurried over to me, grabbed my shoulders, and gazed into my eyes; he didn’t like what he saw. He moved me over to an upholstered bench against the wall, sat me down, and pried the .45 out of my fist. He took out the clip, stuck it in his jacket pocket, and put the empty weapon back into my shoulder holster.
“Don’t move, Sueño,” he said. “You stay right here.”
Then he returned to Jessica.
Even from this distance I could see the blood seeping past Jessica’s splayed fingers and dripping down Paco’s side.
The next morning, veins not only protruded from the first sergeant’s neck but they also pulsed beneath the skin of his forehead.
“You didn’t report it?” he asked. “The daughter of the Eighth Army J-2 is being held by a Japanese mobster and you decide it’s not important enough to let anyone know?”
Ernie shrugged. “You guys would’ve just got in the way.”
“Got in the way?” The first sergeant gets like that when he’s angry; he keeps repeating whatever you say. He raised his forefinger and pointed it at me and then at Ernie. “You not only botch the operation but you end up shooting a suspect and then, to top it off, the J-2’s daughter ends up disappearing all over again!”
“We’ll find her,” Ernie said. “Piece of cake.”
We were in the CID Admin Office, taking our ass-chewing—a serious one this time. So far, no one had questioned my decision to pop a round into Corporal Paco Bernal. In the KNP report a number of witnesses testified that he had been about to stab Ernie with his bayonet. I acted to protect a fellow CID agent and everyone agreed I had no choice. Even I agreed, I think.
Staff Sergeant Riley sat at his desk, head bobbing over a stack of paperwork, attempting to stay removed from this conversation. As soon as the first sergeant raised his voice, Miss Kim disappeared down the hallway. She hadn’t returned yet.
“The provost marshal has gone ballistic,” the first sergeant continued. “He has to report to the CG and Colonel Tidwell, and tell them that two of his investigators didn’t let him know they had a lead on the whereabouts of Jessica Tidwell and then, on their own, they shot an Eighth Army G.I. and allowed Jessica Tidwell to escape again.”
Ernie didn’t say anything this time. I hadn’t said anything since the first sergeant started screaming. Actually, I didn’t feel as bad as when I thought that Paco Bernal would die from the bullet I’d blasted into
him. As it was, Paco was currently in the Intensive Care Unit of the 121 Evacuation Hospital. Prognosis: guarded. Which, although not good, is better than dead. He’d lose a couple of ribs but the bullet hadn’t passed through any vital organs.
At the White Crane Hotel, seconds after Ernie sat me down on that bench, the KNPs swarmed in and took charge of the crime scene. An ambulance arrived and carted Paco away. The head KNP investigator requested an interview with Ondo Fukushima and after a few minutes, he was allowed an audience with the great man. In the opulence of Fukushima’s suite, the KNP investigator determined that the Japanese yakuza wasn’t involved in the shooting and, in fact, this entire mess was an American-style soap opera— not Korean or Japanese.
I sat pretty much stunned by what I had done—shot a man— and rejoiced inwardly when the ambulance took him away and it was reported that Paco Bernal was still breathing. Ernie, as usual, started in with the KNPs and there was a scuffle and finally a half-dozen of them cornered him on one of the couches in the lobby and questioned him without letting him go check on me.
Meanwhile, no one was paying much attention to Jessica Tidwell. I pieced it together later, mostly by talking to the bellhops and the doormen outside.
A Korean man, a large Korean man, had shown up shortly after the arrival of the KNPs. He seemed to know some of the KNP investigators but stayed studiously out of their way and finally, when he had a chance, he approached Jessica Tidwell. They seemed to know each other. He lit a cigarette for her and while she smoked and nodded he whispered in her ear. Jessica kept nodding in an absentminded sort of way. After the paramedics took Paco away, she left with the tall Korean man.
I asked the KNPs why they’d allowed her to leave. They told me the name of the man she had left with: Son Ryu-jon. I didn’t recognize it. And then, in response to my blank stare, one of the KNPs finally relented and explained, “Everybody call him Maldeigari.”
Horsehead. His influence was such that no one had stopped them.
The first sergeant still hadn’t finished our ass-chewing. “They’re saying it’s your fault that Jessica is running wild,” he told us.
“Who’s saying?” Ernie asked.
“Colonel Tidwell, the CG, even the Officers’ Wives’ Club,” the first sergeant answered. “They’re saying if you had done your jobs and picked up Jessica, none of this would’ve happened.”
“Maybe it’s their fault,” Ernie said, “for raising her like they did.”
The first sergeant pointed his finger at Ernie’s nose. “Don’t you be showing disrespect to your superior officers, Bascom.”
Before Ernie could reply, I said, “We’ll find her, Top.”
Our ace in the hole was that, despite everything that had happened, Ernie and I were still the only 8th Army CID agents who had any contacts whatsoever in Itaewon.
The phone rang. It was for the first sergeant. He said, “Yes, sir” and then “Yes, sir” again and again. About a half-dozen times. He hung up the phone and looked at us.
“That was the duty officer over at the 121 Evac. A redhead in a short skirt was spotted in the intensive care unit, hanging around Paco. A medic tried to shoo her out. She threw a tantrum, told him to go to hell.”
“Sounds like Jessica,” I said, standing up from my chair. “Did she leave?”
“Not until he threatened to call the MPs.”
We ran outside and jumped in Ernie’s jeep. After he started the engine, Ernie turned to me and said, “You OK?”
I nodded. “I’m OK. And I’ll stay OK as long as Paco Bernal keeps breathing.”
Ernie jammed the jeep in gear and roared off towards the 121 Evacuation Hospital.
When we arrived, the redhead in the ICU had already left. I asked the medic how long ago she’d left and he said about ten minutes.
In front of the main entrance to the 121 was a PX hot dog stand and a turnaround for the big black Ford Granada PX taxis. I spoke to one of the drivers and he used the radio bolted beneath his dashboard and called dispatch. The driver and the dispatcher chatted for a while in Korean and the dispatcher contacted other units, eventually locating a driver who had picked up Jessica Tidwell. I took the mic and spoke to him, surprising everyone by using Korean. This driver said the woman he picked up in front of the 121 wore a short blue dress and had been quite agitated. She’d ordered him to take her to Itaewon. He let her off on the MSR across from the UN Club, at the front entrance to the Hamilton Hotel.
Had she entered the hotel? I asked.
No. She took off on foot, heading north.
Then I asked another question, still in Korean. What currency had she used to pay him? That was another odd thing, the driver replied. Although she was an American, she had insisted on paying her fare in Japanese yen. In fact, he told me that he was holding the thousand yen note in his hand right now and he wasn’t even sure how much it was worth. Another thing was odd. There was a brown smudge on the edge of the bill and it looked, almost, like dried blood.
Paco was still comatose. When I asked the nurse in the intensive care unit how he was doing, she stared at me with sad eyes and shook her head.
“You don’t think he’ll pull through?” I asked.
“He might,” she replied. She gazed in his direction. “Yes, probably. But he will never be the man he once was.”
Ernie patted me on the shoulder.
On our way out, the phone rang behind the emergency room counter. A medic picked it up and then called us over. “You guys Sweeno and Bascom?”
“That’s us,” Ernie replied.
“Somebody wants to talk to you.”
I took the call. It was Riley. He started talking without preamble.
“Do either of you guys know somebody named Mel Gardi?” he asked.
“Who?”
“Mel Gardi,” he repeated.
My eyes widened. “You mean ‘Maldeigari.’”
“Whatever.”
“That’s Horsehead,” I said. “What about him?”
“You better get your butts out to Itaewon.”
“Why? What’s up?”
“I ain’t repeating this shit,” Riley said.
I pulled out my notebook and jotted down directions: a block and a half up the hill from the Dingy Dingy Pool Hall.
“This is in Itaewon?” I asked.
“That’s what they tell me. Not far from the Hamilton Hotel.”
The front entrance to the Hamilton Hotel was the only authorized PX taxi stand in Itaewon.
“What about Horsehead?” I asked again. “Did something happen to him?”
“Go look!” Riley shouted and hung up.
“What is it?” Ernie asked.
I told him.
We ran outside of the 121 Evac, jumped in his jeep, and laid rubber halfway out the gate.
12
Horsehead had fought back.
The rope around his wrists was frayed and bit sharply into the flesh of his forearm. He’d tried to rip himself free. Instead, he’d managed only to tear great gaps in his skin. Blood had flowed down his wrist and his hands and onto the small of his back where his wrists were tied. He’d kicked against the wall of the little hooch, too, despite the fact that his ankles—like his wrists—were bound together with rope that had been laced in intricate knots.
And he’d been gagged. With a wool scarf and cotton stuffed into his mouth.
Like Moretti.
Maybe the similarities were coincidental. Maybe the Seven Dragons had nothing to do with this crime. Maybe. I knelt next to Horsehead’s body. The single bare bulb overhead had been switched on but I needed more illumination. I used my army-issue flashlight.
Last night, Horsehead had been spotted at the White Crane Hotel, policing up Jessica Tidwell. Then he had ended up here, in this dark and crowded neighborhood of Itaewon, in this tiny hooch rented by the hour, face down in his own vomit, his hands and feet bound, his body stabbed so many times that he looked like pulverized goose liver.
And
where was Jessica Tidwell?
The old woman who owned the hooch was in tears. A gaggle of KNPs surrounded her, shooting questions at her. Her wrinkled face was smeared with moisture, and she kept repeating over and over again. “Na moolah. Chinja moolah.” I don’t know. I really don’t know.
What the old woman didn’t know was who the people were who’d brought in Horsehead.
“He was drunk,” she’d told us through sobs. “Two men were carrying him. They said they wanted a room so he could sleep it off. They paid me in advance and carried him to the room and laid him down and left him there. They said some women would be along to check on him and make him comfortable and I should let them in and they’d take care of him.”
She hadn’t recognized the men, had never seen them before. But they were Korean men, well into middle age, and they wore workingmen’s clothes as if they’d just come from some sort of job in a warehouse or a factory. And the women had shuffled in immediately after the men left. The landlady hadn’t paid much attention because by then she was watching Chonwon Diary, a popular prime-time soap opera. Her favorite show, she added. But there were three women and each wore some sort of jacket or shawl with a hood; she hadn’t seen their faces.
“Did they carry weapons?” one of the cops asked.
She didn’t know. She hadn’t looked. If they did they weren’t carrying them in their hands where she could see.
“Was there much noise?”
Not much. Some moaning. But she’d had drunks sleep it off in the rooms she rented before and they were never quiet, so she hadn’t paid attention. Except for the pounding on the wall. For a second there, she thought the drunken man was going to kick the house down but the women managed to get him under control.
“When did the women leave?”
She wasn’t sure. After her program was over she realized that all was quiet down the hall. But she hadn’t gone to look. It was late so she locked the outer gate and went to sleep. She believed the women had already left because she didn’t hear any footsteps pounding down the hallway during the night and no one had called for her to unlock the front gate.
