G.I. Bones

by Martin Limon

  “Please,” she said, grabbing my arm. “Think about them. When they were little children, they walk so far through snow. Mama and daddy dead. Think about that.”

  “I will.”

  Miss Kwon trudged slowly back into her hooch.

  It was easy to see why the grown-up orphans of the Itaewon Massacre would want to take revenge on Horsehead and Water Doggy, and all of the Seven Dragons. Snake tried to send a warning to those unknown killers by murdering Auntie Mee. He ordered Aunite Mee’s murder be without bloodshed so she was strangled with a silk rope.

  Who had murdered Two Bellies? At first I’d thought it was the remaining Seven Dragons. But that idea troubled me. Snake and his brethren could have frightened Two Bellies into leaving town. That would have been much safer than inviting a murder investigation.

  The Seven Dragons were hoping Ernie and I wouldn’t find the bones, that they’d remain undisturbed for many decades to come. I concluded that Two Bellies had been made an offer she couldn’t refuse, as insurance. She was to follow us, and if we actually found the bones, steal them and turn them over to Snake. Miss Kwon suspected Two Bellies so she’d stayed close to her; pretended to help Two Bellies in return for a 10 percent cut of the reward the Seven Dragons were offering for the bones.

  When, against all odds, Ernie and I did find the bones, Two Bellies was right behind us. And so was the resourceful Miss Kwon. When Two Bellies climbed inside the makeshift ossuarium and piled all the bones into a cardboard box, Miss Kwon knew that Two Bellies would turn the bones over to the Seven Dragons. She knew that when Ernie and I returned we would find an empty crypt and she also knew that the truth about the murder of Mori Di, and therefore the truth about the murder of her parents in the Itaewon Massacre, would never be revealed. This was more than she could bear. While Two Bellies was preoccupied with gathering the bones, Miss Kwon reached in, grabbed a clump of Two Bellies’ hair, and cleanly sliced her throat.

  The move was one she’d learned when she was sent to work for the butcher family in the valley beneath the Temple of Constant Truth. She had used a hooked blade attached to a wooden handle, almost as sharp as a scalpel, the one she’d pilfered from her friends at the butcher shop counter in the Itaewon Market, the same type of blade that is used to slaughter hogs.

  Conveniently, Two Bellies had already packed the bones into a square white box so Miss Kwon picked it up, tied it with the black ribbon Two Bellies had provided, and transported the remains to Doc Yong’s clinic for safekeeping. Doc Yong couldn’t turn the bones over to me because if she did, then I would have suspected her, or possibly her little friend Miss Kwon, of having murdered Two Bellies. Doc Yong was holding onto the bones, waiting for a more opportune time to allow them, somehow, to be brought to light.

  Later that evening, filled with remorse for what she’d done, Miss Kwon leapt off the roof of the King Club. But, her survival instinct kept her alive and, for the most part, whole.

  Then Horsehead and Water Doggy had been killed. Shortly thereafter, Doc Yong was kidnapped by Snake.

  Doc Yong lay still.

  Awake, but unwilling to talk to me. She was smart enough to know that I thought I’d figured it all out. We were holed up in a small room in a rundown tourist hotel on the eastern outskirts of Seoul in a district known as Kui-dong. In order to get her to talk, drastic measures were in order. I switched on the small lamp on the nightstand. Then I pulled out the photograph the nun at the Temple of Constant Truth had given to me and placed it beneath the glow of the green lamp.

  “Is that her?”

  “Yes.”

  “She was beautiful.”

  “Yes.”

  The photo showed Moretti, in full uniform, standing with his arm around the tall, handsome Korean woman.

  “My mom,” Doc Yong said. “She always told me, Mori Di, he good man. He come visit us, always bring nice things. Food, cooking oil, money for charcoal. He played with me, even helped me study English. When he was alive, everything good.”

  We lay like that for a long time, both of us staring at the photograph. She didn’t cry, neither did I.

  “It must’ve been rough for you when you went to the orphanage,” I said.

  She nodded slowly. and then started to speak. “When she was old enough, Miss Kwon was sent to a butcher family to learn a trade. When there wasn’t enough work to do, the family would send her back. They didn’t want to feed her unless she could earn money for them. The nuns always took her back and fed her. Often, I watched over her. She was so little, so helpless, so lost. She wanted so much for the butcher family to accept her but they were poor and I suppose, they were cold-hearted. They never accepted Miss Kwon.”

  I waited for Doc Yong to compose herself. Then I said, “When Auntie Mee left the nunnery, she relied on skills she’d learned from her mother and she became a fortune teller, famous and rich. But Miss Kwon didn’t have any such skill so she did what she had to do.” I paused for a moment, letting my words sink in. “But what about you? How did you become a doctor?”

  Doc Yong smiled at the question but kept staring at the tattered wallpaper of the little room. From the faraway look on her face, the dingy furnishings might as well have been the stars of the Milky Way. Finally, she spoke.

  “I did well in school,” she replied. “The nuns saw that I had the ability to learn so they scraped together the money to send me to middle school. Still, high school would’ve been out of reach. But someone stepped in to help.”

  “Who? Certainly not the Seven Dragons?”

  “No. Not them. Of course not. I doubt that they even knew we existed. It was someone else, someone who knew my mother.”

  “A friend of Moretti’s?”

  “No. From before that time. From when my father was alive. From when we lived in North Korea.”

  After that, she didn’t want to talk anymore. I let her be.

  As we lay there, I wondered what I was going to do. So far, nobody in law enforcement had put all this together except me and Ernie, and Ernie would go along with whatever I decided. Finally, I asked Doc Yong.

  “Why did you start?”

  “Start what?”

  “Start killing the Seven Dragons. First Horsehead and then Water Doggy.”

  “I didn’t want to,” she replied. “They wanted to, the other orphans. But I told them no, there was a better way. We’d arrange for the bones of Mori Di to be shown to the world and then the Seven Dragons would be punished. Punished properly in a court of law. Not by, how you say? Vigilante justice?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Right, vigilante justice. I didn’t want that. That’s how our parents were killed, trying to take the law into their own hands.”

  “But you changed your mind.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. Because of you. Remember? You told me that you fought with Horsehead. Horsehead was mad at you for interfering with his plans with that American girl and everybody in Itaewon said that maybe he would kill you.”

  “That was just Horsehead blowing off steam. He didn’t mean it.”

  “How do you know?” When I didn’t answer, Doc Yong gazed back at the wallpaper. “Anyway, I didn’t want to take a chance.”

  I paused at that statement, overwhelmed for a moment. I felt gratitude that someone—after all my years of being an orphan, all my years of being alone—had felt so strongly about me.

  I waited until I regained my self-control. It took a couple of minutes. Then I said, “So that’s what started it?”

  She nodded her head slowly.

  “And Two Bellies?”

  “Miss Kwon. She try very much to help us. To protect us.”

  We sat in silence. I thought about all that had happened: tragedy, revenge, miscalculation. The usual.

  Finally, I turned to Doc Yong and said, “What should we do?”

  She shook her head. “You don’t have
to do nothing. I do everything.”

  The honchos of 8th Army were still pissed about Jessica Tidwell. And the fact that we had yet to find her and bring her in was still making Colonel Brace’s life miserable at the 8th Army Officers’ Club.

  “Whatever happens to her,” Colonel Brace said, pointing his forefinger at us, “is on you two.”

  “How do you figure that?” Ernie asked. He didn’t say “sir.”

  The pressure we were living under had made him even more reckless than he usually was. Fortunately, Colonel Brace chose to ignore the lack of military courtesy.

  “That’s what her father, Colonel Tidwell, is saying,” Colonel Brace replied, “as well as the Eighth Army commanding general. You two left her out there. You didn’t pick her up when you should have, when you shot that corporal at the White Crane Hotel, when you had the chance, and now whatever happens to her, whatever she does, whatever trouble she might stumble into, is on you two. And nobody else.”

  “Maybe the blame,” Ernie said, “should be on her parents.”

  “Don’t get smart with me, Bascom.”

  Before Ernie could say anything more, I jumped in. “We’ll find her, sir.”

  “You’d better. Immediately if not sooner. Because whatever crimes she might commit or, worse yet, whatever crimes might be committed with respect to her, are going to be your responsibility.”

  He pointed his forefinger at us once again, the finger of blame.

  This was nonsense. Ernie knew it and I knew it. Even Colonel Brace secretly knew it. But the military mind has a tremendous capacity for passing on blame. And the collective wisdom of the officer corps of 8th Army actually had a genius for diverting blame and sliding it on down the line toward the lower ranks. And the better an officer is at that particular skill, the higher his rank.

  When I dragged him outside, Ernie was still sputtering with rage, looking to punch somebody. I stayed just over an arm’s length away from him.

  Mrs. Tidwell was waiting for us in the parking lot.

  She wore a neatly pressed dress and she was fully made up but she still looked like hell. No amount of makeup could hide the bags beneath her eyes.

  “What are they doing to my Jessica?” she asked.

  “What is who doing?” I asked.

  “Those Korean gangsters.”

  “I don’t think any gangsters are around her now, ma’am,” I replied.

  Ernie sidled over to the jeep. He knew better than to try to face an irate mother in his current emotional state. I was glad he did.

  Mrs. Tidwell looked confused. “If she’s not being held by gangsters,” she asked, “then why doesn’t she come home?”

  “She’s young, Mrs. Tidwell. Young people like their freedom.”

  “Freedom? Freedom to live amongst animals?”

  I didn’t bother to answer. Mrs. Tidwell turned her head away. “No,” she said. “I didn’t mean that. I’m just so worried about her. Doesn’t she understand that I can’t sleep at night and that I sit by the phone all day waiting to hear from her?”

  “She probably doesn’t think about that. She’s young and she’s just enjoying her freedom, ma’am.”

  “What is she doing out there?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Why haven’t you found her?”

  “We will.”

  “When?”

  “We’re going right now, to see what we can find out.”

  Mrs. Tidwell grabbed my arm. “Hurry, won’t you?”

  “We’ll try.”

  “This is causing a great emotional strain on her father.”

  A great emotional strain trying to point the finger of blame over at the 8th Army Officers’ Club, I thought. But I didn’t say anything.

  Instead, I patted Mrs. Tidwell on the shoulder and said, “We’ll do our best.”

  Walking the streets of Itaewon, Ernie grinned at me. “Mrs. Tidwell really gave you the business, huh?”

  “She’s worried.”

  “Can you believe that asshole, Brace? Saying we’re responsible for anything that happens to Jessica Tidwell.”

  “That’s the way the military mind works. If something goes wrong, it’s the fault of the lowest-ranking man.”

  “Which in this case is us.”

  Two kids holding wooden boxes accosted Ernie, asking if he wanted to buy chewing gum. Ernie rummaged through their wares, found some stale ginseng gum, and tossed the kids a quarter. They took one look at me, spotted a cheapskate when they saw one, and ran off for greener pastures.

  “So after you rousted Jessica out of that hotel,” I asked, “where would she have gone?”

  “You mean the time she kneed me in the balls?”

  “There was another time?”

  “No, that was it. She had money, left over from that pile of yen she had in her purse at the White Crane Hotel, so she could’ve gone anywhere.”

  An MP had been assigned to guard Paco Bernal’s ward at the 121 Evac and, so far, Jessica hadn’t turned up there again. She had, however, made a couple of phone calls. Paco wasn’t well enough to talk to her yet, although his condition was improving, but one of the medics had taken pity on Jessica and told her that Paco would be flown out next week to Tripler Army Medical Center in Honolulu. They had a large rehab center and the doctors thought he’d make faster progress there. Of course, if I were him I wouldn’t be in any hurry. Once he was well enough, the judge advocate general already had plans to press charges against him for the theft of the $1,000 from Colonel Tidwell and for the statutory rape of Jessica Tidwell. On those charges, he could easily do five years at the federal penitentiary at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas.

  “So Jessica has money,” I said, “but she also knows that Paco will be transferred soon to Hawaii. And her money must be running low.”

  “So maybe she wants more money,” Ernie said.

  “Maybe. And if she wanted more money, how would she get it?”

  “Contact one of the Seven Dragons. Have them get her a job.”

  “Doing what?”

  Ernie shrugged. “Who knows? There’s plenty of Japanese gangsters available.”

  “But Paco didn’t like that,” I said. “He called her a very bad name in Spanish.”

  “Oh, yeah. What was it?”

  “Never mind. But maybe Jessica will want to try another line of work.”

  “A pretty girl, redhead, nice figure. Shouldn’t be difficult.”

  Somehow, we’d wandered toward the UN Club. Ernie and I checked our .45s, making sure they were loaded, and pushed through the big double doors.

  Two goons stood in front of the entrance to Jimmy Pak’s office. I told them in Korean, gruffly, that I wanted to see Jimmy. Words were whispered and relayed through the door and, within a few seconds, we were told to enter.

  The dapper entrepreneur sat behind his desk, a low green lamp illuminating paperwork spread out before him. Jimmy Pak smiled and bade us sit and generally acted as if it wasn’t our fault that he had been formally charged with the murder of Technical Sergeant Flo Moretti. Civil of him. But maybe that’s how Jimmy Pak had survived all these years, by never burning bridges. Instead of becoming angry, he offered us a drink. This time, both Ernie and I refused.

  “Where is she, Jimmy?” Ernie asked.

  “Who?”

  “The redhead Horsehead was trying to pimp. Jessica Tidwell.”

  Jimmy Pak frowned as if acid were pumping out of his stomach.

  “That’s all you want?” he said.

  “That’s it.”

  “After all the trouble you cause, you only worry about her?”

  “We don’t give a shit about you,” Ernie told him.

  “Why I help you?” Jimmy asked. “You do nothing but cause me trouble.”

  I leaned forward on the leather seat.

  “You’re going to help us,” I told him, “because if you don’t, we’re going to return to Eighth Army and tell the honchos there that Jimmy Pak has Jessica Tidwell.
We’re going to tell the honchos that Jimmy Pak is pimping one of their daughters and we’re going to tell them that if they’re smart, Eighth Army will never do business again with Jimmy Pak or with his asshole buddy, Snake.”

  Jimmy’s round paunch seemed to convulse and even more acid rumbled up his throat, causing him to swallow with a sour frown on his usually jolly face. He sat still for a moment, considering what I’d said. Then, without saying another word, he reached across his desk and grabbed a pen and scribbled an address on a piece of paper. He handed it to me.

  “You go find,” he said. “She small potatoes. Horsehead dead. Water Doggy dead. Nobody care about her now. You go find up.”

  I stuffed the address in my pocket.

  With manicured fingers, Jimmy Pak waved us away.

  When I stood up, I said, “You gonna beat the charges, Jimmy?”

  I was referring to the murder charge for the death of Mori Di.

  “Of course I beat,” he said.

  “Too bad,” I replied. “If Korea was still under Eighth Army martial law, I’d pull out my .45 and shoot you right now.”

  Jimmy Pak stared at us, calculating how serious I was, calculating how far away his bodyguards were and how close we were.

  Before his calculations were finished, Ernie and I walked out.

  The joint was called Myong Lim Won, the Garden of the Shining Forest, a kisaeng house in the downtown Mugyo-dong district of Seoul. Kisaeng are fancy hostesses, similar to Japanese geisha but in modern Korea they seldom wear the traditional gowns or pluck the strings of the kayagum or perform the traditional drum dances that they once performed during the Yi Dynasty. Pouring scotch, lighting cigarettes and laughing at businessmen’s jokes, in these modern days, are enough skills to entitle a woman to be called a kisaeng.

  We flashed our badges and pushed past a doorman into a room lit by low red lights and filled with about ten large booths encased in leather upholstery. In the largest booth, a half-dozen Korean businessmen, all wearing suits, and three kisaeng, celebrating whatever in the hell it was they were celebrating. Just being rich, I suppose. One of the kisaeng had a long nose, red hair and fair skin: Jessica Tidwell. As we approached, she stood, reaching as she did so into a leather purse at her side. The red blouse she wore was low cut and the skirt barely reached halfway down her thigh. She bowed to the Korean gentlemen and excused herself and stepped out on the carpeted flooring.