by Martin Limon
And I doubted that it was a GI who had bought it for her. When GIs buy gifts for Korean business girls they usually come straight out of the PX. After all, what value does a thing have if you haven’t seen it advertised on television?
But a Korean man could have bought it for her. He would have had to be rather infatuated with her, though. Kwok didn’t seem to be the type, but who knows?
If he were, that would explain his desire to destroy Miss Pak Ok-suk along with the evidence of Bohler’s debauchery. A man can fight jealousy, put himself above it, but not forever.
Another factor was the silence of the neighbors. If the person lurking around Miss Pak’s hooch just prior to the fire had been a GI, even Major General Bohler, the Koreans would have had no hesitation in reporting everything to the police.
Had it been a known thug, they might have hesitated, but the police would have gotten the truth out of them and taken care of the thug.
If it had been Kwok, however, the neighbors would have been frightened to death to talk about anything, and the police wouldn’t have pursued the case either. They probably received more money from Kwok’s operations than they did from their regular paychecks. In some ways he was their employer. And even if they had decided to throw him in the can, they would have to put up with a lot of heat from up top.
All that trouble for a GI whore? Not likely.
But all this was really just a mind game I was playing with myself. Even if Kwok hadn’t killed Miss Pak, I knew he had killed Kimiko, or had one of his boys do it. And he’d crippled Miss Lim.
That was enough for me.
I opened the door to Kwok’s office and walked in.
His head was in a big safe. He sat up abruptly and swiveled around in his chair when he heard me enter.
The office was spare. A small wooden desk, a couch, a coffee table, a green-shaded lamp on his desk fighting the gloom of the overcast afternoon.
“What do you want?” he said in Korean.
I closed the door behind me, reached in my coat, and pulled out the. 45.
His body sagged, just slightly, as breath escaped from his body. Slowly, he gestured towards the safe. “I have money,” he said in English.
The bullet slammed into his body and he spun back off his chair. I stepped forward but he was down, a puddle of blood growing on the floor. The gun had been sighted on his chest when it went off. The. 45 had a heavy slug. He would die soon. If not, maybe he deserved to live.
I looked at the money. Some of it was greenbacks and some of it bank notes, but most of it was Korean money. Stacks of it, in various denominations. I took a bundle of worn-looking ten-thousand-won notes, folded it, and stuffed it into my pocket. Expenses.
The puddle of blood was getting bigger now, almost reaching my shoes. I stepped towards the door but halfway there I stopped. Something was holding me. I went back to the desk and quickly looked through the drawers. In the top middle drawer I found it. The jade medallion. Ok. I left it there, closed the door to the office behind me, and walked hurriedly, but not frantically, down the steps.
I climbed the fence back into the brothel. As the cold night approached, all of the girls were indoors, fixing their hair and putting on makeup. No one noticed me as I slipped through the hooches and left quietly through the front gate.
One loud noise. Maybe a backfire. That’s all anyone would think. The next day I cleaned the. 45 carefully, threw the two remaining cartridges into a septic tank, and returned the weapon to Palinki.
“Everything go okay, brother?”
“Yeah. I got in a little target practice.”
“If you need to use it again, you let me know, you hear?”
“Yeah, Palinki. Thanks.”
There was no mention of Kwok’s death in the Korean newspapers. He wasn’t the type anybody makes a fuss over after they’re dead.
Out on black-market detail I watched the comings and goings of his underlings. They seemed agitated and never stopped ranting at each other. We heard from the KNP blotter report that a couple of them were killed. Knifework. And three or four of Kwok’s nightclubs closed. Pretty soon somebody must have taken his place because things got quiet again. The closed nightclubs were reopened, one of them under a new name and another as a Japanese nightclub, catering to tourists from Tokyo.
Itaewon is going to hell.
Ernie and I didn’t get to work together anymore. The first sergeant kept us separated and kept finding more and more menial tasks for me to perform.
Finally Riley broke the news to me.
“You’re being transferred, George. Up north.”
“At least they waited a decent interval.”
‘They’re claiming that it doesn’t have anything to do with your arrest of General Bohler, just manning requirements.”
“Bull.”
“Yeah.”
The DMZ is beautiful. I mean that. I’m at a little firebase overlooking a valley with hills marching off as far as you can see in either direction until you run into the snow-capped mountains. There are no trees, just shrubs, because no one wants their field of fire obstructed.
The hills are capped by sandbagged positions and in the valleys below, rows of barbed wire parallel chain-link fences, and between their fences and ours about a jillion land mines lurk underground, like lethal subterranean mushrooms.
The North Korean across the valley, looking at me through field glasses, sports a brown uniform and a floppy cap with a red star on it and there is no doubt that he is my enemy.
He sits on one side of the line and I sit on the other.
Neat.
I often think about Kimiko and Miss Lim and Miss Pak Ok-suk. And when I get a night off I take the Army bus across the half-frozen lmjin River, but I never go to Seoul. I stay in a village of thatched-roof hovels and drink rice wine and cuddle with country girls who haven’t yet learned how to speak English.
It’s only when the rice wine flows, and won’t stop, that I think of Kwok and Miss Pak, and the Jade Lady dances, burning in my soul.
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