by Martin Limon
The second floor seemed to be deserted. Still, I took a few steps along the corridor to investigate. Small rooms, open, no doors. I shone the flashlight beam into one. Jam-packed with black-market merchandise, cardboard cases of canned fruit cocktail imported from Hawaii. In the next room, cases of crystallized orange drink were piled almost to the ceiling. The next held boxes of bottled maraschino cherries and about a jillion packets of nondairy creamer. Each room was like that, filled with merchandise taken from the American PX. But these items hadn’t been purchased one by one by a lone GI doing weekend shopping. These items had been bought in bulk, probably straight off the truck that had transported them from the Port of Inchon. That implied someone in procurement was involved in the scam, making the sale and also covering it up in the inventory chain. Both Koreans, who did the actual clerical work, and Americans, who supervised them, had to be involved. Using my flashlight, I checked the dates stamped onto some of the cases. Months ago. By the pristine condition of the boxes and the volume of the product, there was no doubt that this black-market operation was sophisticated, widespread, and had at least the tacit approval of someone high up. A lot of money was involved. Did this have anything to do with the death of Private Marvin Z. Druwood? Or with the disappearance of Corporal Jill Matthewson?
Maybe.
One thing that struck me as odd was the size of the rooms. Obviously, this building had never been designed to be a warehouse. These rooms were tiny and there were dozens of them spread down the hallway. Just enough room for a small bed. Just enough room for a young girl to lie down and for a young GI to slip off his boots and pull down his trousers.
Ernie and Ok-hi waited for me at the stairwell. Ernie pointed upstairs. I nodded. The three of us started to climb.
At the top of the steps I allowed my eyes to adjust to the ambient light from the single bulb that illuminated the long corridor. More rooms, like the ones on the second floor, were jam-packed with made-in-the-USA black-market items. This time mostly electronics: tape recorders, stereo equipment, cheap cameras. One doorway stood open, light flooding out into the hallway. We walked forward and as we did so whoever was working inside stopped clicking disks on the abacus. I strolled to the door, Ernie right behind me, and by the time we arrived I’d shoved my flashlight deep into my jacket pocket.
Inside, an elderly Korean woman wearing the traditional chima-chogori dress with a white blouse and jade-colored skirt stood in front of a cheap wooden desk, staring back at us. Her sandals were made of white rubber and shaped with the toes upturned into a sharp points. Traditional Korean shoes, so made because during the Yi Dyansty the upturned toe was a sign of beauty. Her hands were on her hips. Gray hair stuck out from a round face in blazing disarray. Her nose was flat, her lips were clamped tight, and her black eyes burned fiercely. Defiant. More than just defiant. Her entire posture radiated indignation and outrage at being interrupted in her work.
“Anyonghaseiyo,” I said. Are you in peace?
Behind the woman, a window overlooked the shrine to General Yu Byol-seing.
Her outrage built but, finally, she found her voice. “Weikurei noh-nun?” What’s the matter with you?
The voice was gruff, gravelly, deep. Like the history of this building itself. And apparently she had no fear of us.
Ernie stepped past me, reached inside his jacket, and whipped out his CID badge. “We’re from Eighth Army,” he said, “and you’re under arrest.”
The woman’s face registered surprise, the liver spots on her face expanded like an exploding universe, and then she began to laugh. Uproariously. Bending over, holding her stomach. Tears came to her eyes.
Despite myself, I had to smile. So did Ok-hi.
Ernie became more angry. “You think this is funny?” He put away his CID badge and pulled out his .45.
I grabbed his arm. “Wait, Ernie. Let’s talk to her before we blow her away.”
Ernie balked, his face still red, but slowly he slipped his .45 back into its holster.
The old woman continued to laugh.
Ok-hi started laughing, too, holding her right hand modestly in front of her mouth. Then I smiled and even Ernie smiled and within a few seconds we were all laughing along with the old woman. Suddenly, she stopped. Gradually, we stopped, too.
“You Eighth Army,” she said. “CID. You come here arrest Chilmyon-jok Ajjima.” She pointed her forefinger at her nose. “Maybe you arrest me you gotta arrest everybody in TDC. All KNP and, how you say, sichang?”
“The mayor,” I said.
“Yeah. Mayor. And you arrest all honchos on Camp Casey. After that, then you arrest Chilmyon-jok Ajjima.”
She began to laugh again.
We laughed along with her but she’d just confirmed what I’d been thinking ever since we walked into this building. The black-market activities in Tongduchon were not only widespread but sanctioned by the powers that be, both Korean and American. Would this old woman’s testimony stand up in a U.S. Army court-martial? Not a chance. No military prosecutor in the world would have the temerity to put her on the stand. Military courts-martial are decorous affairs. A bunch of American officers, lined up, wearing dress green uniforms, each judge trying to look more severe than the other. The honchos don’t like riffraff appearing in front of them. Certainly not someone known as the Turkey Lady.
Ernie sobered up first and asked the old woman the question that we’d really come to ask.
“Where was Druwood when he fell?”
The Turkey Lady stared at Ernie blankly for a moment and I was prepared for the usual criminal response that always added up to something like “I know nothing.” I was already planning my counter move. But, as it turned out, I didn’t need to threaten her.
“Come on,” the Turkey Lady responded. “I show you.”
We left the little office with its couch and its coffee table and walked back into the hallway. We were halfway down the corridor when I stopped dead in my tracks.
“What the hell is this?”
The Turkey Lady stopped, as did Ernie and Ok-hi.
I shone my flashlight into a room less than half the size of all the others.
“That new girl room,” the Turkey Lady said.
“New girl room?”
“Long time ago, when new cherry girl come Turkey Farm, maybe she don’t like sleep with smelly GI. She don’t like have boom-boom.” Sex. “So house mama-san make her sleep in this room.”
“It’s too small to sleep in,” Ernie said. “You can’t even sit down.”
“Yeah. Pretty soon she tired, pretty soon she tell mama-san she want sleep in her own room. Then GI come, no sweat.”
“And if she gutted it out?” I asked. “If she didn’t ask for a larger room?”
“Then mama-san knuckle-sandwich with her. Maybe papa-san, too.”
The Turkey Lady told us all this in a matter-of-fact tone, the years, and maybe the repetition, having leached away any emotion the story might’ve once held for her. Had she once been a “cherry girl” banished to this narrow closet? I wanted to know but there were too many things I wanted to know and we had work to do. Besides, the reason I’d stopped everyone here was not because of the small size of the room but because of what it contained. I shined my flashlight on an open, crate-like framework with a matting of straw at the bottom. Inside the cheap packaging stood a vase. Greenish blue. Celadon, the type manufactured most perfectly during the Koryo Dynasty, more than seven centuries ago. Intricately painted white cranes floated skyward on a blue green background. Wispy clouds, like knotted strings of fluff, glided heavenward. The glow of the flashlight made the delicate porcelain seem not like a solid object but like a dreamscape of jade shading off into infinity. For a moment, I thought I heard the wings of the white cranes flapping but actually it was only Ok-hi, and even Ernie, gasping for breath.
Breathtaking. That was the word. I don’t think I’d ever seen such an exquisite work of art this close up. Sure, when I was a kid in L.A. we’d gone on
field trips to the L.A. County Museum but everything had been trapped behind plastic or glass, safe from our grasping little hands. This vase was alive. It was right here. It was as if the ancient artist stood in the room with us. Smiling. Taking a bow.
“Chon hak byong,” Ok-hi said, in reverential tones. The Thousand Crane Vase.
The Turkey Lady beamed.
“Who’s this for?” Ernie asked.
The Turkey Lady waved her hand. “Some honcho. Come on. I show you roof.”
At the far end of the corridor a rickety wooden ladder led up to a trapdoor in the ceiling. The Turkey Lady climbed up the ladder quickly, her jade skirt billowing. Then she reached up and pushed open the trapdoor and, as she climbed through, Ok-hi, Ernie, and I were treated to a full view of her undergarments, white cotton pantaloons. Then Ernie climbed up followed by Ok-hi and me.
We stood on the flat roof, then strolled around, staring over a three-foot-high cement wall. The entire world of Tongduchon spread before us: The blazing lights of the nightclub district; meandering moonglow reflecting off the East Bean River; the empty darkness of the rice fields to the west. And to the east, the sporadic blinking of the scattered bulbs of Camp Casey. I turned and inhaled the fresh winter air. The cold breeze floated in from the north, off snowcapped mountain ranges. Having blown, I imagined, across Manchuria, all the way from the mysterious heart of Siberia.
A lean-to had been set up, with sturdy wooden poles and a canvas top secured by ropes, probably part of an old bivouac tent used in field maneuvers. Beneath, on a wooden platform, comfortable tatami mats were spread, topped by flat silk cushions, the kind of cushions Koreans use when they sit cross-legged on a warm ondol floor. Huatu, Korean flower cards, lay scattered about, interspersed with a few Bicycle brand U.S. playing cards. A small refrigerator near the elevated platform was plugged into a transformer and humming. I opened it and, using my flashlight, examined the contents within: bottles of soda water, orange juice, about a dozen cans of beer.
Ernie leaned past me and helped himself to one of the cold beers. After popping the top and taking a slug, he handed the half-empty can to Ok-hi. She sipped daintily.
“Nice set up they have here,” Ernie said.
I turned to the Turkey Lady. She’d slipped off her plastic sandals, stepped up on the tatami-covered platform, and seated herself, legs crossed, on one of the flat cushions. Reaching into the folds of her skirt, she pulled out a pack of Kent cigarettes and then a Bic lighter and toked up. Exhaling gratefully, she surveyed her little domain, a beatific smile spread across her lips.
“Who comes up here, Ajjima?” I asked. “GIs?”
She shook her head vehemently. “Not all GI. Only MP come here. They can’t go village.” She pointed to the nightclub district to the south. “So MP come here.”
Every MP unit in the U.S. Army counsels its soldiers not to spend their off-duty time in the same hangouts as other soldiers. Too often when a GI becomes drunk and remembers being busted by an MP, trouble starts. To set up their own little getaway, their own little club, is not unusual. And it seems that the 2nd Division MPs had a nice one here on top of this dilapidated former brothel in the heart of the Turkey Farm.
I surveyed the patio. During the day, when the sun shone, it would be a nice place to party. I spotted something against the far wall and shined the flashlight on it.
“Hibachi,” Ernie said. “They barbecued up here, too.”
“Which MPs came up here?” I asked the Turkey Lady.
“Any MP. Any Camp Casey MP. All the time they bring yobo.” Their Korean girlfriends. “They bring music, they bring beer, they play poker, they have fun. Sometimes laugh, sometimes argue, sometimes fight.”
She frowned and blew smoke out of her nose.
“How about Druwood?” I asked. “Where was he standing when he fell?”
“Right there.” She pointed to the spot where Ernie and Ok-hi stood, near the edge. “But he no fell.”
I walked over and followed Ernie’s gaze. Below, straight across the walkway stood the heitei. I shined the flashlight at it. Even from here I could see that the heitei’s ear had been shattered. Maybe it was a trick of the light but his fangs and cruel lips seemed to be twisted up toward me and his eyes stared into mine.
I switched off the beam of light and turned back to the Turkey Lady. “Druwood didn’t fall? Are you saying someone pushed him?”
I no see.”
“Then why do you say he didn’t fall?”
“Because I hear.” She pointed to her left ear. “They taaksan argue. Argue a lot. Everybody mad at Druwood. Say he better go back stateside. He no can handle be Division GI.”
“What did they mean by that? Why couldn’t he handle it?”
“Because MP in Camp Casey, they got special job. Kind job other MP no have.”
“What kind of job is that?”
She knew she had our attention now. Slowly, the Turkey Lady drew deeply on her American-made cigarette, held it, then blew out the smoke.
“Division MP, they gotta take care of honcho. Korean honcho. GI honcho. All kinda honcho. But they don’t mind. They get many things. They makey extra money black market, they get plenty kind of special girlfriend. They get free beer, free food, all the time good time. Everybody happy.”
“Sounds nice,” Ernie said. “But who pays for all this free food and free booze and free women?”
The Turkey Lady waved her right arm in a circle. “Black market pay all. Everybody happy. Nobody sad.”
“Except for Druwood,” I said.
“Yeah. He sad. That’s why all MP mad at him.”
“What did they say to him?”
“I don’t know. I don’t listen. You ask them.”
“Ask who?”
“Ask, what name? Tall skinny MP.”
“White GI?”
She nodded.
“Bufford?”
“Yeah. That him.”
“He was here that day?”
“Yes.”
“Was he the one who pushed Druwood off the roof?”
“Nobody push Druwood.”
“Then how’d he fall?”
“He no fall. He jump.”
“Why’d he jump?”
The Turkey Lady shrugged. “Everybody say he sad. Sad because his yobo karra chogi.” His yobo ran away.
“Who was his yobo?” I asked.
“Not Korean,” the Turkey Lady told us. “His yobo MP woman.”
Ernie and I looked at one another. Even Ok-hi paused in sipping her beer.
“How do you know this?” Ernie asked.
“Every MP all the time say,” the Turkey Lady replied. “Everybody laugh at him. Say his yobo no want him no more.”
GIs are relentless when they find a weak spot. They’ll peck at it until it bleeds and then festers, until poison starts to flow in the blood. Was it because Druwood couldn’t stand the ridicule that he’d jumped? Or had he fought back and in a tussle lost his balance? Or had someone deliberately decided to eliminate him? I asked a few more questions of the Turkey Lady but she didn’t know the answers. Which MPs had been on the roof when Druwood went over? She couldn’t provide any names nor any descriptions. “MP all same-same,” she told us. The only one she remembered specifically was Warrant Officer One Fred Bufford. Why him? Because as the ranking man—the honcho—the other MPs deferred to him.
A Confucian trait. Always be aware of who’s the boss, for purposes of survival. Nunchi, the Koreans call it. The ability to read your superiors, be aware of which way the wind blows, and react appropriately.
“Check this out,” Ernie said.
On the southern wall, behind a line of large earthenware kim-chee jars, Ernie pointed at splintered wood. I shined the flashlight on it. Using a handkerchief, Ernie bent down and picked up a piece. The leg of a wooden stool. Broken. We knelt and examined some more of the pieces. Brown stains on the jagged edges.
“Blood,” Ernie said.
“Maybe.”
<
br /> Evidence of a fight? We left the broken shards the way we’d found them.
Ernie and I stared at one another, unsure of what to do. In Seoul, we’d notify the CID Detachment, which would notify the Korean National Police Liaison Office and in minutes a team of KNP forensic technicians would be up here trying to determine if a crime had been committed. Trying to determine if Druwood had been murdered. But this was Tongduchon. This was Division. To notify the provost marshal and the local KNPs would be to notify the same people who’d not only hauled Druwood’s body off to the obstacle course and dumped it there but also the same people who tolerated this huge black-market operation.
“We have to report all this to Eighth Army,” I said.
Ernie frowned. “They’ll just notify Division of what we suspect, Division will take pains to eliminate evidence, and we’ll be back where we started.”
Ernie was probably right. Our reputation at 8th Army was that of two troublemakers. And if there’s one thing high-ranking military officers hate, it’s troublemakers. Although they’d never admit it, they’d much prefer to have all this evidence we’d gathered pulverized by explosives. Besides, Ernie and I had not yet accomplished what we’d come up here for. We had not yet found Corporal Jill Matthewson. And tonight, after curfew, we were going to make our most daring stab yet at finding a lead as to her whereabouts.
Ok-hi hissed for our attention. Her shapely butt was propped on the back ledge of the wall surrounding the roof. Ernie and I trotted over to look. Below, a bunch of guys were entering the back of the warehouse. Not MPs. They weren’t big enough. Koreans. There were about a half dozen of them, all thin young men about the same size, moving stealthily. Like cats
“Kampei,” Ernie said.
Gangsters.
The Turkey Lady stood up, flicked her cigarette away, and said, “Ganmani issoba.” Wait here. Then she ran back toward the ladder and climbed down quickly.
I stared at the moon, at the evidence surrounding me, and then down at the stone heitei snarling upwards, glaring into my eyes. Daring me to act.
7
