by Martin Limon
“That’s her,” Ernie said. “The one on the left.”
We listened to the music.
“Never hit the top of the charts,” Ernie said.
I turned to the Tiger Lady and pointed to the woman on the stage. Miss Ku.
“We want to talk to her,” I said.
“She don’t do nothing bad. I watch my girls.”
“Maybe she didn’t do anything bad. We just have a few questions.”
“About what?”
“We’ll tell her.”
She thought about that for a moment.
“If not,” I said. “My crazy friend here will walk up on the stage.”
She studied Ernie. From deep in his throat, he growled at her.
“You’ve seen crazy GI’s before,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “I see before.”
She was old enough to remember the days when American GI’s were the only men in the country who had any money. She’d risen above those days; she didn’t want to go back to them.
A group of Korean businessmen strode into the far end of the ballroom. Serving girls rushed forward, bowing and smiling. One of them turned toward the Tiger Lady and motioned, palm down, for her to come over.
“Okay,” the Tiger Lady said finally. “You talk to her.” She held up a wickedly pointed finger. “But no trouble.”
I raised my open palms.
“No trouble,” I said.
She returned to her customers. We followed the hallway and turned down another and then another until we found ourselves in front of a walkway that led to the rear of the stage. Women in huge silk skirts gawked at us.
Ernie smiled and offered them some gum. They all refused. He looked perplexed but just shrugged. Generally, Koreans are friendly and open to Americans. But when your presence can piss off a wealthy clientele and threaten their livelihood, they’re a little less open. Besides, they were suspicious. What were two big-noses doing behind their stage?
When the kayagum number was finished, we allowed the first two performers to swish past us but Ernie reached out and grabbed Miss Ku and pulled her back into the wings. Her heavily lined eyes widened when she saw us.
The Nurse started to fidget. Not liking it that Ernie had a tight grip on another beautiful woman.
The stereo speakers arrayed around the ballroom launched into a stirring rendition of “Arirang,” an ancient Korean folk song of separated lovers. Two more kisaeng, one dressed like a farm boy, the other like a peasant country girl, rushed onto the stage and began twirling in an elaborate dance.
While Ernie held her, I pointed my finger into Miss Ku’s face.
“You lied to us,” I said.
Her face crinkled in rage. “I no lie,” she said. The teeth behind her rouged lips were white and perfectly shaped.
“The guy who broke your Ping-Pong heart,” I said, “Cecil Whitcomb, is dead.”
No particular remorse flashed across her face.
She tried to step back but Ernie jerked her forward. She looked up at him, turned, tried to punch him, but he caught her small fist.
The Nurse stepped forward but I grabbed her by the elbow, frowned, and shook my head. She stopped but her body remained tense.
Ernie and Miss Ku struggled for a minute, silk rustling, perfume billowing through the air. She looked desperate but relaxed when a broad smile spread over his face. They stood completely still, staring into one another’s eyes. Fear and lust. Goddamn Ernie’s an expert at both of them. His favorite emotions.
Blood started to rush up the Nurse’s neck. I put my arm around her shoulders, leaned over, and whispered, “He’s only working. Don’t be angry.”
Slowly, Miss Ku pushed herself away from Ernie, her breathing subsided, and she turned back to me, her face serious.
“I didn’t know anyone would kill him.”
“Who paid you to bring us the note?”
“A man. I don’t know name.”
“An American? A Korean? Who?”
“An American.”
“A GI?”
“I don’t know. His hair was short. He was very strong.”
“What color was his hair?”
She turned toward Ernie. “Like his.”
“His eyes?”
“Like his.”
Great. Light brown hair and blue or green eyes. That narrowed it down a lot.
“How tall was he?”
Miss Ku looked back and forth between us. “A little taller than him. Not as tall as you.”
Between six one and six four.
“Why’d you do it?”
“He paid me.”
“How much?”
“Not your business.”
Ernie grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her back. She squealed. I wasn’t sure if it was from pain or delight.
As long as Ernie was hurting Miss Ku, the Nurse seemed to like it. A smug expression spread across her face.
“How much did the American pay you?” I asked Miss Ku again.
She grimaced in pain. “A hundred thousand won.”
Almost two hundred bucks, depending on where you exchanged your money.
“How did he know you would do it? Maybe you’d just take the money and not talk to us.”
“He was watching.”
“At the Kayagum Teahouse?”
“Outside.”
“And he paid you then?”
“Half before. Half after.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know.”
Ernie pushed on her arm again. This time she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and bit on her lower lip. Her breathing became fast and rhythmic. She seemed to be savoring the pain.
The Nurse appeared happy, but as it dawned on her that Miss Ku was enjoying this wrestling match, she started to frown again.
A group of kisaeng gathered in the hallway nearby, murmuring and staring. Koreans don’t like seeing a couple of big Americans pushing around one of their own. I decided to hurry.
“How did you know this American?” I asked Miss Ku.
“He came in here,” she said, “with Korean friends.”
“Who were they?”
“Businessmen. With money.”
“I want their names.”
Miss Ku shoved her backside tighter up against Ernie’s crotch. He leaned into it.
“Their names,” I said.
“I don’t know their names. Only one of them. Mr. Chong, I think. He owns a print shop on Chong-no, third section.”
“What’s the name of the shop?”
“I don’t know. Something like modern, up-to-date. Something like that.”
“Had you seen the American before?”
“No. That was the first time. And the last time I saw him was when he paid me outside of the Kayagum Teahouse.”
“Why did he choose you?”
She lowered her head. “Sometimes I help Mr. Chong.”
“With what?”
“His problems.”
“What kind of problems?”
“Problems with his wife.” She looked up at me, defiance flashing in her eyes. “She doesn’t give him enough sex.”
“And you do?”
“I have plenty.”
The music stopped and a stagehand rushed out to change the set.
The cluster of kisaeng was growing larger. Time to finish it. I nodded to Ernie.
When he let her go, Miss Ku leaned back toward him. As he took a step away, she clutched his sleeve.
“Why you go?”
He stared at her without smiling.
She pressed her body up against his. Silk rustled against blue jeans.
“I’ll be back,” he said.
The Nurse bristled and shoved Ernie. “What you mean, you ‘be back’?”
Ernie held up his hands. “Hey. Police business. That’s all.”
She glowered at him. I knew she was contemplating punching somebody. Either Ernie or Miss Ku. The Nurse’s face fl
ushed red in frustration and embarrassment. This was a problem that fists wouldn’t solve.
Miss Ku savored the Nurse’s discomfort.
Trouble brewing. Big trouble.
Smiling in triumph, Miss Ku released her grip on Ernie’s sleeve.
I grabbed the Nurse and grabbed Ernie and yanked them both away from the murmuring gaggle of kisaeng.
We hustled down the hallway, exited through a back door, and, once in the cold alley, plowed through frozen snow sprinkled with soot.
Bare-bulbed streetlights shone harshly on the Nurse’s face, filling the deep shadows with lines that should never have been there.
Ernie seemed lost in thought.
22
Chong-no means “Road of the Bell.” At the base of the road, where it begins near the old Capitol Building, is an ornate temple housing a massive bell made of solid cast bronze. Every morning the bell is rung by Buddhist priests. Its low vibrations spread over the city of Seoul, rattling stacked beer bottles and resonating out in circles that bring the citizenry to life.
The alleys shooting off Chong-no contain shops and small factories where, even at this hour, men worked under the glare of floodlights.
Sparks shot out from grinding wheels. Hammers pounded on plumbing fixtures.
We found the Hyundai Print Shop in the third alley we visited. Three men hunched over rattling presses, oblivious to our presence.
“Doesn’t look like the owner of this place could afford to go to the Tiger Lady’s,” Ernie said.
“Maybe this isn’t his only enterprise.”
“Maybe not.”
Ernie had spent almost a half hour trying to convince the Nurse to go home. She didn’t want to leave him-danger or no danger. When I finally told her that it was necessary for her to leave, she resigned herself to her fate and allowed Ernie to put her in a taxi and pay for her fare back to Itaewon.
I watched the red taillights of the cab fade off into the deepening night, feeling sad for some reason. This quest for Miss Ku had been the best day the three of us had ever spent together.
A few of the young workmen across the street from the print shop halted their chores and looked at us. When you wander away from the GI bar districts, get used to being stared at. They don’t see many foreigners back in these alleys. We stepped forward into the shop.
The three young men inside were still too preoccupied with their work to look up. We wandered around. Browsing.
Finally, one of them noticed movement and took off his goggles. His mouth fell open.
“Anyonghaseiyo,” I told him. Hello. “We are looking for the other foreigner who usually comes in here.”
“Mulah-gu?” What?
“The American. With blond hair. A little taller than him.” I jerked my thumb toward Ernie.
“No. We didn’t see him in a long time.”
I turned, as if I were surveying the ink-stained presses, and mumbled to Ernie. “It’s the right place.”
I swiveled back to the printer. “Are you the owner?”
“Oh, no. Not me.” The young man shot his eyes toward Ernie. “What is he doing there?”
Ernie had wandered back through the equipment to a tiny office area with a desk and a file cabinet.
“He’s just curious,” I told the young man. “Tell me about this American. Did you meet him?”
The other two printers stopped their work. The one I was talking to barked an order to the youngest. “Go fetch Chong.”
The youngest man peeled off his filthy gloves and sped through the door. I pulled out my badge.
“This is police business,” I told the two printers. “You must tell me what you know.”
While they gawked at the badge, not making any sense of the English lettering, Ernie opened the drawers of the desk and searched them. I shot more questions.
“Is the American a good friend of Mr. Chong’s?”
They shook their heads, grimacing.
“What’s the matter?”
They looked at each other but didn’t answer.
“Did he come in here often?”
“Only twice.”
Emie tried the filing cabinet but it was padlocked with a bar down the center of the drawer handles. Somewhere, he found a short metal pry bar, propped it between the hasp and the edge of the cabinet, and levered it forward with both hands. He tried twice but the drawer didn’t budge. Lowering himself and rebracing his feet, he gave it a tremendous pull. The lock popped open and clattered across the cement floor until it clanged against a printing press.
“What’s he doing there?” the printer hollered.
“Police business. Don’t worry about it.”
Some of the workers across the way started to come out of their shops. I heard the word “Miguk” floating through the air: American.
Ernie riffled through the files quickly, checking behind and under each folder. He had started on the second drawer when a man burst into the shop. Red-faced. Hollering.
“What are you doing here?”
The print shop owner was a squat, sturdy Korean man with a square, leathery face that was burning crimson. The youngest printer stood behind him nervously. It looked as if he’d had to drag the owner out of a soju house.
“Get away from my files!”
The red-faced man stormed back toward Ernie. I zigzagged through the presses and placed my body in front of him. When he came to a stop, I showed him my badge.
“We’re looking for an American,” I said. “You did business with him. You took him to see the Tiger Lady.”
“What? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes you do, Mr. Chong. You introduced him to a kisaeng, Choi Yong-ran. She also calls herself Miss Ku.”
Worry crossed his scarlet features. “Who in the shit are you?”
“Eighth Army CID,” I said.
He turned his face from me, spittle exploding from his lips as he spoke. “Sangnom sikki.” Born of a base lout.
I ignored the insult. “The American, Mr. Chong, what’s his name?”
“I don’t know his name.”
“But he’s a GI?”
“He was a GI.”
“Where can I find him?”
“I don’t know.” The owner pointed a squat finger, the tip swirled with black, at my nose. “But if you do find him, tell him he owes me money.”
“How much?”
“Plenty.”
“What’d you sell to him, Chong?”
“Not your business.” Sobering slightly, he became aware of Ernie again. “Hey! What are you doing?”
Ernie was on the bottom drawer now. Before I could react, Chong shoved his way past me, took three long steps forward, and grabbed Ernie by the back of his jacket. Without thinking, Ernie turned, swung his fist in an arc, and punched the man on the side of the head.
The printers let out a howl. I ran forward and stood in front of Mr. Chong again, but now he was screeching.
“Get away from my stuff, you longnosed foreign louts!”
The printers started jostling me. Across the street the crowd of workers swelled. They made rude comments about people of nationalities other than Korean.
I grabbed Ernie’s arm and jerked him close.
“We have to un-ass the area,” I told him. “Now!”
“I’m right behind you.”
I made my way through the machines to the front. Some of the workers walked over to block my way. I swerved away but when one shuffled in front of me, I held him gently and said “Mianhamnida,” I’m sorry, as loudly as I could. Ernie slipped by me and we were moving down the alley. The crowd slowly flowed toward us, still undecided as to whether or not to attack. I turned and smiled and said I was sorry and bowed repeatedly, like a big overgrown pigeon. When we reached the end of the alley, we started to run.
We strode through the busy nighttime streets of Seoul, avoiding pedestrians, stepping over soot-speckled piles of slush.
Ernie reached in his pock
et and pulled out a small plastic card. It was beige on the bottom with a brown stripe on top and a red-and-white cloverleaf in the upper left. The emblem of the 8th United States Army.
I took it in my fingers and studied it front and back. A perfect facsimile of a U.S. Forces Korea ration control plate. Blank. Suitable for embossing with whatever name and serial number you chose to put on it.
The RCP is used by all GI’s in Korea when they purchase anything out of military PX’s or commissaries. The idea is to limit what they buy so they won’t violate customs law and sell American-made goods in the Korean villages.
I pulled out my own RCP and compared them. The forgery was a fine piece of work. The only difference was that the plastic on the authentic one was a little more pliable. I nestled them both back into the folds of my worn leather wallet.
“Nice work,” Ernie said. “Get a phony ID to go with that and you can black-market your ass off and clear a couple of grand a month. Easy.”
“So now we know why Mr. Chong can afford to spend time with the expensive ladies at the Tiger Lady’s kisaeng house. He creates and sells bogus documents. And we know that the guy who talked Miss Ku into doing a number on us the other day is into some serious black-marketing.”
“Yeah,” Ernie said, “but that still doesn’t explain why he of fed Cecil Whitcomb.”
No. Ernie was right. It sure as shit didn’t.
Our most promising lead so far had ended in a dead end.
The guy was an American. He had disappeared. The print shop owner said he didn’t know who or where he was and I believed him. A serious black marketeer wasn’t exactly likely to leave a forwarding address. Especially when he owed money to the people he’d done business with.
We wound back toward Mukyo-dong. I spotted a taxi stand and started toward it. Curfew was close, less than an hour away. Already the taxi line was long. In a few more minutes it would be hell trying to catch a cab and it was a four-mile walk back to Yongsan Compound.