by Martin Limon
With that, Major Wilson turned and walked back into the hallway.
Ernie sniffed. “We read all that in the damn report.”
We made all the usual stops: inspecting the sign-out/sign-in register ourselves, talking to the houseboy, whose name was Mr. Ko, and even searching Shirkey’s wall locker, but we found nothing unusual, just personal effects and uniforms. Shirkey worked at the Hialeah Cold Storage Facility. Enormous boxes full of frozen beef and pork were ferried by forklift to the backs of eighteen-wheelers that would run them from here up to Seoul and beyond, catering to the carnivorous instincts of the fifty-thousand-some GIs who protected South Korea from the ravenous Commies up north.
The reception we received in the cold storage facility was anything but indifferent. Every one of Shirkey’s coworkers had a theory. Some said he just got fed up with the Army, two or three thought he’d been kidnapped by the North Koreans, and one even claimed he’d been abducted by aliens from Jupiter. What they did agree on was that Specialist Shirkey accompanied the entire work crew off compound to the Heitei Lounge that night, and they’d all gotten very drunk. But no one remembered exactly when, or under what conditions, Shirkey had left.
The only odd thing that happened while we were at the facility was that somebody dropped a fifty-pound box of frozen pork chops off the back of a truck. It landed with a loud thud, like a muffled implosion. Everyone jumped. Instead of apologizing for the mishap, the three GIs in the back of the truck just stared at us, hungry for a reaction.
Even though it only missed Ernie by about ten feet, he remained calm. “You lose something?” he asked them. When they didn’t reply, he kicked the busted box and said, “You should watch your cholesterol. This stuff can give you a heart attack.”
Outside of the warehouse, he said, “Shitheads.”
“They don’t like CID,” I replied. “That makes ’em pretty normal.”
“It makes them jerks. One of their own is missing, and they still have to act like they’re tough.”
“Makes ’em feel good,” I replied. “Like they’re in charge of something.”
“They’re not in charge of squat.”
The Heitei Lounge sat in the center of a short strip of bars, nightclubs, and chophouses that ran directly out of the front gate of Hialeah Compound. It was still early, about an hour before the seventeen hundred close-of-business cannon went off, so the barmaids and hostesses had plenty of time to talk. Some of them were working on their hair and makeup. Others filed their nails.
“Long time ago,” Miss Roh, the head waitress, told us, “Shirkey have girlfriend.”
“How long ago?”
“Maybe when he first come from States.”
“What was this woman’s name?” Ernie asked.
“Soon-hui,” she told us. “She never work here. She work somewhere on Texas Street.”
Texas Street, or Teik-sas kolmok as it was known by the local Korean population, was the notorious nightclub and bar district that ran along the waterfront, catering to the sailors and merchant marines who visited the bustling Port of Pusan. They called it Texas because in their minds, it was like the Wild West.
I searched the MP report. “There’s nothing in here about her.”
Miss Roh shrugged and sawed industriously at a recalcitrant cuticle. “They leave out.”
“Why?”
“Shirkey, he knuckle-sandwich with her. Lot of trouble. He get SOFA charge.”
SOFA. The Status of Forces Agreement between the United States and the Republic of Korea. It regulated all formal disputes between American forces and Korean civilians, including allegations of assault.
“So the Hialeah Compound MPs were protecting Shirkey?” Ernie asked.
Miss Roh shrugged again. “All GI same-same.”
“Was she hurt bad, this Soon-hui?” I asked.
“Somebody say she gonna have baby. Shirkey baby. After he knuckle-sandwich her, no more baby.”
Ernie and I glanced at each other. I continued with the questions.
“Do you know where Soon-hui works?”
“Somewhere on Texas Street.”
There were maybe a hundred barrooms scattered in the ten-by-six-block area known as Texas Street. The girls conferred amongst themselves, speaking Korean rapidly. I couldn’t understand it all; when Koreans speak quickly, their words often slur together, sounding nothing like the idioms in the textbook for my night class back on 8th Army compound.
Finally, Miss Roh turned to me and said, “Sea Dragon Club we think, maybe. Anyway, she have three boyfriend, all work submarine. Come in different times.”
US attack submarines patrolled the arctic regions north of Siberia, ready to take on the Soviet Union on a moment’s notice. The convenient part, from this Soon-hui’s point of view, must have been that only one of the subs was allowed in port for repairs and maintenance at a time. Which meant that she only had to deal with one boyfriend at a time.
I slapped three thousand won on the bar, about six bucks, and told the girls to buy themselves some refreshments. Miss Roh sneered at the money but said nothing.
Outside, Ernie said, “You embarrassed me.”
“I embarrassed you?”
“Yeah. You didn’t tip enough.”
“I didn’t see you reaching in your pocket.”
“I don’t need to tip.”
“Why not?”
“Charm,” he said, grinning.
Ernie waved down a taxi. Or a kimchi cab, as GIs call the boxlike little sedans. Fifteen minutes later, after rolling through the suburbs of the vast city of Pusan, we disembarked in the neon-spangled environs of the red-light district known as Texas Street.
The Sea Dragon Nightclub was a utilitarian enough place for what it had to accomplish, which was the efficient extraction of money from lonely sailors far from home. The walls were lined with high-backed booths, convenient for intimate snuggling with Korean business girls. In the back of the large room sat a short bar, and in the center was a lowered dance floor maybe big enough for a half-dozen couples. Speakers for the sound system were elevated just out of reach on small platforms, and right now the volume was turned down, which was merciful, because a Korean female singer was warbling out a saccharine song of heartache and regret.
The woman behind the bar wasn’t happy to see us. “You GI,” she said. “Not sailor.”
Our short haircuts and Korean-made nylon jackets gave us away. Not to mention that there were few ships in port, and the sailors on them hadn’t been granted liberty yet. The bargirl began a brief tirade. “Girl in Sea Dragon Club no talk to GI,” she said. “Too Cheap Charley. No can make money.”
“The sailors,” Ernie said, “and the merchant marines, they spend a lot of money?”
“American sailors spend a lot of money. Maybe two, three months they on submarine, no can spend money. They come Texas Street, spend lots of money. Merchant marine, most Cheap Charley just like GI. Maybe captain spend money, officers, that’s it.”
“So you make money on the American sailors,” I said.
“Especially submarine sailor.” She shook her head. “They taaksan crazy.” Very crazy.
I leaned across the bar. “Why are submarine sailors crazier than regular sailors?”
Her eyes widened. “Because they underwater,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
I had no bona fides to argue with her analysis. Instead I asked, “Will you sell us a drink?”
“What you want?”
“OB,” I said. “How much is it?”
“OB one thousand won,” she said.
“For a beer?” Ernie said. “In Seoul it’s half that. Five hundred won.”
She shrugged. “Then you go Seoul.”
We finally realized that we had no choice, since they had nothing cheaper than a bottle
of OB beer. We ordered two.
“How about Soon-hui?” I asked. “Is she here?”
“Most tick she come,” the bartender said.
“When?” I asked, trying to narrow the time frame down from “most tick,” which was GI slang for “pretty soon.”
“She come.” The woman walked away from us and busied herself restocking beer and soft drinks in the cooler.
A door to the right of the bar opened onto a cement stairway. Women’s voices drifted down from upstairs. In many of these places, especially near seaports like Pusan and Inchon, the barrooms provided food and lodging to the women who worked for them. It might be easy to look down on these young women for their sordid careers, but the Korean economy, though growing, still couldn’t provide enough jobs for the entire female population. Not every woman could marry, especially when all able-bodied Korean males served in the military from ages twenty through twenty-three; after military service, these young men had trouble finding jobs themselves. Even though new factories were providing jobs, there still wasn’t enough opportunity to go around. Poor farm families eked out a precarious existence, and most of them couldn’t afford to feed an unmarried adult daughter. At this time in the early ’70s, the average per capita income in Korea was less than eight hundred dollars per year. Even that was distributed without any consideration of the lives and futures of poor Korean country girls. As such, both the draw and dangers of Texas Street were more than many young women could resist. I’d seen too many whose lives had ended in tragedy.
Carrying our beers, Ernie and I climbed the cement stairwell without waiting for permission. A skinny boy of about ten or eleven sat midway up the steps, busy shining ladies’ footwear. Even though the heat hadn’t been turned on yet and the Sea Dragon Nightclub was frigid, he wore only cheap plastic sandals, loose-fitting shorts, and a T-shirt. He stopped his industrious brushing and stared at us, wide-eyed. Quickly he packed up his polish and rag and scurried downstairs.
Ernie looked after him. “Why’d you frighten him off?”
“I didn’t do anything.”
Seconds later, from out behind the bar, a back door slammed.
The voices of the women became clearer as we approached the second floor. Someone said, “Migun wayo.” GIs are here.
Just like that, they’d pinpointed us as Cheap Charley soldiers stationed in-country instead of sailors on liberty with a wad of cash sizzling in our pockets.
“Anyonghaseiyo?” I greeted them. “I’ve heard that at the Sea Dragon Club there are many beautiful ladies. Is that so?”
One of the women replied, “Choa hani?” Which roughly meant, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
She stood in the central cement aisle, hands on her hips, wearing a T-shirt and beige shorts. Ernie approached her and took her by the arm and sang in a falsetto voice, “Yobo. Yobo. I love you, yobo!”
Faces peered out of the half dozen doorways that stretched down the hallway. They were smiling, and some of them laughed. It was boring in the late afternoon after everyone had taken their trip to the bathhouse, and they were waiting for the rice-and-bean-curd soup and kimchi they’d be served for dinner before the start of the evening’s work. And Ernie and I were young, and we knew a lot more about Korea than some fresh-off-the-boat sailor. I offered one of the girls my beer. She grabbed the bottle and tilted it back, but apparently some of the suds caught in her throat. She coughed and sputtered as the other girls laughed at her discomfort.
“Yonsup pilliyo!” one of them shouted. You need practice!
I was about to ask around for Soon-hui when the bartender ran up the stairs.
“Weikurei nonun?” she shouted at me. What’s the matter with you? And then to the girls, “These are GIs. They’re useless. Put on your makeup. Get dressed. Get ready for work.”
One of the younger girls whined, “What about the rice?”
“You don’t work, you don’t eat,” the bartender shouted. “Hurry up!” She turned and stormed down the steps.
I noticed one woman squatting forlornly in the hallway, her arms folded across her knees. She was the only one who hadn’t joined in the festivities. She stared straight ahead, her face unmoving. I walked toward her and took a gamble.
“Soon-hui?” I asked.
She looked up at me. “How you know?”
I shrugged. From what I’d been told had happened to her, it figured that she might not be too interested in interacting with GIs. “Shirkey,” I said. “We’re looking for him.”
Slowly she rose to her feet and stepped back into her room. There were four small bunks there, about the right size for children. Metal wires were strung above from wall to wall, and a tiny rain forest of women’s clothing and underwear hung from them. She stopped beneath a bright red brassiere and swiveled. “Why you bother me?” she asked.
Her face was a long oval. Defensive eyes peered out at the world above a round-tipped nose. Shapely lips pursed tightly, trying desperately to hang on to her last tattered remnants of dignity.
“Shirkey’s disappeared,” I told her.
She looked puzzled and then asked, “What’s it mean? Disappeared?”
In Korean, I explained. And then I asked her when she’d last seen him.
“When he punch me,” she said, clutching her stomach. “Before I lose baby.”
“You didn’t see him after that?”
“No,” she replied, looking away.
Ernie was outside talking to the girls in a subdued voice, doing his best to keep them occupied while I interviewed Soon-hui. From downstairs the bartender’s voice bellowed, “Bali!” Hurry! Other women walked into the room, staring at me and Soon-hui curiously. As they started to get dressed, we returned to the hallway.
“So you haven’t seen him or talked to him,” I said, “since you lost the baby?”
“No,” she replied vehemently, shaking her head.
“Do you know anyone who has seen him?”
She continued shaking her head. “GI don’t come Sea Dragon Club,” she said. “Not many.”
“But he did come out here when you first met him?”
“Yes. No sailors that night. Hialeah Compound GIs know when ships all gone.”
“Out to sea.”
She nodded.
“You liked him?”
“Yes. He very nice. I thought maybe he take me to States. We stay together sometimes. I run away from Sea Dragon Club with him, maybe three days. When I come back, bartender, she taaksan angry. I don’t care. I like Shirkey.”
“And he liked you?”
She nodded.
“But you became pregnant.” I used the Korean term imshin.
“Yes. My stomach grow big, he become angry. He told me to see doctor, take out baby, but I don’t want.”
“Until he beat you,” I said. “And he punched you in the stomach.”
“Yes,” she said, staring into space as if suddenly puzzled. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what?”
She looked up at me. “I don’t know man can be so mean.”
“But now you do.”
She nodded her head. “Now I know. Baby gone. Baby know, too.”
“The baby knows?”
“Yes. I go temple. Pray. Sometimes baby talk to me.”
I paused, using perhaps the most effective interrogation technique: silence.
“He mad at daddy,” she continued. “Someday Shirkey be . . .” She switched back to Korean. “Chobol hei.”
“Punished,” I said.
“Yes. Baby say that someday Shirkey be punished.”
I handed her some money, more than I’d coughed up at the Heitei Lounge. She looked at the small wad of bills as if it were a dead creature. Without a word, she stuck the bills in the loose folds of her skirt.
-3-
�
��She’s a damn suspect,” Ernie said, as we rode a kimchi cab back to Hialeah Compound.
“Nah,” I replied. “How could she kidnap a grown man?”
“Maybe she killed him and dumped his body in the port.” He pointed toward the inlet, lined now with ships on our side and sparkling lights on the far shore. “For all we know, Specialist Shirkey is out there right now. Floating.”
“That wouldn’t explain the other guys who disappeared.”
“Maybe they’re not related. Maybe it’s all just a big coincidence.”
“Maybe. But Soon-hui’s a Korean civilian, anyway. We don’t have any jurisdiction over her.”
“So call Mr. Kill,” Ernie replied.
Gil Kwon-up was the Chief Homicide Inspector of the Korean National Police—a big shot with a fancy office at the KNP headquarters in Seoul. The guys in American law enforcement, of course, distorted his name from Gil to Mr. Kill. Which fit by a bizarre logic, given his role as a homicide investigator. We’d worked with him on a few cases, mostly involving GI-on-Korean crime, and there was a strong rapport there. I knew that if I called him and asked him to have Soon-hui picked up and questioned by the Pusan KNP office, he’d do it. Still, I was reluctant. The KNPs were far from gentle when conducting their interrogations. I figured Soon-hui’d been through enough.
When I hesitated, Ernie said, “You’re too softhearted, Sueño. That’s your problem.”
“There’s no rush,” I said. “She’s not going anywhere.”
“How do you know?”
“She’s practically a slave there. No money. No family to go back to. What’s she going to do? Apply to Harvard?”
Ernie turned and stared at me. “What the hell’s gotten into you?”