by Martin Limon
“You ready for some octopus in hot sauce?”
“I’ll pass,” Ernie replied.
We wandered around for a while, not bothering to ask for directions because we wanted to get a sense of the layout of the ville. ASCOM City is probably, in terms of people per square foot, the most jam-packed GI village in Korea, teeming with business girls, bars, and tailor shops. The villages at Tongduchon outside the 2nd Infantry Division and, of course, Itaewon in Seoul are larger in terms of geography, but none have a more buzzing, intimate atmosphere. We wandered down a narrow lane until we reached its end. Oddly, just a few yards from where the buildings stopped, the rice paddies started. ASCOM City was a gold mine to those seeking frivolity, but it was also plopped down in the middle of a vast agricultural area.
Ernie pointed south. “So out here are the fields, and up north are the railroad tracks, the MSR, and that ASCOM compound.”
“A pretty small area,” I said.
“Yeah,” Ernie replied, “but it’s got everything I could ever need.”
We turned back to the darkness and looked for the Wild Lady Nightclub. The front door was only a beaded curtain. We pushed through and entered a well-appointed room with a long bar on the left, tables on the right, and a small wooden stage in the back. Only one girl sat on a stool behind the bar. She stared so intently at her celebrity magazine that she hardly noticed our approach. Finally, she looked up.
“You early,” she said.
“Yeah,” Ernie replied. “Early.”
She was very young, with her hair still cropped in a Buster Brown haircut—the type middle-school girls are required to wear. Thick-rimmed glasses sat slightly askew atop her nose.
“Meikju olmayo?” Ernie asked. It was his favorite Korean phrase: How much is beer?
She told us.
“Beats the hell out of Texas Street,” Ernie said, ordering two.
When she served the beers and set down our change, I pulled a photo from my pocket and pushed it toward her. It was of Corporal Holdren, late of the 44th Engineer Battalion.
“You know him?” I asked.
It was the black-and-white copy of the photo attached to his personnel file, the same one that would’ve appeared on his military ID card. Interested, she studied it carefully, but within seconds her eyes lost focus. Furtively, she glanced at us and then back at the photo. Finally, she set it down and slid it back to me.
“Moolah,” she said. I don’t know.
There was a slight quiver in her voice; she was afraid.
“Don’t worry,” I told her in Korean. “We’re just old friends of his.”
She nodded skeptically.
“Have you seen him before?”
She shook her head until her straight black hair swished silently past her ears. Ernie, apparently, saw what I saw and decided to change the subject.
“When do the other girls come in?” he asked.
She didn’t understand, so I translated. She said that some of them should be in soon, and she had to order their midafternoon meal from the Chinese restaurant nearby.
Chinese food is popular in Korea, and local Chinese restaurants primarily do business through takeout and delivery. They serve dumplings—fried, boiled, or baked—and jajangmyon noodles in black bean sauce, or various permutations of other types of noodles in vegetable or fish broth. Oddly, the Park Chung-hee dictatorship won’t allow them to serve rice. The given reason is to slow overall consumption, so precious dollars aren’t spent on importing foreign-produced rice. But some of the more skeptical diplomatic observers believe the real reason is that Park Chung-hee fears consortiums of Chinese businessmen cornering the rice futures market and conspiring to suck the wealth out of Korea, as he believes they’ve done in other countries.
As we sipped our beer, the young girl switched on the sound system, which banged out an American rock tune that was far too loud. She lowered the volume slightly, then pulled her stool over to the phone behind the bar and dialed, scooting as far away from us as the phone cord would allow. She bent forward and covered the side of her mouth with her hand, so the person on the other end could hear her over the music. I strained to hear her food order. In any case, the women at the Wild Lady Nightclub were doing pretty well financially if they could afford Chinese takeout. Most of the business girls in Korea had to settle for leftover rice, stale kimchi, and the thin gruel that the bars and nightclubs and brothels served to their employees. I watched her nod and reply in the affirmative. Whoever was on the other end of the line must have been repeating her order back to her. She frowned and said something, but her voice was drowned out by the sound system, which was now assaulting the three of us with something by a British rock band.
I still found the idea of Englishmen playing rock and roll rather odd, since the genre was clearly an amalgam of indigenous American country music and southern blues. But they’d done it successfully for the last decade or so, and I wondered when other countries would get in on the act. Korea had some excellent bands; they often played at the NCO and officers clubs on base, but as far as I knew, none of them had ever made it Stateside. Maybe one day.
As this random thought flitted through my head, Ernie said, “We’re not getting anywhere here.”
“Be patient,” I said. “She’s ordering chow. That means business girls can’t be far behind.”
“You think they’ll know something about Holdren?”
“I’m sure they will,” I said.
My assumption about the women at the Wild Lady Nightclub turned out to be about as wrong as the one about Englishmen and rock and roll. Three business girls arrived minutes later, and I showed them Holdren’s photograph as Ernie horsed around with them. They said they had never seen Corporal Holdren, much less known of him having a girlfriend at the club.
Before their noodles arrived, Ernie and I finished our beers and left.
Outside, we wandered the back alleys, exploring ASCOM City with no particular destination in mind. We found ourselves in a small circular plaza surrounded by shops. A Chinese food delivery boy carrying a suitcase-sized metal box almost knocked us over.
“Mi-an,” he said, bowing his head as he scooted past us. Sorry.
We turned to watch him go. As we did so, I sensed movement in the passageways that ran off from the central intersection like spokes from a wheel. Without warning, shadows blocked all the exits.
“Trouble,” Ernie whispered to me.
Young men, some carrying short-handled hoes, others dangling bicycle chains from their fingers, stood blocking our pathway to each of the narrow lanes, all grim-faced. They ranged from their teens to mid-twenties, some with scars on their faces or oddly shaped reptilian tattoos on their forearms. As if on cue, they all moved forward, tightening the enclosure.
Ernie edged toward a shop with wooden bins full of secondhand plumbing supplies. He tossed me a two-foot-long lead pipe and then pulled a long-handled plunger from a pile of junk. Thus armed, we faced the men.
I thought of saying something to stall them, but before I could come up with the right words, a bicycle chain flew in a great arc toward my head, resembling a whirring buzz saw.
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Ernie hopped forward and jabbed upward with the wooden plunger until it met the swirling metal and the chain wrapped three times around its handle. He didn’t yank backward, as the nearest thug expected, but instead charged forward, sticking with his classic strategy for handling trouble when outnumbered. I’d known that he would, and by the time he charged, I was already at his left flank, flailing away with the short lead pipe. Two of the guys backed off, and then I pivoted and hit the one who’d thrown the bicycle chain in the back of his head. He went down, and I hoped I’d pulled my swing enough that I hadn’t killed him.
The thunk of lead on skull had a sobering effect on the other men. The bicycle chain was still wrapped around the wooden pl
unger handle, so Ernie flung it back and charged at the two men on his right. One of them managed to catch his elbow, and I backed up to protect him, swinging and yelling and clanging my pipe against their clubs. Amidst all this shuffling, an escape route opened up. Ernie and I took it, sprinting down one of the alleys. It was so narrow that there was hardly space to swing a lead pipe, much less a bicycle chain, and the men behind us had to follow in single file; I jabbed periodically at the closest one to keep him from reaching us. After about fifteen yards, we reached the open rice paddies. We stood there for a moment, holding them off at the opening. Ernie asked, “Which way?”
To either side of us were the backs of residences belonging to the people who lived and worked in ASCOM City. The only break in the brick and mortar was a few high windows, probably leading to bathrooms. Either way we went, we’d have to sprint along a narrow pathway on the edge of the mud-filled rice paddies. We had only seconds to decide.
“Take your pick!” I yelled.
Ernie did. Instead of angling along the backs of the homes, he ran straight along one of the elevated berms into the rice paddy. I thought he was crazy. The thugs could easily follow us, and eventually we’d fall off one of the narrow walkways and end up wallowing in knee-deep mud, which would make fighting them that much more difficult. But Ernie had seen something I hadn’t.
A group of women with conical hats held in place by silk bandanas, wearing long shirts and gloves, were trampling through a dry field, moving forward in a roughly straight line. In unison, they bent forward and hacked with short-handled sickles, then hoisted and dropped thick heads of peichu—Napa cabbage—into loop-handled straw baskets.
We ran straight toward them, the thugs close on our heels.
Once we reached the women, Ernie stopped where two perpendicular berms met. He grabbed my elbow, pulled me past him, and stepped forward to use the long-stemmed plunger like a bayonet, jabbing at the thugs to slow them down.
Surprised, the women stood up, some of them placing a hand on the smalls of their backs, leaning backward, and loosening their spines. Each had their sickle in hand.
As they watched us fight off the thugs, outnumbered at least four to one, the surprise on their faces turned to anger.
One of them shouted, “Weigurei nonun?” What’s the matter with you?
Then they were all waving their wickedly curved tools, shouting in unison. The boldest amongst them approached the berm and swiped at a thug’s ankle. He hopped back, shouting expletives and warning her off with his club. But the women kept shouting and waving their sickles in the air, and in the distance, from the straw-thatched farmhouses, people began to gather and point.
It wouldn’t be long, I thought, until someone called the police.
And our pursuers must’ve realized it too. One of them shouted, “Kaja!” Let’s go.
Others cursed, but in the end, they acquiesced and began to back away along the berm. When they were a few yards off and sure that Ernie and I wouldn’t follow, they turned and ran back toward the rat’s warren of ASCOM City.
Ernie and I looked around at the vast countryside surrounding us, relieved. And glad to be staring into the smiling faces of the group of farming women.
After we thanked the ladies of the rice paddy and said we were okay, they asked us not to call the KNPs into this. The last thing they wanted was to be on the radar of a bunch of corrupt cops asking invasive questions. There wouldn’t have been much to report to the KNPs, in any case. The thugs had taken all evidence of the attack with them.
“Who were those guys?” I asked the women in Korean.
“Chinese,” they told me, “from Inchon.”
There has been a Chinatown in the port city of Inchon since the late nineteenth century, when King Kojong, in an attempt to mitigate Japanese influence, overthrew Korea’s long-standing isolationist policy and started to welcome trade with China. In 1949, thousands of Chinese refugees fled the Communist takeover by Mao Tse-tung and his Red Army. Many landed in Hong Kong, Taiwan, and other parts of the world, and a few thousand ended up in Inchon, just a half dozen miles from here. According to the women who’d helped us, when the US had set up the ASCOM compound shortly after the Korean War, a Chinese gang from Inchon had taken over the local rackets, and they’d been in charge ever since.
When I asked if the local KNPs had taken action, the women shook their heads. “They work for whoever has money,” they said.
Ernie and I made our way back through ASCOM City, using the main drag so as not to be set upon again by the band of thugs. At least we weren’t in danger of being shot at; Korea strictly enforces total gun control. Only the police and the military are allowed to carry weapons, and the penalty for trafficking in or using guns is so severe that even gangsters eschew them. Still, clubs and knives and tire irons can be as dangerous—and those no one is afraid to use.
Because of our experience in the rice paddy, Ernie and I were muddy and smelled awful. We crossed the railroad tracks and MSR to reenter the ASCOM military compound. At the Post Gymnasium, we showered, scraped some of the mud off our jeans and shoes, and wiped down the worst parts with moist paper towels. Finally, though still a little damp, we were ready to resume the case.
By now, the cannon had gone off for close of business. We sat at the ASCOM Snack Bar, sipping hot coffee and reviewing our options.
“We could file a formal report at the local KNP station,” said Ernie.
I shook my head. “Like those women said—if the Chinese gang has been running the rackets here for years, then the local KNPs must be in on it.”
“And the MPs?”
“They’re completely in the dark. A Chinese gangster looks just like a Korean one to them, and if they can’t even read hangul, how the hell would they be able to tell the difference between that and Chinese characters?”
I was the only American military law enforcement official in-country who’d bothered to study Korean. My night classes were sparsely attended, and even then, not by GIs, but by civilian workers who planned on staying here awhile. Everyone else, including high-ranking policy makers, relied on the Korean employees on base to translate for them. It often worked, but not always.
“We could roll out the big guns,” Ernie said. “Call Mr. Kill.”
As Chief Homicide Inspector of the Korean National Police, Mr. Kill had resources Ernie and I couldn’t match.
“And tell him what?” I said. “That a bunch of Chinese gangsters tried to beat us up? We don’t have any specific leads on the disappearances yet. Let’s not ask for Kill’s help until we know what we need. Something specific he can do for us. He’s too valuable a resource for us to be calling on every time we hit a rough patch.”
Ernie said nothing, which meant he agreed. He rubbed his collar. “I’m almost dry.” He sniffed the air. “Still smell like fertilizer, though.”
“Good,” I replied. “Then we’re ready.”
“For what?”
“Let’s go back to the Wild Lady Nightclub and have a talk with the girl who ordered Chinese food.”
“And brought in the three business girls to delay us.” Ernie set down his coffee cup. “You don’t think she was just ordering extra egg roll?”
“No. As soon as we asked about Holdren, she got on the phone.”
“You think she’s one of the bosses?”
“No way. She looks twelve. And no crime boss would sit in a GI bar all day, reading some celebrity magazine.”
“So she was just following orders?”
“Strict orders, considering how fast she moved,” I said.
“Orders from who?”
“I’d sure like to know.”
I chugged down the last of my cold coffee.
They played dumb at the Wild Lady Nightclub.
A new bartender was on duty, and he had no idea who the daytime bartender had been.
When I told him about the short, middle school–style bob, the glasses, and the flat nose, he looked at me like I was nuts and said, “Moolah.” I don’t know.
Ernie wanted to drag him outside and beat the information out of him, but I said no. The place had almost twenty GI customers now, enjoying a drink while they waited for the band to start. There were also a half dozen business girls working the crowd, but the three Ernie and I had spoken with earlier weren’t among them. As we sat at the bar nursing our beers, I listened carefully to the buzz of conversation. Between the business girls, the one waitress on duty, and the bartender, all communication was in Korean, and without any accent that I could discern.
“They don’t look Chinese,” Ernie said.
“What do Chinese people look like?” I asked.
“Not like Koreans.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Koreans have high cheekbones,” he said.
I motioned toward the business girls. “You think all Koreans have high cheekbones?”
Ernie studied them. “No. I guess not.”
“And by the way, some Chinese people do have high cheekbones. China is enormous; it has hundreds of different ethnic groups. There’s no one way to classify how a Chinese person looks.”
“They don’t look like soul brothers,” Ernie said, pleased with his line of reasoning.
I sighed.
“How about the way they talk?”
“That could give them away,” I said, “but if they’re from Korea, they’d sound just like any other Korean.”
“Are they citizens?” Ernie asked.
“No. Park Chung-hee would never allow it.”
“Why the hell not?”
“He doesn’t trust foreigners. And he’s seen the way Chinese communities operate in other countries. They stick together. They work hard, start businesses, accumulate wealth, and make sure their kids get the best education available.”