by Martin Limon
“Ten years old,” I said.
“I had no idea.”
After that, Quincy told us everything he could to help.
The name of the place was the In-oh Mogyok-tang. The Mermaid Bathhouse. We’d started at the Mia-ri bus stop, which was nothing more than a tin sign bolted to a pole on the main road that read united states forces korea bus stop number 7 in English. Following Teddy Fusterman’s directions, we’d headed east from there, and after a couple of blocks turned left until we spotted the neon sign with mermaids. Their long, illuminated hair seemed to float in the night.
Ernie hid across the street and I lurked in the shadows by the edge of the building. We’d met Marilyn before, so spotting her wasn’t difficult. When she paused to survey the area for Teddy Fusterman, I stepped up next to her.
“Hello, Marilyn,” I said and flashed my badge.
“Oh! It’s you,” she said in Korean, surprised. “You gave Teddy my note, right?” When I didn’t answer, she said, “Where is he?”
I told her. She burst into tears and collapsed. Ernie and I caught her and held her up as we navigated the crowded streets of Mia-ri. We found a well-lit teahouse with a plastic-covered table in the far corner that allowed for some privacy. The three of us sat down and ordered ginseng tea.
“Why?” she said, her eyes rimmed in red. “Why do they think Teddy killed my brother?”
“It’s complicated. They needed someone to blame.”
She whimpered into a handkerchief as the waiter served our tea. Ernie paid him and told him to keep the change so we wouldn’t be bothered further. I sipped the bitter brew. In more primitive times, ginseng had been sought exclusively in the wild, and the legend was that the rare plant would present itself only to those who were pure of heart. I sipped on the earthy mixture, indulging in its mythical power, but willed myself back to reality.
“Did Teddy ever buy things for you out of the PX?” I asked Marilyn.
Marilyn glanced down at the table. Black marketeering, though widespread, was often seen as shameful. At the end of the Korean War more than twenty years ago, what little had been left of the Korean economy was smashed to smithereens. With no one producing consumer goods, the items shipped in duty-free at US taxpayer expense to the military commissaries and PXs were highly sought after. A GI could buy almost anything out of the PX and sell it for twice what he paid for it. Some items, like American-made cigarettes or imported scotch, could bring in three or four times what it had cost on base. So if a Korean family had an American friend, it wasn’t unusual for them to ask the GI to purchase something for them, like medicines that were difficult to come by or luxuries like granulated sugar, instant coffee, or canned milk. So it made sense that once he’d become friends with the Noh family, Teddy Fusterman would’ve purchased at least some small items for them.
“Yes,” she said. “He bought medicine for my father’s headaches and something for my mother’s back. You know, hot.” She made a rubbing motion. “And coffee and flour and salt.” There was plenty of salt in Korea, but it wasn’t finely granulated like the Stateside brands. “And sometimes sokogi.” Beef, which was far cheaper in the commissary and, because of generally spotty refrigeration in Korea, less likely to be tainted.
“Did he buy anything for you specifically?” I asked.
She blushed. “Nuts,” she said. When she saw Ernie and I staring at her, she said, “Peanut Man. Big hat.” She mimicked tilting a top hat.
“In a can?” I said.
“Yes.”
The waiter came by again and Ernie told him we didn’t need any more tea. After he left, I leaned closer to Marilyn. “Did Teddy and your brother sell anything from the PX? Were they trying to make money?”
“No,” she said firmly. “My brother very, how you say?” Then the word came to her. “Honest. Very honest man. He don’t like breaking rules, but what Teddy buy help my parents, so he say okay. But my brother, since he was little boy, he don’t cheat. He don’t steal. He don’t lie.”
Maybe, I thought. But the temptation to sell high-end items like imported cameras and wristwatches and stereo equipment and television sets on the black market for more money than you’d ever seen was strong enough to corrupt even some of the most honest men. A GI could only buy one each of these items in a twelve-month tour. And, to drive home the notion that soldiers weren’t trusted by their superiors, these items were accounted for at the end of the GI’s tour to make sure they hadn’t been sold on the black market. Still, people came up with all sorts of creative ways to get around 8th Army’s ration control regulations, like falsifying a shipment document or ordering additional items through the Sears catalogue. Could this have been the catalyst that had caused a rift between Private Teddy Fusterman and Corporal Noh Jong-bei?
I leaned in closer toward the young Korean woman.
“Did Teddy kill your brother?” I asked.
“No,” she said firmly. “He’s a good man.”
“Then who do you think did it?”
She was crying again. “I don’t know,” she said. “Na jinja moolah.” I really don’t know.
Then she reached out and grabbed my hand. Through tears, she asked me, “Will you find the person who killed him?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“And will you free Teddy?”
“If he’s not the murderer.”
“He’s not,” she said. “I know.”
She made Ernie make the same promise.
-9-
When we returned to Yongsan Compound South Post, the time was almost twenty-two-hundred hours—ten p.m. The MP at the gate checked our dispatch and waved us through. We wound through the command-sponsored housing on South Post past homes with well-tended lawns and cheap sedans in the driveways until we found the duplex at the address Bob Cresthill had given us. The lights were on, and muffled music seeped through the frosted windows. After Ernie parked the jeep, we walked up to the front door and knocked.
“Maybe Mrs. Cresthill is back,” Ernie said. “Maybe they’ve made up and they’re celebrating.”
“Sure.”
Major Bob Cresthill pulled the door open. He was smiling, his face flushed red. It took a moment for him to register who we were, and then the smile fell away.
“Did you find her?” he asked.
“No. May we come in?”
He opened the door wider. A song by the Rolling Stones blasted from stereo equipment down the hall. Cigarette smoke and the sound of conversation drifted into our faces.
“Having a party?” I asked.
“No,” he said, ruffled. “Just invited a few friends over for drinks.”
A few friends turned out to be about a dozen. A couple were officers I’d seen around compound and most were unknown to me, but everyone appeared to be military, with short haircuts and lean frames. Upwardly mobile young officers. Working hard, partying hard. The women seemed just as determined to enjoy the night, all of them wearing flattering dresses, puffing determinedly on cigarettes, highballs with rattling cubes clutched between polished nails.
He ushered us into a back room. A television set was on, tuned to the only English-language station in Korea: AFKN, the Armed Forces Korea Network. On the screen, a cross-eyed detective was questioning a witness. In front of the set, bathed in a flickering glow, a little girl with limp brown hair sat in a huge chair, staring at the screen.
I knelt next to her.
“You must be Jenny,” I said.
She nodded. A whoop of laughter came from the front room.
“When did you last see your mom?”
“I told you already. I told my dad, I told everybody.”
“What’d you tell them?”
“When I came home from school, she wasn’t here.”
“What’d you do?”
“I went over to Mrs. Bronson’s.”
> “Have you heard anything from your Mom since?”
“No.” She stared stubbornly at the TV. I left her alone.
Cresthill walked us back through the house. “Why’d you come here?” he asked.
“Just to check on you. See if you’d heard from your wife.”
“Well, I haven’t. Maybe you should get busy looking for her.”
“Maybe we should.”
As we passed back through the partying crowd, a couple of the women gazed openly at Ernie. I’d never been able to figure out what his attraction was. He didn’t put out the slightest bit of effort, but somehow they flocked toward him, as if finding his indifference a challenge to overcome. I’d tried Ernie’s technique, feigning disinterest, but all I’d received was disinterest in return. Now I was back to that old standby: begging.
On the front porch, Major Cresthill stood with the door almost closed behind him.
“This isn’t what it looks like,” he said.
“What’s that?” Ernie asked.
“It’s not like I’m partying because she’s gone. It’s just that me and my friends and Evelyn’s friends, we get together often. They came over to check on me, make sure I was all right.”
“Are you?” I asked.
“I’m okay. As good as I can be under the circumstances.”
“And Jenny?”
“She’s a little trooper. She’ll make it through.”
We nodded to Major Cresthill and turned to head back down the walkway. He reentered the house. When we reached the jeep, Ernie said, “Poor guy. He’s all broken up.”
“Yeah. Wallowing in grief.”
Inside, one of the women laughed like she’d been poked in the ribs. Wheels crunching on ice, we drove toward the Officers Club.
The place was closing down. On weeknights, by order of the 8th Army Commander, the Yongsan Officers Club shut its doors at twenty-three-hundred hours. Part of that was to make sure that all good officers returned to their quarters to get a good night’s sleep. The other part was because the Korean staff had to clean up, count the money in the cash registers, punch out on the time clock, lock up, and arrive home before the nationwide midnight-to-four curfew.
Ernie and I found the night manager in his office. The nameplate on his desk said Cho. We flashed our badges to Mr. Cho, and I asked to talk to his head waitress. The middle-aged woman who was called in introduced herself as Mrs. Pei. She refused a seat and remained standing as I described Evelyn Cresthill and the Korean woman who’d befriended her.
“Yes,” she said in carefully pronounced English. “I remember them.”
“Did you serve them?”
“No. They sat in the cocktail lounge. Usually Miss Soh brings them drinks.”
“Did you notice anything unusual about them?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Like maybe something strange?”
“No,” she said. “Nothing strange.”
“Is the Korean woman married to an American officer?”
“I don’t know. I just see. We don’t talk.”
I thanked her and the manager ordered her to send in Miss Soh.
Ernie and I could’ve bypassed manager Cho and questioned the waitresses directly to figure out who used to serve Evelyn Cresthill and her Korean friend. But that would’ve upset the kibun, or the general contentment in a workplace. Korean societal structures were often hierarchical, from family to school and finally employment. These hierarchies were comfortable, especially when everyone knew their position within them. At the 8th Army Officers Club, the night manager was the “father,” the head waitress the “mother,” and the cooks and bartenders were the “older brother” figures. The cute young cocktail waitresses were called yo dongseing. Little sisters.
Within seconds, the younger, very pretty Miss Soh bowed slightly to us. The night manager rose from his desk, ostensibly to supervise closing, but in reality to give us privacy. And to protect himself. Whatever was happening, he didn’t want to know more about it than he had to.
Once he’d left, Miss Soh was visibly more nervous.
“Choyong-hei,” I told her. Be calm. “We just have questions about some customers of yours.”
She nodded, looking at us gamely.
I beckoned for her to take a seat on the small divan. Ernie grabbed a straight-backed chair and sat against a nearby wall. I stood a few feet in front of Miss Soh, leaning against the front edge of the night manager’s desk as I described Evelyn Cresthill.
She nodded immediately. “Yes, Miss Evelyn,” she said.
“Not Mrs. Evelyn?”
“No. She like Miss.”
“Did any men sit with her?”
“No. Only Randy.”
“Who?”
She thought about it. “Quincy.” She folded her right arm across her chest and tapped two fingers on the top of her left shoulder. “Captain. I think he’s captain. Captain Quincy, but everybody call him Randy.”
Over the years, many of the young women who’d worked in the O’Club ended up marrying American officers. They paid close attention to rank, as well as to whether or not the young man was married and what his personality and temperament were like.
“Was Captain Quincy Miss Evelyn’s boyfriend?”
“No.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Gaburo.” A joker. Someone not to be taken seriously.
“He plays around?”
“Yes. Talk to all woman. Don’t mean nothing. Miss Evelyn, she laugh at him. Think he’s funny.”
“Did she ever leave the club with him?”
“Maybe. Maybe one time. But I don’t think she like him.” She thought about it some more. “When she first come in, she was sad. Randy Quincy, he made her laugh. After that, she don’t pay attention to him.”
“Why not?”
“He gaburo,” she repeated, as if I were slow on the uptake.
“When was the last time you saw Miss Evelyn?”
Miss Soh’s forehead creased slightly and she crinkled her nose. Finally, she said, “Maybe three—no, four days ago.”
Most people had trouble remembering time frames, but this bright young Korean woman seemed to remember everything. I asked her about the Korean woman who’d become Evelyn’s friend.
“Not good friend,” Miss Soh said, shaking her head.
“No? Why not?”
“I think she want something.”
“Like what?”
“Like she need woman. Young woman. Pretty woman. Like Miss Evelyn.”
Ernie glanced at me but didn’t say anything.
“Go on,” I said.
“This Korean woman she not interested in man. Lot of trouble to get on compound, go to O’Club, but she not interested in man. She interested in woman.”
“Korean women?”
“No.” Miss Soh waved her hand dismissively. “Plenty of Korean women outside compound. She interested in American woman.”
“Why?” I asked.
Miss Soh wrinkled her forehead. “I’m not sure. But not for good reason. For something bad.”
I thought of asking Miss Soh if the Korean woman could have been interested in American women for her own sexual reasons, but I held back. In Korea, homosexuality was a taboo subject indeed. More than once, I’d heard Koreans say that homosexuality didn’t exist in their country. I knew that to be wrong, but if I confronted Miss Soh with such a subject, she might clam up and stop talking completely. Instead, I asked, “What was this Korean woman’s name?”
“She call herself Miss Shin.”
“Do you think that’s her real name?”
Miss Soh shrugged. “Maybe not.”
“So why was this Miss Shin here at the Officers Club, talking to Evelyn Cresthill?”
Miss Soh swiveled to look at Ernie, then
turned to look at me. She took a deep breath, as if bucking up her courage, and said, “I think she here to make money. She want American woman to make money.”
“Make money how?” I asked.
“Na moolah,” she said. I don’t know.
“What does this Miss Shin do?”
“I don’t know.”
“But Evelyn Cresthill and this woman became friends. And Evelyn listened to this woman?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Miss Evelyn need something.”
“What?”
Miss Soh’s forehead crinkled again.
When she didn’t speak right away I said, “Did she need money?”
Waving her petite hand, Miss Soh dismissed my answer. “Everybody needs money.”
“So what was it,” I asked, “that Evelyn was hoping to receive from this Korean woman?”
Finally, Miss Soh spoke. “She want . . . How you say? Exciting.”
“Excitement?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Ernie said.
Miss Soh turned toward him. “No,” she said. “Exciting very wrong. Very dangerous. This woman, this Korean woman, she work for someone bad, I think.”
“Bad?” I asked. “Who?”
She shook her head vehemently. “I don’t know. But someone bad. I don’t know how to say in English.”
She was nervous and her language ability was deteriorating rapidly. “Say it in Korean,” I said.
She looked up at me, eyes wide, and said, “Gampei.” Gangsters.
Even Ernie knew that word. We’d dealt with them often enough.
“Which gampei?” I asked. There were numerous gangs in Seoul.
“I don’t know,” she said, rubbing her fingers together now; twisting and turning them until I was afraid she’d wrench a knuckle. Suddenly, she stood, straightening her shoulders. “I’m worried about Miss Evelyn. Some Korean people not good. You go find.” She shook her forefinger at me. “You go find Miss Evelyn.”
Without bowing, she turned and walked out of the room.
Ernie had parked the jeep toward the back of the O’Club’s gravel lot. As we approached, the floodlight from the building revealed that somebody had tilted the front passenger seat forward. Since there was no rear door, this allowed someone to climb into the backseat, but instead of sitting there waiting for us, our visitor had left us a personalized calling card.