The Line

by Martin Limon

  “How much more than usual?” Ernie asked.

  We were talking about LOAs—Letters of Authorization. Battalion commanders and above had the authority to fill out an LOA, sign it, and purchase whatever was necessary for their unit out of the PX and commissaries, regardless of ration control restrictions. This was a list of every LOA submitted in the last quarter by the JSA security unit.

  Porter glanced down at his notes. “Maybe three times the regular number of LOAs,” he responded.

  Ernie whistled. “That’s a lot of TVs and stereos.”

  “No, nothing like that,” Porter said. “Mostly consumables. Coffee, cigarettes, liquor, even a few female items.”

  “Like nylons?” I asked.

  “Yep.”

  “So the GIs up at the JSA,” I continued, “stay up late, smoke like chimneys, and get drunk a lot?”

  Spec 5 Porter grinned, flashing his blue eyes and an even row of teeth. “They also wear nice hosiery.”

  “Who monitors LOAs?” I asked.

  “Just me.”

  “Do you report it up the line if you believe a unit is purchasing more than what is reasonable?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “LOAs are made at field-grade level and above,” Porter said. “Battalion commanders. Nobody wants to hear anything bad about them.” He paused, frowning. “If I ever accused them of black marketeering, I’d be chewed out for impugning the integrity of a superior officer.”

  “So Eighth Army doesn’t really give a damn how many rationed items are purchased, as long as it’s one of the honchos doing the purchasing?” I asked.

  Porter shrugged again.

  “But if a PFC goes ten dollars over his ration, he’s hammered.”

  Porter’s eyes widened. “What are you? Some sort of communist?”

  I pretended I hadn’t heard that, but the word “communist” triggered an alarm bell. And not because I was worried about the House Un-American Activities Committee.

  We thanked Porter for his help as Ernie and I got up to leave.

  “Wait a minute,” he said.

  We both stopped and looked back at him.

  “Riley told me I’d receive something in return.”

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said, floundering. “Maybe an introduction to that secretary who works in your office. What’s her name?”

  “Miss Kim,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he replied. “Miss Kim.”

  “You’ve seen her?” Ernie asked.

  His face flushed red. “Entering compound a couple of times in the morning.”

  “How’d you find out where she works?”

  “You know, I was heading in that direction. Just happened to notice.”

  “That direction?” Ernie said. “On the opposite side of the compound from where your office is?”

  Porter didn’t answer. He stood awkwardly, toeing the sod in front of him, probably regretting asking. Still, I knew that we might need access to more of his information in the future.

  “Do you play badminton?” I asked.

  “Badminton?”

  “Yeah. Badminton.”

  “No. Why?”

  “Miss Kim plays every day during the noon hour, out by the Buddhist shrine. If you’re patient and respectful, maybe she and the other employees will let you join them.”

  “Badminton,” he said again.

  “Yes.”

  Ernie pointed his forefinger at him. “But you’d better be nice to her.”

  Specialist Porter nodded eagerly. “Okay,” he said.

  When we were out of earshot, Ernie muttered, “He doesn’t stand a chance.”

  The first joint on Officer Oh’s list wasn’t in the bright-light district of Myong-dong, but in a nearby area known as Mugyo-dong, military bridge district, deep in the catacombs of Seoul. We wound through a few narrow streets before finding the address. It was a run-down three-story building with cement-block walls and a rotted wooden fence surrounding a small courtyard. Stone steps led up to an entrance door made of reinforced lumber. A neon sign flashed on and off with two stylized Chinese characters against a yellow background.

  “What’s the sign say?” Ernie asked.

  “Unwon,” I said.

  “Meaning?”

  “Cloud Garden.”

  “Sounds depressing.”

  “Clouds are beautiful,” I said. “They float.”

  He paused, thinking it over. Then he said, “Like the broads who work here.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re developing the mind of a poet.”

  “Is it a kisaeng house?” Ernie asked.

  “Looks like it.”

  “But sleazy,” Ernie added.

  “Just how you like it.”

  “Yep,” he said, rubbing his stomach. “How are we gonna get in?”

  GIs were refused entrance into places that catered to Korean or Japanese businessmen. First, the proprietors knew we were usually stingy. Second, their free-spending customers didn’t necessarily want a bunch of crass Caucasian men tromping on the stylized elegance of their evening respite, not to mention drunkenly pawing at their women.

  “Maybe it’s best to wait out here,” I said. “See who comes and goes.”

  “If we do that, I’ll need something to warm me up.”

  “I didn’t spot any pochang macha on the way here.”

  “Maybe there’s a kagei down that way,” Ernie said.

  “Maybe.”

  “I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

  “Make it five,” I said.

  “Christ, Sueño. We’re just gonna end up standing out here all night and have nothing to show for it.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Be back in a few.” Ernie trotted off down the street.

  I stepped back into the shadows, about twenty yards from the Cloud Garden’s flashing neon sign. I thought of Evelyn Cresthill and wondered if it was possible for her to find a dump like this preferable to her cookie-cutter home in the dependent housing on Yongsan Compound South Post. Maybe she did. This was certainly more exciting than life as the wife of a field-grade officer. When a young hostess catered to the wealthy businessmen at these establishments, they would cater to her in return. She’d feel wanted, even prized. Perhaps that was better than being a neglected housewife suffering through yet another tea with the Officers’ Wives Club.

  A black Hyundai sedan pulled up. The doors popped open and three Korean men in suits climbed out. Then a woman. I could barely see through the gloom, but when the sign’s red and yellow neon flashed onto her face, there was little doubt. It was Evelyn Cresthill.

  I’d understood from the start that the “list” Officer Oh had given us was likely a ruse. The Korean National Police monitored these mob operations far more closely than they were willing to let on—my guess was that they had an operative planted near the beating heart of the local crime syndicate and had received intelligence that Evelyn would be here tonight. They’d risked compromising that agent only because Evelyn Cresthill was an American, and as such her welfare was crucial to preserving that precious relationship between South Korea and the United States.

  These thoughts raced through my mind as Evelyn was helped out of the car and hustled toward the front gate of the Cloud Garden.

  It would’ve been nice to have Ernie as backup, but he was still out hunting for a bottle of soju. I had a .45 tucked into the shoulder holster beneath my coat. I patted it to make sure it was still there, took a deep breath, and stepped quickly into the light.

  The group of men surrounding Evelyn Cresthill had reached the gate leading into the courtyard and were about to head through it.

  “Evelyn!” I shouted.

  St
artled, she stopped and turned to look at me, as did the three men.

  I held out my badge. “I just want to talk to you—to make sure you’re okay. It won’t take much of your time.”

  The men must have realized I meant trouble for them, because one barked an order and another grabbed Evelyn Cresthill by the elbows and pulled her through the opening in the gate. The remaining two men, still blocking my way, pulled large folding knives from their pockets.

  I approached the two men, holding my badge out like a crucifix against circling vampires. I shouted “Kyongchal!” Police!

  For some reason, they weren’t impressed. I shoved the badge back into my pocket and reached for my .45, but the men moved quickly, and there were two of them. One grabbed my wrist, and as we grappled, I felt a blow to my back. A shod foot had slammed into my left kidney, knocking the air out of my body, and I tumbled forward into the thug holding my wrist, the gun sliding away from both of us. When we were back on our feet, he aimed a side-kick at me, but he was slow enough for me to adjust, twisting my body and grabbing his collar. I swung him as hard as I could in an arc before releasing, and he slammed face-first into the gate and went down.

  Inside the courtyard, a woman’s voice rose in anger as she argued with someone.

  “Forget it, Charlie,” she said. “I’m not going in. I don’t like him, and I’m not sitting with him again. I don’t care how much he’s paying.”

  I had to admit, Evelyn Cresthill had moxie. But that was probably because the mobsters hadn’t found a reason to beat the crap out of her—yet.

  I crouched down to feel around for the .45 and felt a fist glance off the top of my head. When I turned, another kick came toward my face from the guy who’d knocked the wind out of me earlier. I managed to deflect it with my forearm, but that stung nevertheless. Furious, I rushed forward like a bull charging a matador, planning to hit my attacker right in the gut. But I’d left my sharp horns in my wall locker, and my head found a knee coming at me full-force instead of its initial target. I staggered backward, dazed. But the collision must’ve blown out his kneecap, as he lay writhing on the ground and didn’t pursue me. I stumbled away, collapsing against the wooden fence, and found my .45 on the ground, my vision so blurred that I was barely able to pick it up. As blind as I was I wouldn’t be able to even aim it, but my intervention and Evelyn Cresthill’s refusal to enter the Cloud Garden had screwed up any plans these guys had for the night. Brief, guttural shouts were exchanged, and the car started up again, its headlights flashing on brightly. Two bodies emerged through the gate—Evelyn Cresthill and a man dragging her along by the arm. She glanced at me for only a moment, horror in her face and a new bruise on her cheek. Had she just realized what type of people she was dealing with? I supposed even the hardest of criminals could be charming at first—the rough stuff always came later.

  I tried to speak, but my head lolled to my side, and suddenly I was so dizzy that I used the varnished wooden slats to lower myself to a squatting position. The man shoved Evelyn Cresthill into the backseat and then lifted the guy I’d knocked unconscious earlier and tossed him in after her. The last thug with the injured knee piled in and the car sped off.

  I struggled to remain alert, still woozy. Somehow, I got to my feet, staggering forward.

  “Stop!” I shouted after them, not quite conscious that I’d spoken English. I knew the Korean command, too, but it was just beyond my mind’s reach. I raised the .45 as a threat but didn’t fire, as I was in no condition to do so. I looked down at the pistol, realizing I hadn’t even pulled back the charging handle, when my right thigh trembled and the knee below it forgot how to lock. As I fell, taillights swerved and tires squealed farther and farther in the distance. I felt a thud and recognized pain, first in my hip, then in my shoulder.

  And that was the last thing I remembered.

  I came to with someone pouring soju on my face. I sputtered and sat up, wiping the burning liquid from my eyes.

  “What the hell?” I shouted.

  “Lying down on the job again,” Ernie said. He slapped my cheeks lightly and shone a penlight into my eyes.

  I sat up. “Where’d they go?”

  “Who?”

  “Evelyn Cresthill.” I explained what had happened.

  “Well, they’re long gone now,” he told me.

  A light-blue KNP sedan, red lights flashing, pulled up next to us. Two cops emerged, both in standard issue blue uniforms. One was a man I didn’t recognize, and the other was Officer Oh. Hands on her hips, she stared down at us.

  “So you used my list,” she said.

  “Yeah,” Ernie replied. “Sueño here swears by it.”

  “Glad I could help,” she said.

  I hadn’t previously realized Officer Oh spoke English so well, since she was usually so taciturn. But perhaps that was because she deferred to Inspector Kill. Now, she had a subordinate of her own in tow. She told the male officer to help get me to my feet. He complied quickly. I needed the help, too. With Ernie on one side and the KNP on the other, I managed to stand. I braced myself against the splintered wood of the courtyard wall, still groggy.

  “So what happened?” Ernie asked.

  “Like you said,” I replied. “Got bored and nodded off.”

  “Cut the crap, Sueño.”

  “We need to search the building.” I waved my hand toward the Cloud Garden.

  “Why?”

  “They were taking Evelyn in there. But she changed her mind and refused when they told her who the client was. I got the impression she’s been here before.”

  “You sure it was her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you stop her?” Ernie asked.

  I just stared at him, my eyes smoldering with anger.

  “Okay,” he said. “Never mind.”

  -18-

  With Officer Oh taking the lead, we were allowed immediate access to the Cloud Garden kisaeng house. None of the workers inside even thought of resisting the KNPs, who never needed search warrants. Their judgment was all the authority they required.

  We wandered down a short hallway, then past some empty booths upholstered in fake leather and a few cocktail tables covered in dingy linen. Upstairs, the rooms were closer in design to traditional Korean style. Raised wooden floors were covered in vinyl and a low rectangular table filled most of the room, surrounded by flat square seating cushions. When the room was in use, businessmen would sit cross-legged on the cushions and young hostesses would squat next to them, massaging their necks and wiping their brows with warm towels. Later, after coats were off and ties loosened, the women would pour them drinks—usually imported scotch in crystal tumblers—and use chopsticks to pop succulent snacks in their mouths, selecting from an array of raw squid, boiled quail eggs, and other overpriced delicacies on the table.

  “I’d rather drink at a bar,” Ernie said.

  “Why? You don’t like being treated like a king?”

  “At a bar, there’s less bullshit between me and the booze.”

  Koreans found it unnatural to sit alone at a bar. Not only was it considered unhealthy to drink without food, but spirits were seen as something to be consumed in a group setting—accompanied by friends, along with singing or other entertainment. Not amongst fellow morose drunks mumbling to themselves and falling off bar stools. The kisaeng house was the model for social drinking, and it put Korean men at ease, which is why its structure had been replicated—in both opulence and squalor—throughout the country.

  A middle-aged woman in a billowing Korean silk dress bowed to Officer Oh. In rapid Korean, Oh asked the woman why there were no customers in the Cloud Garden.

  “A party was scheduled,” she replied, “but our guests had a last-minute change of plans.” Involuntarily, the old woman cast a sidelong glance at me.

  “Party pooper,” Ernie whispered.
/>   My head throbbed and I wished I had some aspirin.

  Officer Oh asked the proprietress for the name and phone number of the man who’d booked the party, but the old woman pled ignorance. “We are very informal,” she said. “Guests tell us they will be here, and then they arrive. No record is kept.”

  A scowl crossed Officer Oh’s smooth complexion, which made me realize that she wasn’t an unemotional operative. There was a silent ferocity to her that could come to the surface when she was being jerked around.

  “Come,” Officer Oh told the woman in a voice barely containing her rage. “Let’s go downtown to police headquarters. We will question you there.”

  “Oh, wait,” the woman replied, bowing again, more deeply this time. “Maybe we do have something written down. Let me check.” She hurried off with Officer Oh following close behind. Downstairs, the woman pulled a ledger from beneath the bar’s serving counter. She thumbed through it and finally pointed to an entry, turning the ledger around for Officer Oh to examine. “Mr. Lee,” the old woman said. “A Mr. Lee made the engagement.”

  “Do you have his full name or phone number?” Officer Oh asked.

  “No, ma’am,” the woman said, shaking her head. “We are very informal here.”

  Exasperated, Officer Oh had her assistant order a van to escort the woman and the three other Cloud Garden employees on the premises to headquarters for further interrogation. The old woman began to cry, but Officer Oh ignored her.

  We walked out into the courtyard.

  “We probably won’t get much out of her,” Officer Oh told me, calm again. “Or the others, either, but we’ll try. If we do find something, I’ll leave a message with your secretary. What’s her name?”

  “Miss Kim,” I responded.

  “Right. She seems very nice.” A pause. “About that list I gave you.”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s probably worthless. The gampei know you’re looking for Evelyn Cresthill. They’ll hide her much more carefully now.”

  Ernie spoke up. “Has an American woman ever been taken like this before?”

  “Not in Korea. Everyone knows the Park Chung-hee government won’t tolerate any actions that could hurt our relations with the United States.”