by Martin Limon
He turned away.
Ernie shoved him against a tree. “Answer the man.”
“I got it,” Fenton replied sullenly.
“You better.”
Ernie slugged him again, then took Fenton’s wallet, turned it upside down, and pulled open the flaps. Calling cards and Military Payment Certificates and photographs fluttered toward the mud. Fenton leaned against a tree, arms folded firmly across his stomach. I tossed his military ID and weapons card into the mud with the rest of his documents.
Before we walked away, Ernie slapped him across the right cheek, gently. As we left, we heard Fenton spitting up something, maybe blood. When we were almost out of earshot he started to curse. Softly at first, then more loudly.
“I’ll get you for this,” he said.
“Like I’m worried about that, twerp,” Ernie muttered.
“I’m with the Five Oh First MI!” Fenton ranted. “We’re not called the Five Oh Worst for nothing.”
Ernie rolled his eyes again. As we rounded the corner, leaving Fenton behind, Ernie waggled his forearms, pretending to shake. “I’m petrified,” he said.
“We never lose!” Fenton shouted from the distance.
-3-
Black hair cascaded to bare shoulders, partially covering the smooth contours of a face whitened by powder. The voice was husky, inviting; laced, I imagined, with the sweet scent of booze. She made him laugh. Then she leaned in closer and said, “You slicky my ping-pong heart.”
In GI slang, “slicky” means to steal.
Ernie and I were hunkered in the shadows of the UN Club in the nightclub district of Itaewon, nursing our beers, peering through swirling clouds of smoke, admiring the line of bull being laid down by this gorgeous woman sitting on a barstool about twenty feet from us. Her mark was a young GI—half looped—with a pocketful of cash from yesterday’s end-of-month payday.
The band clanged back to life. Ernie shoved aside his beer and spoke through the din. “The only thing she wants to slicky,” he said, “is this guy’s wallet.”
The guy and the gal were deep in conversation now, their noses almost touching. It was negotiation time; her revealing how much an all-nighter would set him back, him asking how close her place was. She called him Johnny. His hand slipped to her knee. Apparently, they’d come to an agreement. Standing, they both put on their winter coats; she grabbed her spangled handbag, and together they paraded out the front door of the UN Club.
Seeing her face in the glare of the overhead floodlight left no doubt in my mind. The woman was Miss Jo Kyong-ja, whom Major Schultz had identified in the District Health records at the Itaewon Police Station. Johnny was a GI. I could tell from his short haircut and his evident youth, but also, out here in the red light district of Itaewon, there was little else he could be.
The Korean government had designated this area as open to “tourists” only. That is, Korean civilians were not allowed in, unless they worked in one of the bars or nightclubs. I suppose the idea was to protect their morals. Foreigners other than those in the US military were almost nonexistent. The tourism industry was anemic, and the few who did jet into the formerly war-torn country of Korea stayed wisely in downtown Seoul, taking air-conditioned tourist buses to visit the restored palaces and ancient Buddhist temples. Visiting businessmen, other than the Japanese, were still rare, and in either case they stayed in the hotels in Seoul that catered to their specific needs. Besides, it was dangerous down here. Muggings and knife fights weren’t uncommon, although both the Korean government and the US military tried to pretend that American GIs would never participate in such naughtiness.
The Koreans catered to the Americans because they were still terrified of the North Korean Communist threat. They’d lost over two million people during the Korean War and were hoping US military would keep them safe from such a thing ever happening again.
After the double doors swung shut, Ernie and I waited about half a heartbeat. Then we followed. Our job was to get a statement from her, and get a statement we would. Outside, business girls lined the road, peering through beaded curtains, cooing for GIs to join them. Neon pulsed. Rock music blared from every bar and nightclub.
Miss Jo Kyong-ja was a shapely woman, wearing high heels with a tight black dress hemmed to about two inches above the knee, covered by an even shorter faux-fur coat. I couldn’t see in the dim light, but her flesh must’ve been goosebumped. Snow from last week’s storm still crusted the edges of upturned tile roofs.
“Nice legs,” Ernie said.
Johnny was taller than her by about two inches, and once she took off her heels, he’d be taller still. She was about five-four, I figured, maybe -five, and didn’t top one-twenty. He would be about one-forty-five. Mentally, I was writing the report I knew I’d have to turn in tomorrow. I pulled my collar up. Not so much to look like a gumshoe, but to keep the frost from biting at my neck.
The joyous couple passed the Lucky Lady Club and were briefly illuminated by flashing red neon. Before my eyes could adjust, they disappeared into a side alley.
“Itaewon Market,” Ernie said. “I’ll go around the long way.”
I nodded and he took off at a jog.
I followed them, away from the brightly lit nightclub district and into the province of night. Brick and cement-block walls lined a narrow pedestrian lane. In the homes behind, single bulbs burned, pots clanged, women pulled dried clothing off laundry lines, old men hacked phlegm. Waste water ran through a narrow channel, blasting my nostrils with the sting of ammonia. I hopped deftly from side to side, crossing the flow.
Around a bend, I spotted Miss Jo and the young GI again, moving faster now, maybe aware that we were following. The pathway twisted and turned and finally let out into an open area surrounding a venerable oak. They passed wooden benches, climbed a flight of stone steps and stopped. Miss Jo pounded on a wooden gate.
“Na ya!” she said. It’s me.
A few seconds later, a small door in the large wooden gate opened. The two lovers ducked through. Ernie appeared out of a side alley.
“Is this the place Major Schultz described?”
“Yes,” I said, double-checking the notepad I carried in my pocket. “He didn’t have the exact address, but he said it was just off the circle with the old oak.”
“So we have our woman,” Ernie said.
“Yep,” I replied, staring at the closed gate. “How are we going to get in?”
“Knock,” Ernie said.
I shrugged. “That’s one way.”
We walked to the gate and Ernie slammed his fist onto the top of the splintered surface.
“Kyongchal!” he shouted. Police! One of the few Korean words he knew. That and “Meikju olma-yo?” How much for a beer?
We heard footsteps and muffled voices behind the gate, but no one came to open it. Ernie pounded again. Doors shut, and the noise faded into silence. He turned to me.
“Hoist,” he said.
We’d done this before. I was bigger than Ernie, about three inches taller and easily twenty pounds heavier, so I pulled the hoisting duties. I crouched and cupped my hands in front of my crotch. Ernie stepped up with his right foot, and as he did so, I lifted in one sweeping motion as he reached for the top of the stone wall. Shards of glass were embedded in the mortar, a low-budget security system used all over Seoul. Ernie found a handhold between the razor-like protuberances and I pushed him up higher until his left foot was planted firmly atop the wall. He boosted himself up, rose to his full height and leapt gracefully over the fence. Inside, I heard feet slam on cement, a grunt and then a roll.
The gate creaked open. Slapping dirt off his jacket, Ernie waved me in.
I hesitated a moment, letting my eyes adjust. A flagstone walkway led into an open courtyard. In the center, a rusted iron pump dripped resolutely into a huge plastic pan. A soot-smeared floodlight weakly illumi
nated a row of earthen kimchi jars along one side of the courtyard. On the other side, an L-shaped wooden porch fronted a half-dozen oil-papered doors.
A couple of the doors rattled and slid open. Faces peered out, sitting or kneeling on vinyl-covered floors. None of them were Miss Jo’s. Ernie pointed. The only closed door was the one on the far right. The light was off.
Ernie cocked his head. “Coitus interruptus,” he said.
He found nothing more enjoyable than breaking and entering, especially if he might catch someone in a partial state of undress. We stepped up on the porch. Ernie grabbed a handhold and ripped the door open.
As Ernie peered in, the young GI Miss Jo called Johnny leapt out of the dark. He was wielding a short-bladed knife, and before Ernie could react, he’d grabbed Ernie by the back of the neck and shoved the blade point at his throat. Ernie held his hands out to his side and froze.
The GI was sweating, nostrils flared. “Why are you following me?” he shouted.
Ernie didn’t speak.
“Easy, Johnny,” I told him. “We’re not following you.” I suddenly wished I’d brought my .45. But I seldom checked out a weapon from the arms room, mainly because I didn’t want to be tempted to use it. Better to use my wits to solve problems than take the easy way out and settle every dispute with a spray of hot lead. Less paperwork, too.
I cleared my throat and continued. “This has nothing to do with you, Johnny. It’s all about the young lady.”
Johnny glared at Ernie, then turned and caught a glimpse of me. I stood with my hands out to my side, showing him, I hoped, that he was in no danger. He pressed the tip of the blade a little harder into Ernie’s skin. A red drop formed and a miniscule trickle of blood started to flow.
“Easy, pal,” I told him. “No need to do something you’ll regret.”
“This isn’t about the motor pool?” Johnny asked.
“No,” I replied. “Nothing about the motor pool. We just want to talk to the young lady. Ask her a few questions.”
A lot of pilfering went on at the 21st Transportation Company (Car) motor pool, also known as “Twenty-One T Car.” GIs sold gasoline to illegal Korean vendors, cases of motor oil disappeared, tires rolled their way into resale warehouses; occasionally, entire vehicles went missing. But we weren’t here to fix that.
An interior bulb switched on and Miss Jo Kyong-ja stepped out from her hooch. She was still fully clothed. Instead of berating Johnny for holding a knife to Ernie’s neck, she turned toward me.
“Whatsamatta you!” she shrieked. “No have education?”
I flashed my badge. “CID,” I said. “We have a few questions for you. And you, Johnny, will need to put that knife down.”
“Will I be able to leave?”
“Yes. We don’t have a beef with you, but put down the knife. Now.”
Johnny glanced back and forth between Ernie and me. I held the badge out toward him and took a step forward so he could see it more easily. As he studied it, Ernie made his move. With one deft motion, he twisted his entire body, pulling his neck away from the knife, and simultaneously snapped a vicious left hook into Johnny’s ribs. Hot breath and saliva exploded from Johnny’s mouth as Ernie grabbed the young soldier by his collar. Then he flung him around in a broad circle and slammed him up against the dirty stone wall.
The knife clattered on flagstone.
Ernie held him, pushing him hard up against the exterior wall, his breath coming fast.
“You said I could leave,” Johnny shrieked.
“Oh, yeah,” Ernie replied. “You can leave.” He slapped Johnny once, twice, hard across the back of his head and then he held out his open palm.
“The blade,” he said.
Ernie loosened his grip just enough to allow Johnny to bend down and pick it up, pausing just a second to give Johnny a chance to use it again, if he dared. He didn’t. Ernie snatched the knife out of his hand, then slapped Johnny a couple of more times. He stepped back and tilted the open blade on the ground against a brick. Then he stomped on it. The metal snapped. Leaving it there, Ernie returned to Johnny.
He snarled, “You run your sorry ass back to Twenty-One T Car, and don’t let me see you out here in the village again. Ever! You got that? Itaewon is off limits to you.”
“On whose authority?” Johnny asked.
“On my authority,” Ernie replied, jamming his thumb into his chest.
Johnny studied him for a minute, turned his head away and nodded. Then he stood up and straightened his jacket. As if he couldn’t resist the temptation, Ernie slapped him again. Johnny grabbed the side of his face and, with a resentful pout, walked toward the gate, keeping his eye on Ernie. Ernie hopped forward and planted a roundhouse kick on Johnny’s butt. Ernie shouted, “Move!”
Johnny did, hustling toward the gate and ducking quickly out the front door.
Miss Jo groaned.
Ernie dabbed at the blood on his neck, stared at his moist fingertips for a moment, and then wiped the gore on the side of his blue jeans. He repeated the process a couple of times until the tiny cut was pretty well stanched. Then he reached in his pocket and pulled out a fresh stick of ginseng gum. Looking completely relaxed, he took a seat on the porch.
I turned to Miss Jo. “Can we go in?” I asked, nodding toward her hooch.
“Hell no. You takey my money go, now you wanna come in my hooch? Never hachi.” Slang for never happen.
I stood in front of the three-foot-wide porch; she stood resolutely in her doorway, arms crossed.
“Last night,” I said, “you brought a GI here.”
She rolled her eyes. “Him.”
“Yes, him. He says you took his money. Fifty dollars.”
“Took his money? You dingy dingy?” She twirled her forefinger in a circle around her ear. “He pay me money, I do for him. Supposed to.”
“What’d you do for him?” Ernie asked.
She placed her right hand on her waist and canted her hip. “What you think I do, GI?”
“He says you took his money and ran away.”
“He tell you that? Never hachi. I do anything for him. But he got, how you say, gochangi nasso-yo.”
“Broken.”
“Yeah. Broken. His jaji no work. It broken.”
Jaji refers to an infant’s penis. She wasn’t being too generous to Major Schultz.
“So it wouldn’t work,” Ernie said, enjoying himself now. “What happened then?”
“He taaksan angry. Say I do something wrong.” She pointed at her nose. “But I no do nothing wrong. It don’t work, that his problem. Not mine. So he say he want his money back. I say ‘never hachi.’ He taaksan kullasso-yo.” Very angry.
“Did he hit you?” I asked.
“No. But he break this.”
She stepped back into the hooch, rummaged in a plastic wardrobe, and returned with a radio. It was smashed beyond repair.
“So you kept his money,” I said, “and he broke your radio.”
Miss Jo nodded grimly.
I asked her to write out a statement.
“In English?” she asked, surprised.
“No, in Korean.”
“You can read?”
I nodded. “I can read. Write carefully, though.”
She hesitated.
“If you don’t,” I told her, “we’ll take you to the Itaewon Police Station. You can write it there.”
Most Koreans steered resolutely away from any contact with the Korean National Police. They were an efficient organization, paramilitary, with the mission of not only stopping crime but also protecting the country from North Korean Communist infiltrators. Things were tough in Korea economically, so it wasn’t unusual for a KNP officer to take money on the side. But if you didn’t have money to give, heaven help you.
Miss Jo found a piece of paper
and a pen and sat down on the floor to write. When she was done, she handed it to me and I made sure it was signed and dated. I asked her a few more questions, challenging her story, but she stuck with the jaded, simple narrative she’d originally given. I wrote the follow-up questions down, and one by one she wrote her answers. When we were done, I had her sign and date the statement a final time.
As we were about to leave, she said, “What about Johnny?”
“What about him?” I asked.
“He gone. How I pay rent?”
Ernie and I glanced at one another and shrugged. As we walked across the courtyard, she called after us.
“You have money,” she said. “You have food. Some people no have. You take Johnny away, how I pay rent?”
I turned. Her face looked small, sad, almost regretful. I guess I could’ve walked back and handed her some money, but that isn’t what a cop is supposed to do. Besides, Ernie was watching, and in the Army, an act of kindness is seen as something to be mocked, not applauded. Instead of doing what I wanted to do, I turned and the two of us crouched through the small door in the gate.
On our way back to the jeep, we didn’t talk.
-4-
The next morning in the Office of the 8th United States Army Provost Marshal, Colonel Brace asked me, “Who translated this?”
“I did, sir.”
“Did Miss Kim check it?”
“Yes. She made a couple of changes.” She hadn’t, but I wanted to make sure she received credit.
Colonel Brace nodded and placed the statement on his desk. “That’ll be all.”
In the Admin Office, Ernie sat in front of Staff Sergeant Riley’s desk reading this morning’s Pacific Stars and Stripes.
“How’d it go?” he asked.
“He’s not happy.”
“How could he be? A field grade officer lying to him, sending his agents on a wild goose chase. You’d think he’d show the Provost Marshal of the Eighth United States Army a little more respect.”