by Martin Limon
The tentacles of the Korean National Police spread down every back alley of Seoul and into every village and hamlet in the still-pristine countryside of South Korea. If she was out there, they’d find her eventually. But sometimes, when people are well hidden, that can take years. It was agreed that for the first foray into Itaewon, Ernie and I would take the lead.
“She’s a GI business girl,” Mr. Kill told us. “You’re GIs. You go.”
When the KNPs are on a search mission in Itaewon, word spreads fast and people hide like scattering rats. Ernie and I could, if we played it right, draw less attention.
■ ■ ■
We returned to Yongsan Compound. At the barracks, we changed into our running-the-ville outfits: sneakers, blue jeans, button-down collared sports shirts, and nylon jackets with fire-breathing dragons hand-embroidered on the back; sinuous creatures, with gaping mouths and wicked claws. The caption beneath mine said: Republic of Korea, 1972 through 1975. Ernie’s not only had a dragon on the back, but a voluptuous lady locked in a less-than-subtle embrace. He’d added an additional epitaph, I’ve served my time in hell. Overstated, but most GIs not only weren’t into subtlety, but didn’t know what the word meant. An assignment in Korea was officially termed a “hardship tour,” but it was hardly a sojourn in hell. Still, I didn’t quibble. Our object, after all, was to fit in.
I used the military phone in the barracks lobby to dial the CID office. Staff Sergeant Riley answered on the first ring.
“You’re gonna do what?” he said.
“We’re gonna run the ville.”
“You’ve got a damn murder to solve.”
“And this is how we’re going to do it.”
“The Provost Marshal wants you back here, in uniform, giving him a full report.”
“No time now.” I explained the urgency to find Miss Jo before she decided to run.
Riley still didn’t like it. “Do you have any idea about what kind of pressure the Chief of Staff is putting on Colonel Brace? They’re livid up at the head shed. A field grade officer hasn’t been murdered in this country since the Korean freaking War.”
“Been that long, huh?”
To me, the premature taking of life was a sin against humanity no matter the rank of the victim.
“Colonel Brace is the Provost Marshal,” Riley continued. “It’s his job to protect people.”
“It’s our job too.”
When he continued to cuss, I hung up on him. Ernie and I trotted out to the jeep.
“They took it well?” he asked.
“They’re delighted with our plan,” I told him.
He hopped behind the wheel of the jeep and started the engine. “I knew they would be.”
-7-
Delicate flakes of snow drifted in the gentle breeze until they slapped haphazardly onto the grease-stained pavement of the main drag of the Itaewon nightclub district. The afternoon was so dark and overcast that most of the joints had already switched on their neon. Beneath a red glow, we entered the King Club.
The first thing we did was sit at the bar. We ordered two beers; the young bartender wearing a white shirt and black bowtie popped the bottle caps off for us as the middle-aged female cashier took our money.
“You early.”
It was Miss Peik, the senior waitress at the King Club. Koreans often form a family structure in business, even if everyone involved is not related. The King Club’s “parents” were the owners, the aunt was the cashier, the grandson was the young bartender, and the sisters were the cocktail waitresses. Miss Peik, as the oldest cocktail waitress, was uniformly called onni, older sister, by the other girls.
She had “CQ” today, the daytime shift. They’d stolen the term from the US Army. The CQ, or Charge of Quarters, was the GI who was hit with the unfortunate duty of staying up all night in the barracks, forced to be alert and answer the phone in case there were any fires or other emergencies. During the work week, daytime business at the King Club was so slow that they only needed one “CQ” waitress. On weekends, two or three. At night, of course, all the waitresses were on duty, about a dozen of them in a busy joint like the King Club. Holidays were not observed, and each girl was granted only one day off a month.
Miss Peik wrapped her arms around Ernie’s neck. She was a tall, thin woman wearing the bright red smock that was the uniform for the King Club. I pegged her at pushing forty.
“You rabu me?” Ernie asked.
“I rabu you too muchey. You buy me drink?”
“Ijo jo!” Ernie said. Forget it!
Another phrase I’d taught him. He’d worked hard at memorizing it because it came in so handy.
Miss Peik backed away. “You no rabu me?”
“I rabu you too muchey.” Ernie pulled her back toward him.
While Miss Peik and Ernie horsed around, I asked the bartender where the other waitresses were. The club was empty. None of the two or three dozen cocktail tables held any customers, and the stage where the rock band usually performed was dark. Not unusual for a mid-afternoon on a work day, but I had paid for the beer with a 10,000 won note—about twenty bucks—so they’d know I wasn’t short on cash. By my impatience, I made it clear that if there were no girl for me, I’d pick up my change and suggest to my friend that we try another bar.
The bartender whispered to the cashier. She nodded her approval and he trotted out back. Ten minutes later two more cocktail waitresses joined us. It cost management nothing to bring them on duty. The girls were paid by the month, the equivalent of about forty dollars. Any other money they made was from tips, which were few and far between from their frugal clientele, and from direct payments from any boyfriends they were able to land. Many of them had steady yobos, GIs who lived in their hooch and paid their rent and, more often than not, bought black market items out of the PX or commissary that the girls then resold for a tidy profit. It was a way of life in Itaewon that had lasted, as far as I could tell, since the end of the Korean War. It had been over twenty years now, and I saw no indication that this method of employing the excess Korean female labor force was about to change.
The two waitresses glommed onto me. I did my best to act interested, but these girls were experts at reading men—that’s how they made their living—and they soon realized I was faking it. One of them stood back and placed her manicured fingernails on her hip. “You have steady yobo?”
“Not steady,” I said, “not yet.”
“Why not?”
I sipped on my beer. “I met her at the UN Club, about a month ago,” I told them. I described her and then told them her name. “Miss Jo,” I said. “I went to her hooch but the mama-san said she doesn’t live there anymore.”
They pulled Miss Peik away from Ernie. As I suspected, they loved nothing better than a soap opera situation to add spice to their boring days. They conferred amongst themselves, speaking rapid Korean. I pretended not to understand. In fact, much of it I couldn’t understand because they were speaking so quickly and in shorthand bursts. But I did get the gist of it. They had decided that she was the Miss Jo who’d been beaten up by GIs and had to go to the hospital, and they were wondering how much they should tell me.
Finally, Miss Peik stepped toward me. “You likey Miss Jo?”
I sipped on my beer and set it on the bar. “She’s okay.”
“You wanna talk to her?”
“You know where she is?”
“You wait,” Miss Peik told me.
The three women conferred again and one of them left through the back door.
Ernie pulled Miss Peik back toward him and reached out for the other remaining waitress. Both women laughed and pretended to resist, but finally gave in as Ernie Bascom, agent for the 8th United States Army CID, nuzzled their necks and tried to paw at their bodies, especially the round parts.
The building had long been notorious
as a brothel in the heart of the Itaewon catacombs. The waitress who led us there had us follow her through twisting pedestrian lanes until finally we reached a crossroads and she pointed and said, “That gate.”
Then she ran back to the King Club.
“Aren’t you going to tip her?” Ernie asked.
“She didn’t give me the chance.”
He nodded, agreeing with me. “They don’t think like Americans.”
The small door in the large wooden gate was open. We pushed through into a narrow courtyard. To the right stood a low wooden porch that ran the length of the building, lined with sliding oil-papered doors that led into one-room hooches. The byonso, with the letters w.c. etched into the wooden door, stood alone along the back wall. Ernie and I strode down the row. Many of the doors were padlocked shut.
“Probably at the bathhouse,” Ernie said.
“Or the temple,” I replied. Many of the girls who worked as prostitutes in Itaewon were surprisingly religious. Mostly Buddhist. They routinely made pilgrimages to temples here in the city or monasteries in the surrounding countryside.
A few of the rooms were occupied and unfamiliar faces stared out at us.
A wooden flight of stairs led upstairs to another long row of hooches. We walked along it, planks creaking beneath our shod feet, until finally we found her at the end. Miss Jo Kyong-ja. She stood and approached the door and peered at us as if she’d expected us.
“You,” she said.
“Yes, us.”
With her right hand, she brushed back her hair. “Okay,” she said, as if resigned to some tedious task. “Come in.”
She switched on the overhead bulb and tossed two flat cushions on the floor. Ernie and I slipped off our shoes and entered.
“Sit,” she said.
We did. She squatted in front of us, shoving a glass ashtray in the center of our cozy circle. She pulled out a pack of Turtle Boat cigarettes and offered one to each of us. We both declined. She slid a box of wooden matches out from beneath the Western-style bed, pulled one out, struck it, and lit up. After a couple of puffs, she lowered the cigarette and said, “You find me.”
“Yes,” I said. “We found you.”
“Why you come here? You wanna catchey girl?”
“No,” I said. “No girl.”
I noticed a flimsy plastic armoire, unzipped and bereft of clothes. The same spangled handbag I’d seen in the UN Club lay at the far end of the bed.
“Why’d you move here?” I asked.
“You know,” she said, suddenly angry. “Mama-san keep all my clothes. She say, pay rent first, then get back. I come here to make money.” She puffed on her cigarette, blew the smoke out long and slow. “But no can make money. Too many GI kokcheingi. How you say? Stingy.”
“So what are you going to do?” Ernie asked.
“I don’t know,” she said, stubbing out the half-smoked cigarette.
“Where were you last night?”
She frowned. “Where you think? Where can I go? No money. I stay here. Work.”
“There’s a place called the Dragon King Nightclub,” I said, “on the MSR, across from the Crown Hotel. Have you ever been there?”
She stared at me blankly.
“Your friend,” Ernie said, “Major Schultz, he went there last night.”
“I know,” she said softly. “I hear.”
“He’s dead,” Ernie continued. “Stabbed to death in the alley behind the Dragon King. Maybe ten knife wounds. Some people think you did it.”
She looked at us calmly, first at Ernie then at me.
“He big man,” she said. “How I do?”
Ernie continued. “Maybe you had some help from your friends.”
“My friends,” she said, laughing, her gaze fixed on the ground. “My friends.”
“Tell us what happened,” I said. “Otherwise, we have to turn you over to the KNPs.”
She laughed again. “Anyway, you turn me over to KNPs. They ask me anything. I have to answer what they want. If I answer they no like, they knuckle sandwich me.”
She clenched her small fist and held it out to us.
Based on her reaction, I immediately felt that she was innocent. I knew it was unprofessional of me, but none of it made sense. Of course she’d held a grudge against Major Schultz, and with good reason. He and his pal, whoever he was, had beaten the hell out of her. But this was a woman with no power, with no money and, as far as I could see, no friends. Who would agree to attack a burly American officer for her? Who would agree to commit murder for her? It made no sense. But what she said about the KNPs did make sense. They would be under tremendous pressure to solve this murder quickly. Miss Jo Kyong-ja had a motive for that murder, and even if the facts didn’t fit the crime, the KNPs would make them fit. She had no leverage. She was a convenient—and obvious—scapegoat.
“Do you have witnesses who saw you here last night?”
She waved her left arm. “Many business girls.”
“Any GIs?”
Briefly, she looked ashamed, then she tilted her face up, defiant. “Three.”
“Do you know their names?” Ernie asked.
“Timmy, one is called. I think.”
This wasn’t good. The 8th Army Judge Advocate General didn’t give much credence to the testimony of Korean business girls. The Korean judicial system, even less. And whether or not we’d be able to find the three GIs was problematic to say the least. Miss Jo’s three customers had no reason to admit they’d been out here. Paying for sex is embarrassing to most men, both professionally and personally. This despite the fact, that from my experience, when given the opportunity, most are more than willing to cough up the cash, as long as they believe the transaction can be kept secret.
“Okay,” Ernie said, standing up. “You’re going to have to come with us.”
Miss Jo stared at the floor for a moment, but after the pause she rose to her feet. She was already prepared, wearing the one black dress she still owned. She reached for her jacket on the bed as I grabbed her handbag and lifted it up for her. Unexpectedly, the contents shifted in the flimsy material and tumbled to the floor: makeup, a mirror, brass coins, a small brush, her national ID card, and a thin fold of Korean and US bills. What caught my eye, though, was a card with a young girl kneeling in prayer, staring up at a golden light.
Many Korean Christians carry these cards, with pictures of an angel or a saint or, more often, a sweet-faced young girl praying to the sky. On them was usually imprinted the name and address of their church, and sometimes the name of their pastor. I was surprised that Miss Jo was a Christian. Statistically, Christianity was the second most prominent religion in Korea, but ever since the days of Western missionaries, it had been associated with the upper-class educated elites. Not with business girls.
Without a word, Miss Jo knelt and shoved everything back into her purse. Straightening her dress, she walked serenely out onto the porch and slipped on a pair of low-heeled shoes. I led the way. Ernie took the rear. Some of the other business girls stood at their doorways, watching us as we escorted her out.
When we reached the mama-san’s hooch, Miss Jo stopped to talk to her. In Korean, she told her she’d be back when she could to collect the money she’d earned last night. Apparently, she thought it would be safer here than it would be at the KNP headquarters. The old woman nodded, face impassive, but with a slight hint of amusement in her eyes. She probably thought Miss Jo would never return.
They talked through what the total would be, mentioning how long she’d spent with each GI and how much she’d made from each one, then deducting the old woman’s percentage. After listing off the men and the times, it seemed as if Miss Jo was a little confused and then she paused and said “Koshigi . . .” I’d never heard the word before and wanted to ask what it meant, but figured this was neither the time n
or the place.
As we left, the business girls continued to stand and stare. None of them said goodbye.
We pushed through the small door in the gate and marched our little parade, single file, through the dark passageways of the back alleys of Itaewon. Occasionally, we could see the flickering neon of the nightclub district above the high brick and cement block walls. As we rounded a bend and dodged a trash cart, I thought of how the interrogation should go. Mr. Kill would want first crack at her, and we’d probably defer to that wish since Miss Jo Kyong-ja was a Korean National. I’d insist on observing through one of the two-way mirrors at KNP headquarters to be sure they didn’t abuse her, but I couldn’t guarantee her safety twenty-four hours a day.
I should’ve been more alert. Instead, those were the thoughts I was mulling through when something that seemed like a giant bat zoomed toward us. I ducked, and heard a grunt and a thud behind me. Miss Jo started running. Before I could turn to stop her, a dark figure enveloped Ernie. He was down. I ran toward him and momentarily sensed something behind me, whistling through the night. The air around its path seemed to vibrate, and then like a resonant wave it touched me, ever so gently. I lost my balance, my head exploded in pain, and light wavered in front of me. I struggled to maintain consciousness.
Ernie shouted.
Someone cursed. My eyes popped open to feet shuffling around me. Apparently, I’d fallen down. Without thinking, I reached out and grabbed one of the feet and then I was on my knees and somebody was pounding on my back. I grabbed someone else’s arms and pulled myself upright. Two Korean men. Ernie tried to wrestle himself away from the one who was hitting him and the one in back of me turned to grab Miss Jo. He dragged her into a run through the dark alley. I tried to follow them but was still so groggy from what seemed like the ton of cement that had fallen on me that I reached instead for the guy who was punching Ernie.