G.I. Bones (11 page)

The bones had been sliced with what appeared to be a sharp-edged knife. Not everywhere. Only on the fingers and the toes, as if someone had purposely tormented Moretti while he was still alive. One of the fingers, the large middle finger, was not only sliced but it had been forced backward so far that it had finally snapped between the big middle knuckle and the joint where the finger joined the hand. Even now, gazing at the wound some twenty years after the fact, I winced.

And then I studied the tip of another finger. It appeared discolored. I lifted the bone into the beam of the flashlight. No doubt. The tip of the bone was darker than the rest of the skeleton, as if it had been singed by fire. The fingertips are the most sensitive parts of the human body. Moretti’s fingertip, at least one of them, had been burnt off.

When the Seven Dragons spirited him away from the scene of the original attack on the night of the Itaewon Massacre, they’d hidden him from the American MPs and later nursed him back to—if not health—consciousness. Then they’d begun questioning Moretti as to the whereabouts of the gold and silver and ancient family heirlooms that the residents of Itaewon had left in his safekeeping. Maybe Moretti thought the MPs would rescue him any minute. Maybe he thought that the Seven Dragons were a bunch of punks and he could bluff them. Whatever he thought, he resisted. And when the answers weren’t forthcoming, the Seven Dragons had tortured him. How long had it lasted? How long had it taken for Mori Di to break? I would estimate quite a while. Maybe even a few days. But as bad as the torture was, there was something else that bothered me even more.

Handcuffs, laying in the dirt near Moretti’s hands. G.I. issue. I recognized them because exactly the same type of metal cuffs were still in use today. And near his neck, dried wads of cotton and a narrow cloth sash. A gag.

Why would anyone gag a dead man?

The answer: they wouldn’t.

My conclusion seemed inescapable. So far, I hadn’t discussed it, even with Ernie, but all the evidence pointed toward one thing. Once the Seven Dragons tortured Moretti and he’d either told him where he’d hidden the valuables—or the Seven Dragons had discovered the hiding place on their own—they had no further use for Technical Sergeant Flo Moretti. He was a liability. They couldn’t let him go free. And it wouldn’t have been easy to transport him anywhere, not in a city swarming with military patrols. So they decided to hide him in the basement of the Grand Ole Opry Club. In this narrow opening not much larger than a coffin. And once they had him inside, handcuffed and gagged, they bricked the opening closed.

Technical Sergeant Flo Moretti, a man who’d tried to help the impoverished people of Itaewon, had watched the Seven Dragons do their work. He’d watched a gang of punk gangsters wall him up, brick by brick, until the final glimmer of light was covered by mortar.

He could scream inside his little brick tomb but no one could’ve heard those screams, except himself.

When I marched alone into the main ballroom of the Grand Ole Opry Club, I still wore my winter jacket with the tools stuck into the inner pockets, making me feel twenty pounds heavier than I actually was. I received some funny looks from the old retirees. It was the Korean employees I was most worried about. But none of them, neither bartenders nor waitresses, stopped their work to pay any attention to me.

I headed straight for the door and pushed through out into the fresh air of the cold Korean night.

A few minutes later, Ernie popped out after me. We hurried down the street.

We’d replaced all the bricks and repositioned the stacked cases of beer in the basement as best we could, to camouflage our activities. I hoped this would give us a couple of days before someone discovered what we’d done. Once someone took the time to look, it would be obvious as to what had happened. Would one of the Korean employees investigate? I was hoping that, what with the place being frantically busy, they wouldn’t notice the two guys who’d walked in, disappeared for an hour and a half or so, and then walked back out. That they’d just write off our behavior as the weirdness that they were used to in American G.I.s.

Still, we didn’t have much time until someone discovered that we’d broken through the brick wall in the storeroom. Before then, somehow, I had to convince 8th Army to wrangle us a search warrant so we could take full advantage of the evidence we’d discovered. We needed it to make our activities retrospectively legal.

I was filthy. So was Ernie. Brick dust salted my hair. It was still early, only half past eight, so we headed toward the far side of the nightclub district and entered an alley near the open-air Itaewon Market. The stalls were dark and shuttered at this hour, canvas flapping in the cold evening breeze. Hidden in a dark alley, lit only by a half-dozen green bulbs, lurked the last Korean bathhouse still open. At the entranceway, I plopped down a five thousand
won
note—about ten bucks—and the proprietress smiled a toothy grin, happy for the unexpected business.

The middle-aged woman assigned to scrub my hair clawed with the ferociousness of a lioness. Then she slipped her hand into a coarse red mitten and started in on my back. It felt as if she were systematically peeling my flesh. Oily pellets of black dirt emerged from every pore of my skin, like tiny insects searching for light. By the time she was done, I felt completely clean but my skin flamed red. She rinsed me off, dried me, and then oiled me with some sort of lotion. After slipping my clothes back on, I sat in the waiting room chatting with the bathhouse women, sipping on a can of cold guava juice. Ernie took a lot longer than I did. More than an hour longer. When he finally emerged he looked, for once in his life, subdued. And as limp as a freshly washed rag.

There was less than an hour left until the midnight curfew. We made our way back to the Grand Ole Opry Club and waited out front, watching as the band loaded their equipment onto a flatbed truck.

Kimchee Kitty, the lead singer for the Kimchee Kowboys emerged. Her lush hair was piled high atop her head and she was wrapped in a long cloth coat with a fur collar that she held tightly beneath the soft flesh of her face. Our eyes met and she smiled at me. I almost asked for her autograph but decided at the last minute not to. Too shy.

Ernie mingled with the half-looped retirees in the street who’d stayed until the end of the show. I sauntered around inside and casually listened to the conversations of the bartender and the waitresses. There was no indication that anyone had noticed the hole Ernie and I had knocked in the brick wall of the basement. This was good. It meant we’d have time to obtain our search warrant and retrieve the bones of Mori Di and any still existing evidence of who had murdered him.

The truck carrying the Kimchee Kowboys had departed and most of the customers had left when I emerged from the club. A couple of business girls were tugging on Ernie’s sleeve. They weren’t propositioning him, not this time. Instead there was terror in their eyes.

One of them said, “You CID, right?”

“Right,” he answered. No sense trying to keep it a secret. Everyone in the ville knew anyway.

“You go King Club,” she said.
“Bali bali.”
Quickly.

“Why?” Ernie asked.

“You look at roof. Some
yoboseiyo
up there.”

In Korean,
yoboseiyo
means “hello.” In G.I. slang, it means a person, usually a Korean person.

Ernie didn’t bother to question them further. He started to run, swerving left on Hooker Hill, heading for the King Club. I followed him.

A crowd had gathered in front of the King Club.

People were looking up, pointing, and that’s when I saw her. She wore a short skirt, its hemline above her knees and I noticed that her calves were round and sturdy. Her hair was cropped short, like a middle-school girl’s but shaggier. This was a common cut amongst the business girls of Itaewon since many of them had left school only weeks—or days—before starting work here.

Her blouse, long-sleeved and white, was made of a flimsy material that billowed in the cold wind blowing across the roof of the King Club. She had already climbed over the parapet and stood with the heels of her flat shoes dug into a ledge that was only three or four inches wide. Her arms were spread-eagled, holding onto drainpipes on either side of her.

“It’s Miss Kwon,” I said to Ernie.

“Who?” Ernie had never met her.

“The one Hilliard complained about.”

Ernie’s head swiveled. “I thought she went home.”

“Apparently,” I said, “she’s back.”

I ran through the entryway of the King Club, still clutching my winter jacket tightly around my waist, wishing like hell I didn’t have a mallet and chisel stuck inside my belt. The main ballroom was empty, no band, no G.I.s, no business girls. They were all out on the street gawking up at the suicidal Miss Kwon. Some of the G.I.s were already chanting, “Jump!” in mocking voices as if they were kidding. But I knew they weren’t kidding. That’s what they wanted her to do.

I shoved through the back door, found the steps, and climbed. Ernie was right behind me. We reached the top floor and spotted a wooden ladder at the end of the hall that had been pulled down from the roof. We climbed as fast as we could. On the roof I found Mrs. Bei, the manager of the King Club. Standing near her was a young man in black slacks, white shirt and bow tie—her bartender—and three or four waitresses. They all clutched the edge of the parapet, looking down, shouting at the person who clung to the outside of the wall. One elderly man, the janitor, stood farther away, leaning over the edge of the roof, staring at Miss Kwon with an embarrassed smile on his face.

I took off my jacket, dropped the chisel and mallet atop it, and peered over the edge of the roof.

I was only ten feet from Miss Kwon but she wasn’t looking my way. She was staring down at the street below, perspiration pouring off the soft cheeks of her sweet face. I turned and grabbed Mrs. Bei.

“She come back,” Mrs Bei said in English. “Family no want. They need money. Snake say she gotta sleep with any G.I. She no want.”

Ordering Miss Kwon to spend the night with Hilliard was the only way for Snake, the owner of the King Club, to avoid having Hilliard press his complaint. Since the race riot out here less than two years ago—white American G.I.s fighting black American G.I.s—8th Army was phobic about even the slightest appearance of racial conflict. That riot had hit the Stateside newspapers and caused the 8th Army commander to be relieved. The current commander wanted no repeat. To keep Hilliard from raising a stink there was an even chance that the 8th Army honchos would put Snake’s nightclub off-limits. Fifty-fifty wasn’t good enough odds for Miss Kwon to maintain her personal moral standards. She had to give it up.

Ernie was ready to climb over the parapet.

“Hold it,” I told him. “Even if you grab her, she could fall and pull you over with her.”

“We gotta do something.”

That was Ernie. Without thinking, he’d already decided that somebody he didn’t know had to be saved, even at the risk of his own life. But Agent Ernie Bascom never calculated risk. He just did what seemed right at the time.

I thought of speaking to Miss Kwon in Korean, but I was worried that just the voice of an American G.I. might cause her to jump. Mrs. Bei kept up a steady, soothing, harangue and it must’ve been doing some good because Miss Kwon hadn’t jumped yet.

Finally, four stories below us, two uniformed Korean cops made their way through the crowd. They looked up, saw Miss Kwon on the edge of the roof of the King Club and spoke together rapidly. One of them took off in the direction of the KNP station. The other moved the crowd back, away from Miss Kwon’s probable point of impact.

Mrs. Bei said something about respecting one’s parents.

This made Miss Kwon look away from the street below. She stared directly at us. “My parents want me to make money,” she said in Korean. “That’s all I’m good for. No better than a cow. They hate me.”

“They don’t hate you,” Mrs. Bei replied. “They are poor. They have no choice.”

“Narul miyo!”
Miss Kwon shouted. They hate me!

Instinctively, Mrs. Bei reached out to the girl and Miss Kwon flinched. One of her heels slipped off the ledge. She started to fall forward but her grip on the drainpipes held her back. Still, within seconds, the added weight made one of the pipes groan and then bend. Miss Kwon’s right hand lost its grip.

With one heel still on the ledge and her left hand still gripping one of the drainpipes, Miss Kwon’s right foot swung out into the open air in a wide arc. The movement was slow and graceful and as she rotated, the crowd below, involuntarily, let out a loud gasp. The gasp coincided with Miss Kwon’s pirouette and then stopped abruptly when Miss Kwon slammed face first into the wall to her left. Scrabbling with her right foot, she managed to gain another toehold and with her right hand she clutched an outcropping of brick. Now she clung to the wall, facing dirty mortar, looking as if she were hugging the indifferent brick edifice.

I moved to my left and stared down at her.

Her soft check was pressed up against the wall. The cheek was wet with moisture. I could see her features clearly because directly below red and blue neon flickered: the King Club sign. Beyond the glow, I spotted a familiar figure shoving her way through the gawking crowd.

“Jom kanman,”
I told Miss Kwon in Korean. Wait a moment. “A friend of yours is on the way.” She seemed to be listening, so I continued. “Doctor Yong In-ja. She’ll be here any second.”

Miss Kwon hugged the building tighter.

Doc Yong reached the roof and approached me as if swimming through moonlight. Her face was contorted in rage, her white coat flailing at her side.

“Her parents sent her back,” she said in English.

I nodded.

“And now the owners here want her to sleep with that old G.I.”

I nodded again.

Doc Yong stepped up to the roof, placed her hands flat on the parapet, and looked down. She gasped, held the sudden intake of breath, and managed to calm herself.

“Kwon,” she said, leaning forward. “I am here.”