G.I. Bones (19 page)

I applied first aid as best I could and soon a neighbor who owned a cab was helping us bundle the young bartender into the back seat and telling me in Korean that he was taking him to the big hospital downtown. Ernie and I ran back to the jeep parked in front of the Gold Mountain Temple and managed to follow the cab across slippery, snow-covered roads to the hospital.

By the time the bartender had been checked in and attended to by a physician, Ernie and I were surrounded by angry relatives. Apparently, he was part of a large clan here in Mapo. The snow outside was falling faster and we weren’t about to obtain any useful information from him now.

I knew the wound was superficial, inflicted to avoid being taken to the KNP station. Noh Bang-ok would live. But Ernie and I didn’t contact the local Korean cops and have him arrested because they would contact the Itaewon cops and something told me that the Itaewon cops weren’t too interested in investigating the murder of Two Bellies. KNPs have a habit of sticking together. If we talked to the local cops, they might end up arresting us instead of the Grand Ole Opry bartender, on trumped-up charges like hounding him and forcing him to become distressed and attempting to commit suicide. Best for us to say goodbye to Mapo.

Ernie and I fought our way outside. Ernie fired up the jeep and we wound through the narrow streets of the city of Mapo until we reached the main highway. A wooden sign pointed toward Seoul.

Ernie bulled his way into the flow of traffic and stepped on the gas.

The lobby of the White Crane Hotel was almost as big as an airplane hangar. The floor was carpeted in a red design that spread from the long sleek front desk toward a mock waterfall and a circular stairway leading up to chic restaurants and boutiques with French names. A European pianist wearing a tuxedo with tails tinkled out soft tunes on an enormous grand piano.

“This joint stinks,” Ernie said.

He was referring to the scent of roses permeating the air.

G.I.s weren’t welcome. I felt as out of place as a gorilla shuffling through a fashion show.

All the customers were Asian: a few Chinese from Hong Kong but mostly whole regiments of Japanese tourists. The not-so-rich Japanese tended to migrate in herds, arriving in heated buses. The rich ones traveled in sleek black sedans with white upholstery driven by white-gloved chauffeurs.

“I thought America ruled the world,” Ernie said.

“Americans only
think
they rule the world,” I answered.

We sat on frail metal chairs in a tea shop with a clear view of the entrance to the hotel. Flurries of snow drifted by sporadically—not enough to clog traffic. Not yet. When we first arrived from Mapo, we cased the joint, tipping a bellhop to find out if Mr. Ondo Fukushima had checked in. The bellhop said his suite was ready but he had not yet arrived. Then we ate chow in a workingman’s chophouse across the street and returned to wait.

“Where do you think she met him?” Ernie asked. He was referring to Jessica Tidwell.

“Probably somewhere south of Seoul,” I answered, “in Suwon or Taejon. The driver takes her down there, hooks her up with Fukushima and together they attend a few afternoon meetings, maybe a formal dinner, and then they drive up to Seoul.”

“Or check into a hotel down there and don’t bother to come out for a couple of days.”

I shrugged. “Anyway, this is the only lead we have. We wait here until they arrive.”

“Terrific,” Ernie said. He shifted his butt on the tiny chair and sipped unhappily on scented oolong tea.

It was almost midnight now. If Ondo Fukushima and Jessica Tidwell didn’t show up soon, they wouldn’t at all.

Ernie elbowed me. “Check out the armored battalion.”

A line of five black sedans pulled up outside the plate glass entranceway of the hotel. The liveried doormen scurried up and down the row, swinging doors open. Burly Japanese men in expensive suits and highly polished shoes emerged first. Their hair was slicked back, and if communication devices had been plugged into their ears, I would’ve thought they were Secret Service. One of them barked an all clear, and from the central sedan a diminutive Japanese man emerged wearing a pin-striped suit in a shade of green so dark that it glowed.

“The head honcho,” Ernie said.

As he strode through the door, his immaculately coiffed bodyguards arrayed themselves around him like a phalanx of ancient Greek warriors protecting their king.

Behind them, high heels clicked on marble.

Jessica Tidwell wore the same skimpy blue dress that had been crumpled on the floor of Paco Bernal’s room, but it was cleaned and pressed now. The freckled flesh of her décolletage peeked over the silk material like the prow of a sailing ship. Jessica scurried behind the formation of men, keeping her head down, ignored but nevertheless making it clear that she was a woman following her master.

Ernie snorted in derision.

“Come on,” he said. “Enough of this freaking tea. It’s showtime.”

Ernie and I had discussed how we’d approach Jessica. Our fondest hope was that the yakuza chief would treat her like a worthless woman and make her follow far behind. He hadn’t let us down. If we could, we’d move her away quietly, out the door, and into the army-issue jeep waiting around the corner.

At least that’s how I hoped things would turn out.

Instead, as soon as I moved forward and put my hand on Jessica’s elbow, two of Ondo Fukushima’s thugs stopped in their tracks and turned on us. Ernie slipped his hand beneath his coat, not pulling his .45 but making it clear to the men he was armed. I tugged on Jessica’s elbow.

“Let me go,” she said.

“Don’t make trouble,” I told her. “We’re taking you home.”

“Like hell.” With her free hand she reached inside the purse strapped to her shoulder. She pulled out a wad of blue bills, ten-thousand yen notes.
“This
is what he paid me,” she said. “More than a thousand bucks.” In a falsetto voice, she said,
“You change money,
G.I.?”
Then she reverted to her regular voice. “But I have to stay with him for the whole weekend.”

“Is it worth it?”

“If it saves Paco, yes.”

“Why don’t you just ask your father to drop the charges?”

The smooth flesh of her face crinkled. “I wouldn’t ask him for anything! Especially something that would embarrass the great J-2. When he gets his money back, he’ll
have
to drop the charges.”

That wasn’t strictly true, but this was no time to argue the intricacies of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. I tugged on her arm again. The two thugs closed in. Ernie stepped closer and pulled the .45 from his holster.

The Japanese gangsters froze.

The yakuza have influence in Korea but gun control is absolute here, only military and law-enforcement personnel are allowed to carry weapons. The yakuza can’t bring weapons into the country. Still, the well-muscled men spaced themselves around the lobby, ready to pounce. I had no doubt that each one of them was an expert in one of the martial arts.

Ondo Fukushima turned. He approached slowly, surveying the situation. Gradually, his face achieved an expression as fierce as a carved mask. I worked at not letting it effect me, but it did. My gut froze into a fist-sized chunk of dry ice.

Jessica took advantage of my hesitation. She twisted quickly and kicked my knee, at the same time ripping her elbow out of my grasp. But instead of running toward her Japanese benefactor, she staggered backward toward the waterfall.

By now the tuxedoed pianist had stopped playing and around the lounge everyone had stopped moving. Behind the front desk, fingers tapped out a phone number.

If Ernie and I were ever going to be able to keep Jessica’s indiscretion quiet, we had to drag her out of here before the Korean cops arrived.

Two more of the Japanese thugs glided toward me. I pulled out my .45. They stopped. But a half dozen of them had surrounded us now, waiting for a single mistake.

“Steady, Ernie,” I said. “Don’t fire unless you have to.”

“What are you
doing?”

The voice roared out from the center of the Japanese thugs. And then I realized that the enormous sound had erupted from the small man in the glowing green suit: Ondo Fukushima.

I kept my voice steady. “She’s coming with us,” I said.

“She’s
mine,”
he bellowed. “I paid for her.” He jammed his thumb into his puffed-out chest. “Me. Ondo Fukushima. A boy who used to steal from your American compounds. I bought and paid for the daughter of one of your 8th Army generals. You’re not going to take her away from me now.”

His English was almost perfect; he had only a slight accent. Jessica Tidwell’s father was a colonel, not a general, but I didn’t bother to correct him. Ondo Fukushima was the right age to have picked up the language—and his familiarity with military ranks—as a hustler outside the American bases during the occupation at the end of World War II.

“We’re taking her,” Ernie shot back.

“You have no right,” Fukushima said.

Ernie waved the barrel of his .45. “This says we have the right.”

The Japanese thugs inched closer. Ernie and I couldn’t possibly take all of them on hand-to-hand. Our only chance was to fire. But killing men here in the middle of Seoul?

Ondo Fukushima could smell our indecision. Before he could make his move, flesh slapped on flesh, ringing through the silent lobby like the sharp peeling of a bell.

“Cabrona!”
I understood the Spanish curse word.

I turned to look, still keeping my pistol pointed at the Japanese mobsters.

Corporal Paco Bernal, wearing an ill-fitting black suit, had pulled Jessica away from us, right up to the edge of the waterfall. He slapped her again.

“You would go with
him?”

Jessica pawed at his chest. “It was for you, Paco.” She pointed at the bills sticking out of her purse. “See? I have enough yen here to cover the thousand dollars we stole. My dad will drop the charges. He’ll have to. We’ll be OK.”

Paco Bernal looked like one of those heartthrobs I used to see in the corny old Mexican movies we used to watch in East L.A. when I was a kid. In the suit, with his hair slicked back, all he needed was a pencil-thin mustache to complete the picture. At the moment, he didn’t care about us. He didn’t care about the Japanese gangsters. All he cared about is what he perceived as Jessica Tidwell’s betrayal.

Ondo Fukushima turned his scowling face toward Paco. His lips were pursed so tight that I thought his face would burst.

Behind the counter, hotel employees whispered the word
kyongchal.
Police.

Now it was Fukushima’s turn to wrestle with indecision. Time was running out. If he were to pull Jessica away from her lover just as the police arrived on the scene, he’d be arrested, and the whole world would know what happened here tonight. Not that he’d do any prison time. His money and his attorneys would see to that. But more important, much more important, he’d lose face. He’d be seen as the old man in a love triangle with two good-looking young foreigners.

The thugs were no longer planning to pounce. They seemed to sense their boss’s thoughts.

In the distance, a siren wailed.

Fukushima made his decision. He barked something in guttural Japanese.

As if their batteries had been turned off, the Japanese thugs relaxed. Moving like one organism, they backed away from us, surrounded their boss, and headed at a brisk pace toward the executive elevator.

Ernie turned his .45 toward Paco.

“Move away from the girl, Paco. Assume the position against the wall. You must be familiar with it.”

As if waking from a nightmare, Paco seemed to see us clearly for the first time. Instead of pushing Jessica away, he hugged her closer and then, moving so quickly that she couldn’t react, he twirled her around, forcing his forearm up under her neck. From his pocket a gleaming blade of steel appeared.

The bayonet that had been missing from his field gear.

He pressed the tip of it lightly into Jessica’s neck.

“Paco?” she asked.

“Shut up!” He turned his attention to me and Ernie. “If you come any closer, I’ll slice her. I swear I will.”

Instead, Ernie moved to his side. Paco jabbed the bayonet a little farther into Jessica’s throat, warning me off. I lowered my .45.

“You’re a smart man, Paco,” I said. “Up to now you’re only facing a theft charge. It’s only money. Nobody’s going to come down too hard on you. But if you hurt Jessica . . .” I let the thought hang.

While Paco stared at me, Ernie inched a little closer. I knew he’d take a shot at Paco’s head if he got a clear one. He had to. An innocent person’s life was in danger. And there was no way I could stop him.

Paco kept his eyes on me, pondering my words. A moment of clarity washed over his face. His anger at Jessica faded. He was starting to see the enormity of the mistake he’d made.

“Put down the bayonet, Paco,” I said.

At the same time, Jessica seemed to realize that she’d also made an error. Her big green eyes stared down at the glistening bayonet. But she wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

The sirens grew louder. Ernie inched even closer, keeping his .45 pointed at Paco’s head. That’s when I saw the decision in Jessica’s eyes. She raised her high-heeled shoe. I knew what she was going to do. I wanted to stop her. I wanted to cry out but no sound came out of my throat. She lifted her heel and stomped it down on Paco Bernal’s toe. Paco jerked back. Ernie lowered his .45 and charged, ramming his shoulder into Paco’s side.

Paco spun away from the rock waterfall, kept his balance, and grabbed the collar of Ernie’s coat. With his free hand he raised the bayonet in the air.

I jerked my .45 up in front of me, flexed my knees, and shouted, “No!”

Jessica dropped to the floor. Before Paco could chop the blade down on Ernie, the cold steel in my hand bucked and an enormous blast filled my ears and then the odor of burnt cordite billowed in the air.

Jessica screamed. A red hole burst open in Paco Bernal’s side. He reeled backwards toward the rock retaining wall of the waterfall like a yo-yo bouncing on a string.