G.I. Bones (20 page)

More sirens, louder now, screamed behind me; car doors slammed. Ernie was up, crouching over Paco. Jessica had stopped screaming but her eyes were flooded with tears. She shoved Ernie out of the way, reaching for Paco. Ernie shoved her back.

She stumbled, rose to her feet, and charged at me. I was still holding the smoking .45 pointed directly at her. She knocked it out of the way and rammed both of her small fists into my chest.

“What have you done? Why’d you shoot him?”

She punched me two more times, in the face. I held my .45 pointed at the floor and didn’t resist. Suddenly, she kicked off her high heels, and ran in her bare feet back to Paco.

Ernie was trying to stop the bleeding that pulsed from Paco’s chest. He looked around for a compress, noticed the wad of bills sticking out of Jessica’s purse. He snatched them. “Here,” he told her. “Press these down on the wound. Press hard! So the bleeding will stop.”

Jessica knelt on the bloody floor and did as she was told. Ernie hurried over to me, grabbed my shoulders, and gazed into my eyes; he didn’t like what he saw. He moved me over to an upholstered bench against the wall, sat me down, and pried the .45 out of my fist. He took out the clip, stuck it in his jacket pocket, and put the empty weapon back into my shoulder holster.

“Don’t move, Sueño,” he said. “You stay right here.”

Then he returned to Jessica.

Even from this distance I could see the blood seeping past Jessica’s splayed fingers and dripping down Paco’s side.

The next morning, veins not only protruded from the first sergeant’s neck but they also pulsed beneath the skin of his forehead.

“You didn’t report it?” he asked. “The daughter of the Eighth Army J-2 is being held by a Japanese mobster and you decide it’s not important enough to let anyone know?”

Ernie shrugged. “You guys would’ve just got in the way.”

“Got in the way?” The first sergeant gets like that when he’s angry; he keeps repeating whatever you say. He raised his forefinger and pointed it at me and then at Ernie. “You not only botch the operation but you end up shooting a suspect and then, to top it off, the J-2’s daughter ends up disappearing all over again!”

“We’ll find her,” Ernie said. “Piece of cake.”

We were in the CID Admin Office, taking our ass-chewing—a serious one this time. So far, no one had questioned my decision to pop a round into Corporal Paco Bernal. In the KNP report a number of witnesses testified that he had been about to stab Ernie with his bayonet. I acted to protect a fellow CID agent and everyone agreed I had no choice. Even I agreed, I think.

Staff Sergeant Riley sat at his desk, head bobbing over a stack of paperwork, attempting to stay removed from this conversation. As soon as the first sergeant raised his voice, Miss Kim disappeared down the hallway. She hadn’t returned yet.

“The provost marshal has gone ballistic,” the first sergeant continued. “He has to report to the CG and Colonel Tidwell, and tell them that two of his investigators didn’t let him know they had a lead on the whereabouts of Jessica Tidwell and then, on their own, they shot an Eighth Army G.I. and allowed Jessica Tidwell to escape again.”

Ernie didn’t say anything this time. I hadn’t said anything since the first sergeant started screaming. Actually, I didn’t feel as bad as when I thought that Paco Bernal would die from the bullet I’d blasted into him. As it was, Paco was currently in the Intensive Care Unit of the 121 Evacuation Hospital. Prognosis: guarded. Which, although not good, is better than dead. He’d lose a couple of ribs but the bullet hadn’t passed through any vital organs.

At the White Crane Hotel, seconds after Ernie sat me down on that bench, the KNPs swarmed in and took charge of the crime scene. An ambulance arrived and carted Paco away. The head KNP investigator requested an interview with Ondo Fukushima and after a few minutes, he was allowed an audience with the great man. In the opulence of Fukushima’s suite, the KNP investigator determined that the Japanese yakuza wasn’t involved in the shooting and, in fact, this entire mess was an American-style soap opera— not Korean or Japanese.

I sat pretty much stunned by what I had done—shot a man— and rejoiced inwardly when the ambulance took him away and it was reported that Paco Bernal was still breathing. Ernie, as usual, started in with the KNPs and there was a scuffle and finally a half-dozen of them cornered him on one of the couches in the lobby and questioned him without letting him go check on me.

Meanwhile, no one was paying much attention to Jessica Tidwell. I pieced it together later, mostly by talking to the bellhops and the doormen outside.

A Korean man, a large Korean man, had shown up shortly after the arrival of the KNPs. He seemed to know some of the KNP investigators but stayed studiously out of their way and finally, when he had a chance, he approached Jessica Tidwell. They seemed to know each other. He lit a cigarette for her and while she smoked and nodded he whispered in her ear. Jessica kept nodding in an absentminded sort of way. After the paramedics took Paco away, she left with the tall Korean man.

I asked the KNPs why they’d allowed her to leave. They told me the name of the man she had left with: Son Ryu-jon. I didn’t recognize it. And then, in response to my blank stare, one of the KNPs finally relented and explained, “Everybody call him
Maldeigari.”

Horsehead. His influence was such that no one had stopped them.

The first sergeant still hadn’t finished our ass-chewing. “They’re saying it’s your fault that Jessica is running wild,” he told us.

“Who’s saying?” Ernie asked.

“Colonel Tidwell, the CG, even the Officers’ Wives’ Club,” the first sergeant answered. “They’re saying if you had done your jobs and picked up Jessica, none of this would’ve happened.”

“Maybe it’s their fault,” Ernie said, “for raising her like they did.”

The first sergeant pointed his finger at Ernie’s nose. “Don’t you be showing disrespect to your superior officers, Bascom.”

Before Ernie could reply, I said, “We’ll find her, Top.”

Our ace in the hole was that, despite everything that had happened, Ernie and I were still the only 8th Army CID agents who had any contacts whatsoever in Itaewon.

The phone rang. It was for the first sergeant. He said, “Yes, sir” and then “Yes, sir” again and again. About a half-dozen times. He hung up the phone and looked at us.

“That was the duty officer over at the 121 Evac. A redhead in a short skirt was spotted in the intensive care unit, hanging around Paco. A medic tried to shoo her out. She threw a tantrum, told him to go to hell.”

“Sounds like Jessica,” I said, standing up from my chair. “Did she leave?”

“Not until he threatened to call the MPs.”

We ran outside and jumped in Ernie’s jeep. After he started the engine, Ernie turned to me and said, “You OK?”

I nodded. “I’m OK. And I’ll stay OK as long as Paco Bernal keeps breathing.”

Ernie jammed the jeep in gear and roared off towards the 121 Evacuation Hospital.

When we arrived, the redhead in the ICU had already left. I asked the medic how long ago she’d left and he said about ten minutes.

In front of the main entrance to the 121 was a PX hot dog stand and a turnaround for the big black Ford Granada PX taxis. I spoke to one of the drivers and he used the radio bolted beneath his dashboard and called dispatch. The driver and the dispatcher chatted for a while in Korean and the dispatcher contacted other units, eventually locating a driver who had picked up Jessica Tidwell. I took the mic and spoke to him, surprising everyone by using Korean. This driver said the woman he picked up in front of the 121 wore a short blue dress and had been quite agitated. She’d ordered him to take her to Itaewon. He let her off on the MSR across from the UN Club, at the front entrance to the Hamilton Hotel.

Had she entered the hotel? I asked.

No. She took off on foot, heading north.

Then I asked another question, still in Korean. What currency had she used to pay him? That was another odd thing, the driver replied. Although she was an American, she had insisted on paying her fare in Japanese yen. In fact, he told me that he was holding the thousand yen note in his hand right now and he wasn’t even sure how much it was worth. Another thing was odd. There was a brown smudge on the edge of the bill and it looked, almost, like dried blood.

Paco was still comatose. When I asked the nurse in the intensive care unit how he was doing, she stared at me with sad eyes and shook her head.

“You don’t think he’ll pull through?” I asked.

“He might,” she replied. She gazed in his direction. “Yes, probably. But he will never be the man he once was.”

Ernie patted me on the shoulder.

On our way out, the phone rang behind the emergency room counter. A medic picked it up and then called us over. “You guys Sweeno and Bascom?”

“That’s us,” Ernie replied.

“Somebody wants to talk to you.”

I took the call. It was Riley. He started talking without preamble.

“Do either of you guys know somebody named Mel Gardi?” he asked.

“Who?”

“Mel Gardi,” he repeated.

My eyes widened. “You mean
‘Maldeigari.’”

“Whatever.”

“That’s Horsehead,” I said. “What about him?”

“You better get your butts out to Itaewon.”

“Why? What’s up?”

“I ain’t repeating this shit,” Riley said.

I pulled out my notebook and jotted down directions: a block and a half up the hill from the Dingy Dingy Pool Hall.

“This is in Itaewon?” I asked.

“That’s what they tell me. Not far from the Hamilton Hotel.”

The front entrance to the Hamilton Hotel was the only authorized PX taxi stand in Itaewon.

“What about Horsehead?” I asked again. “Did something happen to him?”

“Go look!” Riley shouted and hung up.

“What is it?” Ernie asked.

I told him.

We ran outside of the 121 Evac, jumped in his jeep, and laid rubber halfway out the gate.

12

H
orsehead had fought back.

The rope around his wrists was frayed and bit sharply into the flesh of his forearm. He’d tried to rip himself free. Instead, he’d managed only to tear great gaps in his skin. Blood had flowed down his wrist and his hands and onto the small of his back where his wrists were tied. He’d kicked against the wall of the little hooch, too, despite the fact that his ankles—like his wrists—were bound together with rope that had been laced in intricate knots.

And he’d been gagged. With a wool scarf and cotton stuffed into his mouth.

Like Moretti.

Maybe the similarities were coincidental. Maybe the Seven Dragons had nothing to do with this crime. Maybe. I knelt next to Horsehead’s body. The single bare bulb overhead had been switched on but I needed more illumination. I used my army-issue flashlight.

Last night, Horsehead had been spotted at the White Crane Hotel, policing up Jessica Tidwell. Then he had ended up here, in this dark and crowded neighborhood of Itaewon, in this tiny hooch rented by the hour, face down in his own vomit, his hands and feet bound, his body stabbed so many times that he looked like pulverized goose liver.

And where was Jessica Tidwell?

The old woman who owned the hooch was in tears. A gaggle of KNPs surrounded her, shooting questions at her. Her wrinkled face was smeared with moisture, and she kept repeating over and over again.
“Na moolah. Chinja moolah.”
I don’t know. I really don’t know.

What the old woman didn’t know was who the people were who’d brought in Horsehead.

“He was drunk,” she’d told us through sobs. “Two men were carrying him. They said they wanted a room so he could sleep it off. They paid me in advance and carried him to the room and laid him down and left him there. They said some women would be along to check on him and make him comfortable and I should let them in and they’d take care of him.”

She hadn’t recognized the men, had never seen them before. But they were Korean men, well into middle age, and they wore workingmen’s clothes as if they’d just come from some sort of job in a warehouse or a factory. And the women had shuffled in immediately after the men left. The landlady hadn’t paid much attention because by then she was watching
Chonwon Diary,
a popular prime-time soap opera. Her favorite show, she added. But there were three women and each wore some sort of jacket or shawl with a hood; she hadn’t seen their faces.

“Did they carry weapons?” one of the cops asked.

She didn’t know. She hadn’t looked. If they did they weren’t carrying them in their hands where she could see.

“Was there much noise?”

Not much. Some moaning. But she’d had drunks sleep it off in the rooms she rented before and they were never quiet, so she hadn’t paid attention. Except for the pounding on the wall. For a second there, she thought the drunken man was going to kick the house down but the women managed to get him under control.

“When did the women leave?”

She wasn’t sure. After her program was over she realized that all was quiet down the hall. But she hadn’t gone to look. It was late so she locked the outer gate and went to sleep. She believed the women had already left because she didn’t hear any footsteps pounding down the hallway during the night and no one had called for her to unlock the front gate.

“When did you discover the body?”

In the morning, while she was scrubbing the central hallway with a moist rag. The sun had been up for over an hour and she hadn’t heard any sound coming from the room. All her other guests—mostly business girls and American G.I.s—were up before dawn and had already left. When she reached the door to Horsehead’s room, she paused for a moment, listening. When she heard nothing, she knocked on the latticework door and called out. No answer. Finally, she peeked in.

Then the old woman sobbed again.

“Terrible,” she said, covering her eyes.

She ran next door to a neighbor who had a telephone and they’d called the police.

The KNPs notified 8th Army and now here we were. Ernie and I looked down on the remains of a man who, only hours before, had been wealthy and confident, abrasive and full of life. He liked to fight. I suppose, somewhere deep in Horsehead’s fevered mind, fighting had made him feel alive.

He’d lived. That was for sure. A full life. Maybe not a good life but an active life and now he was nothing more than chopped meat.

Ernie glanced at me, shook his head. I suppose we were both thinking the same thing. Who were the men who’d brought him here? And even more importantly, who were the women? Who could systematically chop a living, breathing human being to death? There must’ve been a hundred entry wounds in Horsehead’s body. Even without measuring them I could see that they were from different sized cutting implements. Three sizes, I thought. Probably knives. And that matched what the landlady had told us. Three women.

Had they been hired by a rival gang? Or had they been sent by one of the other Seven Dragons? Or were they just women who harbored a grudge against Horsehead? And who were their two male helpers? None of it made sense. People who murder don’t operate in groups. Not unless they’re professionals and they’re hired and well paid. But if they were professionals, why hadn’t they tried to hide their crime? Why hadn’t they hidden the corpse?

The coroner’s van from downtown Seoul pulled up and after a few more minutes of collecting evidence, the paramedics were allowed to hoist up the body and cart it away. The KNPs didn’t want us there anymore. It was their case. Ernie and I staggered away from the crime scene and then found ourselves wandering aimlessly through a maze of alleys.

The sky was as gray as my mood. It was still only fifteen hundred hours but I wanted a drink more than I’d wanted one in a long time. The nightclubs along the main drag of Itaewon were shuttered. All the neon was switched off and the signs looked sad and dusty in the dull afternoon light.

Very little of last night’s snow had stuck but a few drifts still clung to roofs and the tops of walls. The temperature had dropped noticeably. It was as if a new, cleaner brand of air had invaded Itaewon, air that was filtered by acres of mountainous pines and cedars. Air that was indifferent to the suffering of mere mortals.

The Sexy Lady Club was open. Ernie and I pushed through a beaded curtain. The joint was dark, only the red and green lights of the jukebox twinkled. The air in here reeked of ammonia and sliced lemon. Behind the bar a gal with long straight black hair came toward us. We stared at her a while, blankly, and then ordered two straight shots of brandy. Doubles. Chased by beer.

She plunked them down on the bar, took our money, and stared at us impassively. Her complexion was smooth, soft, sweet looking.

“You see Horsehead?” she asked.

We nodded.

She shrugged her narrow shoulders, turned, and sashayed her cute little butt back to the cash register.

Night had fallen. In the Sexy Lady Club, Ernie and I had talked and a mutual resolve had started to take hold. We were through pussyfooting around with the Seven Dragons. Two Bellies had told us that Snake was their head honcho. We’d already talked to Jimmy Pak and gotten nowhere. Horsehead was dead. Now it was time to talk to the head man himself: the man called Snake. If Jessica wanted to hide she’d stay hidden. We decided to bust things wide open.

Ernie sprinted up the stairwell that led to the Seven Club, taking the steps three at a time. He didn’t pause at the second-story landing that led into the nightclub but kept going up to the third floor. That’s where Snake’s offices were.

Snake’s real name was Lim, his family name, and Americans referred to him as Mr. Lim. I’d met him a few times, mostly when he was hobnobbing with 8th Army officers—either invited to a formal function or hosting a retirement party for one of them at the 8th Army golf club. The honchos at 8th Army loved him. Snake was always smiling and he laughed at their jokes and his English was impeccable. Not to mention that he had connections with the big-money corporations that were lining up for the neverending flow of multimillion dollar U.S. military construction projects. Gifts, parties, social events, award ceremonies, these were the places where Mr. Lim could be found. Shaking hands, bowing, being a good chum to American officers who saw him as the perfect example of the modern Korean entrepreneur. And the perfect avatar of the republic’s bright future.

He was a slender man, almost willowy, and his smile had a certain reptilian cast. But maybe I saw him differently than the officers at 8th Army saw him. Snake didn’t do any favors for
me.
I only knew him from the people who worked in his various operations: his nightclubs, his bars, and his apartment buildings, which were nothing more than brothels. I knew how the country girls suffered. Sometimes physically but if not physically always through shame.

But once you have money, no matter how it is come by, you are seen by everyone—or at least by everyone who matters—as a wonderful guy. That was Snake. A wonderful, generous guy.

The door to his office was locked. Ernie pounded on it. No answer. He pounded again and when it still didn’t open, he backed down the hallway, took a running start and plowed into the door shoulder first. It burst inward.

Nobody home. But we both took an involuntary gasp at the opulence of the furnishings. Even a couple of lowlifes like us could tell that everything from the leather upholstered chairs to the mahogany desk to the handcrafted porcelain was expensive.

A bronze effigy of a youthful, narrow-waisted Buddha sat in its own shrine in the corner. The smiling god held one palm facing to the sky and the fingers of his other hand formed a circle near his ear. I turned my flashlight on the statuette and studied it. What surprised me was that this was the same Buddha embossed onto the surface of the bronze bell in the temple on the hill overlooking Itaewon.

Footsteps clattered up the stairwell. High heels. We turned and a statuesque woman entered the room. She wore a tight-fitting black cocktail dress, low cut to accentuate her décolletage and it seemed that her legs were longer and straighter than those of any Korean woman I’d ever seen. She was a gorgeous woman, like a fashion model, with a curly shag hairdo and more makeup than a dozen circus clowns.

“Weikurei nonun?”
What is it with you? And not spoken politely, either.

I flashed my badge at her. “Where’s Snake?”

“Who?”

“Mr. Lim.”

“He’s out.” She waved her left arm at the broken door. “What are you doing?”

“Who the hell are you?” Ernie asked.

“Jibei-in,”
she said in Korean. And then remembered to speak English. “I’m the manager.”

“Then you can open the safe,” Ernie said, pointing at the squat black iron block behind Snake’s mahogany desk.

“No,” she said, shaking her elegant head. “Only Snake . . . I mean Mr. Lim can open the safe.”

“What’s in there?” Ernie asked.

The woman’s eyes widened. “How I know?”

“Snake must have you up here when he counts his money. You’re the manager, aren’t you?”

She laughed. “He no keep money there.”

“Then what does he keep there? Antiques?” Ernie pointed again at the safe.

“I don’t know.” The woman thrust back her shoulders. “He no tell me.” Then she pointed toward the door. “Get out. You two must get out. Not your office.”

We took our time, gazing at the antiques and the art objects, wondering if any of them had been amongst the stash that Technical Sergeant Flo Moretti had stored for the refugees that flooded into Itaewon at the end of the Korean War.

“Out,” the woman said. “I call KNPs.”

“No you won’t,” Ernie replied. He walked up close to her.

“Why not?” she asked.

“Because if you do, after I bust Snake, I’m coming after you.”

This seemed to unnerve the woman. She’d seen my badge and in Korea, law enforcement personnel have tremendous power, often much more power than they’re granted by law. Still, she held her ground.

“Out,” she said.

I discovered later that her name was Miss Park. She’d been the manager here at the Seven Club for over a month. I admired her spunk. We did what she said: we left Snake’s office. And she didn’t call the KNPs.

We stopped at the bar inside the main ballroom of the Seven Club, just to make sure that Snake wasn’t on the premises. Ernie ordered a beer but before it arrived, something in the crowded room caught his attention.

“Look,” he said.

American G.I.s and Korean business girls sat at every table, many of them lazing about in the aisles, and dozens of them jammed onto the dance floor. The Korean band was playing some schmaltzy ballad and the big G.I.s were hunched over the small Asian women, their eyes closed, lost in erotic ecstasy. Most of the Korean women, however, kept their eyes open, studying the crowd, blasé expressions on their round faces, jaws chomping on chewing gum.

I followed Ernie’s nose and spotted the couple he was staring at.

Sergeant First Class Quinton “Q” Hilliard was grinding away in time with the music with the full-cheeked little Miss Kwon enveloped in his bearlike embrace.