been replaced. That too, helped me place the pages in the correct order.
Cort had never given up, even after he’d been officially assigned to other duties. He’d kept trying to make a case concerning Moretti’s death until the day he left country. I stacked up the pages and was about to tie the SIR with the knotted string I’d found it in, when I noticed a clump of sheets that had slipped down into the sleeve of one of the brown folders. It was as if they’d purposely been hidden. I pulled them out and unfolded the brittle sheets until they were flat on the table. They were new to me. I hadn’t read them before. The subject title was Provisional Inventory.
I began to read.
It was an inventory of all the valuables that Moretti held for safekeeping for the refugee families of Itaewon. How Cort had obtained such an inventory I couldn’t be sure. Maybe the nuns had given it to him or maybe one of the G.I. truck drivers who’d worked with Moretti. However he’d gotten it, this list of riches explained where the Seven Dragons had found the capital to construct the glittering red-light district of Itaewon.
There were names in one column, first written in Korean in varying hands, and then spelled out in English. The English handwriting was consistently the same. Probably Moretti’s. And if the variability of the hangul writing was any indication, the Koreans had written their own names on the sheet as they’d turned in their valuables to him. Some had even written their names in Japanese. For much of the thirty-five-year occupation of Korea, from 1910 to 1945, the ancient Korean language had not been taught in Korean schools, only Japanese, so the Koreans would become dedicated subjects of Emperor Hirohito. It hadn’t worked. Through it all, the Koreans held steadfast to their own culture and their own national identity.
After the names were written, a description of the item and quantity or approximate size was provided. First in Korean in the varying hands, and then again in English in the script that I could only assume belonged to Moretti. Finally, a date of receipt and then two signatures: first the Korean’s and then a set of initials, FRM. Florencio R. Moretti.
All very official looking. Probably Moretti had given the depositor a scrap of paper with the same information written on it. But I was only guessing because I searched and no receipts were to be found in the pockets of the various folders that comprised the Mori Di Serious Incident Report.
The inventory read like a museum catalog. There were tiaras from the Yi Dynasty; porcelain from an earlier Korean dynasty known as Koryo; gold necklaces imported from Burma; jade pendants shipped in from the Chinese province of Fujian; antler horn from Manchuria; a Buddhist codex from Tibet; and a number of paintings and calligraphy scrolls from all over the Far East. Of course there were the more mundane items, like small bricks of silver bullion, gold coins minted in Mexico, and even a few spirit tablets recorded with the names written in Chinese characters, of revered ancestors.
These treasures must have been sold on the black-market by the Seven Dragons. Of course, they might have retained some of the precious objects. Yes, I decided it was possible. That might be important evidence in building a case against them. Yes. That is why, instead of returning the Serious Incident Report and the inventory to the SIR warehouse, I locked the entire sheaf of folders in the safe in the Administration Office of the 8th Army Criminal Investigation Detachment.
Staff Sergeant Riley helped me make an inventory, for the record, on an 8th Army hand receipt. Just to be thorough, he kept one onionskin copy, I kept the other. Folding it neatly, I stuffed it in my wallet, just in case I encountered any of these precious objects on my sojourns through the ville. I’d seldom seen anything as valuable as these artifacts-not, at least, outside of museums-but soon I’d be entering the offices and dens of the inner sanctum of the Seven Dragons and who knew what riches I’d find there?
Maybe gold bullion. Maybe ancient tiaras. And maybe more evidence leading to the death of the man who the Koreans called Mori Di.
Ernie and I didn’t make it out to the Grand Ole Opry Club until late afternoon.
The KNP liaison officer had been dragging his feet all day, seeking clearance for the search warrant from his superiors who were supposedly indisposed or locked in high-level governmental meetings or on distant journeys that made it impossible to contact them. Finally, the 8th Army commanding general stepped in. His adjutant called the assistant to the KNP commander in Seoul and, within ten minutes, we had our search warrant.
Moretti’s dog tag was working its magic.
This time Ernie and I didn’t have to disguise our intentions. Neither did the four uniformed 8th Army MPs who tagged along with us. The owner of the Grand Ole Opry was a tall, slender Korean woman who the G.I. customers called Olive. Perspiration showed on Olive’s forehead and her straight black hair was in disarray. She accepted our warrant without complaint and seemed completely relaxed, claiming that she knew she didn’t have any black- market activities going on in her club. In fact she was chatty, in English, and told us that her father, who was now deceased, bought the Grand Ole Opry from the original owner, a Mr. Ju, who was also now deceased. Mr. Ju, I’d been led to understand by Two Bellies, was one of the original Seven Dragons. Six of them were still alive and, supposedly, still pulling the strings here in Itaewon-and elsewhere.
Olive led us downstairs. Had she been down here at all today? I asked. No, she always had her employees restock at night, after closing, so the club would be ready to open at four in the afternoon, just before the 8th Army G.I. s got off work and started to make their way out to Itaewon.
“You don’t unlock the storeroom before that?” I asked.
“No. I opened the front door about two this afternoon and let my janitor in. We’ve been cleaning in the main bar ever since.”
The time was now fifteen hundred hours so that meant that she’d opened about an hour ago. Olive switched on the overhead fluorescent light in the hallway and stopped at the entrance to the storeroom. She stared at the broken padlock dangling from the hasp.
“Isang hei,” Olive said. Strange.
Olive frowned. She entered the storeroom first and switched on the overhead bulb. Trash was piled by the rear door, ready to be taken out.
The 8th Army KNP liaison officer, Lieutenant Pong, had also tagged along. Since the commanding general of the 8th United States Army had shown such an interest in this case, KNP headquarters in downtown Seoul wanted a full report. He stood back, out of the way, and crossed his arms.
At Ernie’s instruction, the four burly MPs started hoisting crates of beer. Soon the brick wall was exposed. So were the piles of dried mortar on the floor and the loose bricks that Ernie and I had stuck back into the wall.
Olive gasped. “Who do?” she asked, pointing.
I shook my head and didn’t answer. Then Ernie and I knelt on the floor and started pulling the bricks out. Even before we were finished, I could smell it. A fleshy smell, as if someone had been sitting in a sauna bath too long.
What the hell was this all about? I hadn’t noticed any such odor last night. Or had I just been too nervous?
When the opening in the brick wall was large enough, I switched on my flashlight and poked my nose in. This time I couldn’t hold back.
I screamed.
While waiting for the KNP Liaison Office to come up with our search warrant, Ernie and I drove downtown to the Beikhua Hospital. Doc Yong was there, in a room with Miss Kwon. The little chipmunk-looking erstwhile business girl was snoring heavily. Doc Yong gave us a wan smile and bade us to sit down next to her on wooden stools.
I figured she’d paid for Miss Kwon’s medical care, in advance, which is the way Korean hospitals usually want it. And, judging by her disheveled appearance, the good doctor had probably been here all night. I sat down next to her and took her hand. To my surprise, she squeezed my palm.
“Thank you,” she said, to both Ernie and me, “for helping last night.”
“We weren’t much help,” Ernie said, nodding toward Miss Kwon.
“You tried,” Doc Yong answered, “and we’re lucky she’s not dead.”
She described the prognosis. Not bad, considering. The doctors speculated that Miss Kwon’s wild flailing, grabbing instinctively onto anything that would break her fall, had, in fact, saved her life. Miss Kwon had no internal injuries. That was the important thing. Her left ankle had been sprained badly but not broken and the only other injuries were a pomegranate-sized lump on her noggin and scratches and bruises both on her legs and on her hands, fingers, and forearms, where she’d tried so desperately to slow her plunge to the dirty pavement. After
