We could’ve raised hell, tried to force more information out of him, but I knew from experience that Haggler Lee, despite his frail appearance, couldn’t be intimidated. But if you remained on his good side, and played the game the way he expected it to be played, he’d parcel out information the same way he parceled out money: one coin at a time.
With nothing more to go on, Ernie and I returned to the MP Station on Yongsan Compound and reported that, so far, we’d been unable to find Jessica Tidwell. I did my best to catch a couple of hours sleep before reveille.
Shortly after the morning bugle sounded, Ernie and I were up, hunched over our favorite table at the 8th Army snack bar, slurping on bitter coffee and munching bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches. The big question we faced was whether or not to report what we’d learned from Haggler Lee up the chain of command. Plenty of waste had already hit the fan but now even more of that waste was liable to splatter back on us.
“Before I report anything,” I said, “we should talk to Jesssica’s mom.”
“Her mom?” Ernie said. “What about the colonel?”
“First, we start with his wife,” I said. “The real power in 8th Army.”
“No way,” Ernie replied. “Not yet. She’ll have a conniption fit and be all over us like a she-cat.”
Ernie was right. Once Mrs. Tidwell knew what her daughter might be facing, she’d demand that all the resources of 8th Army be diverted to save her precious offspring. The first sergeant, or more likely the provost marshal, would be directing our every move. In some ways, that would get us off the hook. If something went wrong-and it most likely would-the blame would be shared. But Ernie just thought of solving things and for him the direct way was the best way.
But there was one other thing Mrs. Tidwell might be able to do for us. So far, Ernie and I were still stripped of our investigative powers. If Mrs. Tidwell demanded that we be fully reinstated, it would probably happen. Then, in addition to searching for the precious Jessica Tidwell, Ernie and I would be in a better position to investigate the death of Mori Di and, just as importantly, the recent brutal murder of Two Bellies.
“We need to get our butts out to this Golden Dragon Travel Agency,” Ernie said. “Find Jessica, and drag her ass home.”
Something told me it wouldn’t be that easy. Still, it was worth a try.
After finishing our sumptuous 8th Army repast, we walked up the hill to the CID Admin Office where I used the Korean phone book to look up the number and address of the Golden Dragon Travel Agency. I called but there was no answer. At this time of the morning, it figured. Travel agencies in Korea are full service affairs- not just shops that sell airplane tickets-and they do most of their business late in the day and especially at night. The Golden Dragon Travel Agency might not even open its doors until noon. Still, it wouldn’t do for Ernie and me to sit around the office waiting to be harangued by questions and giving every little Napoleon a chance to instruct us as to what action to take.
I left a note for Staff Sergeant Riley telling him that Ernie and I would be in Itaewon, searching for Jessica Tidwell.
We took some time gassing up Ernie’s jeep and having some maintenance done on it, so it was almost noon by the time we found the right neighborhood. Ernie stood in front of an open-fronted store that sold Korean fast- food items: packaged dried noodles, discs of puffed rice, canned guava juice, and the corpses of dried cuttlefish nailed to a wooden rafter. Ernie had loaded up on two double packs of ginseng gum and offered me a stick. For once I took one, unwrapped it, and stuck it in my mouth. The stuff tasted bitter, like a powder of dried aspirin, but was sweetened by some sort of sugary mint flavor. All in all, nauseating. But “good for the metabolism” as Ernie was fond of saying.
Why he felt he needed something to fire up his metabolism, I never did figure out.
He said, “What’s the address of that Golden Dragon Travel Agency?”
“One-two-five dong, three-six-four ho, in Hannam-dong,” I replied. “That’s it across the street.”
Ernie wasn’t able to read the sign but he was able to make out the sinuous dragon painted gold and red.
“We ain’t there yet?”
We crossed the street, ducked through the open door, and breezed past the secretary. At the back office we pushed open the door. A plaque in front of his desk said his name was Kim. When Ernie pulled his. 45 and shoved the barrel up into Mr. Kim’s nostril, the middle-aged travel agent couldn’t talk fast enough.
Unfolded on his desk was a huge album featuring wallet-sized snapshots of dozens of Korean women. His sales portfolio. Japanese businessmen arrived in country in organized junkets, usually paid for by the company they worked for. Before they left their home country, each participant had already picked out a Korean girl to act as his “hostess” upon arrival.
I didn’t see Jessica’s photo but when I mentioned her name he knew who she was quick enough.
“She go with Mr. Fukushima.”
“Fuku-whatta?” Ernie asked.
“Ondo Fukushima. Very powerful man.”
“How powerful?” I asked.
The manager of the Golden Dragon Travel Agency stared into the barrel of Ernie’s. 45 and swallowed. “Yakuza,” he said.
The Japanese mafia.
“What hotel is he staying at?”
“Not there yet. He arrive airport in Pusan one hour ago. Has many business meetings in many places: Kuangju, Taegu, Taejon. I don’t know where.”
Ernie punched him. The travel agent howled in pain. I checked to make sure that his secretary hadn’t reached for the telephone. She hadn’t. She sat at her desk, hands flat on the lacquered wooden desk in front of her, shaking like a frightened rabbit. I felt bad about this treatment, but we had no choice but to scare the hell out of them. If I’d asked Mr. Kim questions without using intimidation, he would’ve either told me to take a hike or stalled and demanded money. Neither of which I had time for. Would he turn us in to the Korean National Police for using threats and intimidation? Probably not. Because that’s what the KNPs use themselves. In Korea, it’s an unofficial- but accepted-law-enforcement technique. I assuaged my guilt by reminding myself that many of the women in Mr. Kim’s portfolio- the lost young faces staring out at me-were forced into prostitution by threats and intimidation. This was a nice office, and Mr. Kim wore a clean pressed suit, but from wall to wall the place stank.
“I don’t know where Mr. Fukushima go,” Kim said. “Yakuza don’t write down… how you say?”
“Itinerary,” I told him.
He nodded. “Yes. Itinerary.”
“Is Jessica with him now?”
“Not yet. His driver pick her up this morning, take her someplace south. She will greet Mr. Fukushima tomorrow morning and stay with him during all meetings. Tomorrow night, maybe late, they come back Seoul.”
That was unusual. Usually the Japanese sex tourists hide their girls in their hotel rooms. Sometimes they take them to the casinos or the nightclubs, but that’s about it. Never to official business meetings.
Kim responded to my questioning look. “Fukushima get good face,” he said. “He want everybody see American girl. Daughter of G.I. honcho. He show her to everybody.”
“How much is he paying her?” I asked.
“One thousand dollars. For whole weekend.”
“What does she have to do?”
Kim’s eyes widened. “What you mean?”
“What service does she have to perform for the thousand dollars?”
A look of confusion clouded Kim’s face.
“Does she have to sleep with him?” I asked.
Then he understood. “Of course,” he answered. “She woman. He man.”
Ernie slapped him. Not hard. Just with his left hand.
“When he arrives in Seoul,” Ernie asked, “what hotel will he be staying at?”
“White Crane Hotel,” Kim answered. “New one. Best in Seoul.”
Kim didn’t know what time they’d be arriving at the hotel. Like he said, a yakuza doesn’t advertise his itinerary. But late, he figured. Late tomorrow night.
