Before we left, Ernie pointed his. 45 once more between Kim’s eyes.
“No phone calls,” Ernie said, “to this yakuza or to any of his buddies. Or to the police. You got that?”
Kim nodded frantically.
“If you forget,” Ernie said, “I’ll be back.”
Kim sat frozen as we left. The secretary was still shaking.
Korean television news broadcasts use language that is too difficult for me to understand. The stories are read by a dignified-looking Korean man in a well-pressed suit who alternates with a gorgeous Korean woman wearing an expensive Western-style dress. As they drone on, I can pick out a few words and phrases but one thing I’ve noticed in the months I’ve been in Korea is that they seldom report on the 50,000 American soldiers stationed in their country. When they do, it is only with footage of big ROK-U.S. joint maneuvers showing ships and planes and tanks moving over hilly countryside. They never show individual G.I. s close up. And they certainly never report on American soldiers tearing through their towns and villages, drunk, on a Saturday night. So I knew that the indiscretions of Jessica Tidwell, no matter how egregious, would never be allowed to be aired on a Korean television news broadcast or on the radio or even in a newspaper. But nevertheless people would know. Everyone at 8th Army, all the thousands of members of the Korean National Police, and most importantly, officials at the top levels of the U.S. and South Korean governments; they would all know. The embarrassment would be massive: the daughter of the 8th Army J-2 selling herself to a Japanese mobster. Colonel Tidwell would lose his job, Mrs. Tidwell would never be able to show her face at the Officers’ Wives’ Club again, and the entire family would probably be run out of the country.
“So what do you care about them?” Ernie asked. “What have they ever done for you?”
We were in Ernie’s jeep now, heading back toward Yongsan Compound.
“They deserve to know,” I replied. “At least Mrs. Tidwell does.”
“Before we report it up the chain of command, you mean?”
“Exactly.”
Ernie shrugged. “What difference does it make? We’ll have to report it eventually.”
“Not necessarily.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“If we take Jessica away from this Fukushima, return her to her mom, then nobody needs to know. But if we make it official, Eighth Army’s going to lose face.”
“Are you nuts, Sueno?”
“Eighth Army’s done a lot of good in this country,” I said, “despite the crime we see every day. Look at what Moretti did twenty years ago, built an orphanage, fed people who were starving. Eighth Army has built roads and aqueducts and-”
“And we saved the south from the horrors of Communism,” Ernie said, “just like we’re going to do in Vietnam.”
“That too,” I replied.
Ernie sighed. “So you want to keep this quiet?”
“Why not?”
“Because it could be dangerous, that’s why not. If Jessica Tidwell gets seriously hurt, or disappears, it’ll be on us. The provost marshal will come down on us with both feet.”
“A little danger never bothered you before.”
That challenge finally brought Ernie Bascom over. “If you’re game, so am I,” he replied.
“I’m game.”
When we reached Yongsan Compound, Ernie turned left into Gate Number 9, the easternmost entrance to 8th Army South Post. As we approached Colonel Tidwell‘s quarters, Mrs. Tidwell stood at her front door, arms crossed.
“Apparently,” I told Mrs. Tidwell, “Jessica believes that if she can raise the thousand dollars and return it to your husband’s safe, he will drop the charges against Corporal Bernal.”
Ernie and I sat on a leather sofa in the front room, two cups of hot black coffee in front of us on a glass- topped table. Mrs. Tidwell sat on a straight-backed chair opposite, her manicured fingers folded on her lap. Her hair was combed, her face made up, and she wore a blue print dress that lay across her knees in stiff pleats.
Mrs. Tidwell rose, turned away form us, and strode toward a plate-glass window that looked out over a row of tightly pruned cherry trees.
“Jessica might be right,” Mrs. Tidwell said. “My husband brought the charges against Corporal Bernal. He can also drop the charges.”
What she was telling us, I believed, was that if Jessica raised the money she would make sure her husband dropped the charges. Good. But what she needed to know now was how Jessica planned to raise the money.
Ernie glanced at me. I swallowed and opened my mouth.
“I think you’ll agree, Mrs. Tidwell,” I said, “that Jessica’s plan to raise the money is not a wise one.”
Mrs. Tidwell turned away from the garden scene outside, returned, and sat down facing me.
“Just what is her plan?”
I spread my fingers. “According to the information we’ve uncovered, Jessica plans to engage in a business deal sponsored by the Golden Dragon Travel Agency.”
Mrs. Tidwell stared at me blankly.
“To be frank, ma’am,” I continued, “their practices are somewhat unsavory. Trips arranged for wealthy Japanese businessmen. Introductions made.”
Her eyes widened. “Sex tours,” she said.
“Not always,” I answered. “Sometimes the women act as escorts only.”
Mrs. Tidwell kept her green eyes on me, allowing the heat of her stare to linger on my face. “Don’t lie to me,” she said.
I didn’t answer.
“This Golden Dragon Travel Agency is going to set Jessica up with some rich Japanese businessman here in Seoul?” Mrs. Tidwell leaned forward, intent. Somehow, the tiny muscles in her face hardened. “What fun for him,” she said. “A beautiful redheaded American girl. Only seventeen. And what good face for him. The daughter of the intelligence chief of the 8th United States Army.”
She glared at me as if I were Jessica Tidwell’s pimp. Ernie studied the floor, not breathing.
“That’s why we came to you first,” I said, stammering. “Before reporting anything… officially.”
She sat back, breathed deeply, and turned her head as if seeing the intricately designed wallpaper for the first time. Then she snapped her attention back to me.
“Can you find her?”
“With the help of the Korean National Police and possibly with the-”
“Not with them. Alone.”
“It would be difficult.”
“But not impossible?”
“No,” I answered, “not impossible.” I spread my fingers again. “But we’d need to be reinstated back to our full investigative status.”
“Reinstated?”
I explained to her what had happened, about our search for the bones of Mori Di and about the unexpected discovery of the death of Two Bellies. I left out a lot of the details.
“So the ROKs think you murdered this overage prostitute?” Mrs. Tidwell said.
“They know we didn’t,” Ernie replied. “They’re just keeping the charges open to keep pressure on Eighth Army.”
“And to save face,” she said, getting the picture immediately.
I nodded.
“Who’s your boss?” she asked.
“Colonel Brace,” I told her. “The provost marshal.”
When she rose again, she walked over to the mantelpiece. Atop it sat pictures of Jessica: when she was a baby, on a Girl Scout camping trip, laughing with other teenage girls and waving pompoms.
“We’ve spoiled her,” Mrs. Tidwell said. “You know that.”
