break loose-bureaucratically anyway-and everyone involved would have to be interviewed formally, under oath, and the reports would have to be filed in triplicate and be staffed up the chain of command and those reports would be personally reviewed by the 8th Army judge advocate general and eventually by the commanding general himself.
In other words, 8th Army was making it so cumbersome to report a racial incident that it was unlikely anyone would actually go to the trouble of doing so. Good for the stats. Then the honchos could claim that there were no racial incidents in their command.
Sergeant Hilliard was the joker in the deck. While fists had been flying, he’d been nowhere to be found. I know because I looked. And he’s lucky Ernie didn’t find him. But the big question was, would Hilliard raise hell tomorrow morning at 8th Army? Would he file a complaint and accuse the MPs of a cover-up?
I didn’t believe that there were no racial problems in 8th Army. I’d been in the service long enough to know that black soldiers were discriminated against. I’d seen it happen with my own eyes; racist sergeants whispering about who would get the shit detail or miscreant officers scratching out the names of black soldiers when it came time for promotion. As a Mexican-American myself, I knew that sometimes those whisperings were directed at me. So the problems were real, the solutions elusive. But what I disliked about Sergeant First Class Hilliard was that he wasn’t really searching for solutions. Rather he was using racial tensions to elevate himself above the crowd and stroke his own ego. And, not incidentally, to wriggle his way into the panties of a certain teenage business girl by the name of Miss Kwon.
The back door of the Grand Ole Opry Club creaked open and a sliver of light bit into the dirty darkness of the narrow alleyway. A figure emerged. A young Korean man, wrapped in a heavy coat, a white shirt and a bow tie barely visible beneath it. He stepped out into the alley and slammed the door behind him. Ernie and I hid in the shadows-he on one side of the alley, me on the other-holding our breath. Without looking to either side, the bartender marched past us, hands shoved deep into his pockets. At the end of the alleyway, he turned a corner and Ernie and I emerged from the shadows.
Following.
Itaewon is an endless maze.
Narrow pedestrian lanes zigzag every which way because the homes and hooches and stores and brothels were plopped down every which way. So now, with frigid moonlight shining down and the midnight curfew finally upon us, Ernie and I were having trouble keeping up with the young bartender. We couldn’t run or he’d hear our footsteps. Periodically, we had to stop and listen for his. But he kept turning this way and that, like a very intelligent rat winding his way through a maze. Finally, headlights flashed against a wall. Ernie and I ducked into darkness- a recessed wooden gate in a cement brick wall.
“White mice,” Ernie said. The curfew cops. Their jeeps were painted white and their uniforms were white, supposedly so they wouldn’t be mistaken, after curfew, for North Korean intruders and be shot by their fellow cops. Ernie and I were not dressed in white and therefore were subject to being shot. Few people were actually gunned down for a curfew violation. Usually, what happened was that the white mice took the violator into custody, locked him or her up overnight at the local police station, and in the morning a relative came by to vouch for them and profusely apologize to the cops for having caused them any inconvenience. Of course, they also had to pay a fine. G.I. s would be similarly detained, but the MPs would be called and their transgressions would end up on the 8th Army blotter report.
Ernie and I were protected by our CID badges which allowed us to be out after curfew. Still, we didn’t want to talk to the white mice because we didn’t particularly want anyone taking note of our stalking the Grand Ole Opry bartender. Another reason we hid from the white mice was because it was always possible that the curfew cops would make a mistake-or be having a bad day-and we would be shot on sight. Perfectly permissible in a country trying to protect itself from 700,000 half-crazed Communist soldiers stationed just thirty miles north of their capital city.
We stayed hidden and when the beam of the headlights passed on, we breathed a sigh of relief. We resumed following the young bartender. Ernie ran to the intersection where we had last spotted him and stopped; we both listened. Pots and pans clanged. A stray voice shouted in the distance. Far away, a dog barked.
No footsteps.
We stood listening for a long time. Perspiration ran down my forehead. I wiped it out of my eyes.
Nothing. No sound.
I checked one intersection, Ernie checked another. Then we returned to where we had started.
“Shit,” Ernie said finally.
My sentiments exactly. We’d lost him.
Ernie snorted.
Using back alleys, we made our way the mile or so to Yongsan Compound. At the main gate, I talked to the MP and, citing law enforcement solidarity, I asked him not to write us up for having returned to compound after curfew. Even though CID agents were allowed to be out after curfew, the gate guards were supposed to make a record of our return, but I didn’t need grief from the first sergeant.
The MP listened-at this late hour no honchos were around anyway-and he finally agreed. Ernie promised to buy him a drink at the NCO Club. But since the MP didn’t drink, Ernie was at a loss as to how to reward him.
I just said thank you.
11
The next morning, Doc Yong pulled me out of her office and into the back hallway. “No time now, Geogi,” she said. “Too many girls sick.”
Influenza was storming its way through Itaewon. G.I. s on compound were coming down with it too, especially the ones who had avoided taking the mandatory annual vaccination. So far, neither Ernie nor I had any symptoms; we’d taken our shots.
Doc Yong waited for me to say what I’d come to say. I asked her about health certificates. Specifically, the one belonging to the Grand Ole Opry bartender.
Of course, he had one. Everyone who worked in a food or beverage establishment was required to be checked for communicable diseases, particularly tuberculosis, a scourge that ran rampant after the Korean War. She looked it up in her files. His name was Noh Bang-ok. Then she gave me his local address here in Itaewon and his home of record, an address in Mapo. Next, I asked if Horsehead had a county health certificate.
Doc Yong stared at me, her eyes wide. She knew something, I’m not sure what. Maybe she’d heard of our altercation last night. While she stared, I studied her soft flesh and hungered for its touch.
“Horsehead doesn’t need a health certificate,” she finally said.
“Why not?”
She looked at me as if I were dumb.
“He own Itaewon,” she said. “Owner don’t need nothing.”
She was busy and exasperated with me and exhausted by the full waiting room in her little clinic. That’s why her English was deteriorating.
“How’s Miss Kwon?” I asked.
“Better.” Then she shook her head. “Everywhere hurt but anyway she start work last night.”
“Still at the King Club?”
She nodded.
I wondered if Miss Kwon had been involved in the white-on-black fighting last night. I hoped not. I thanked Doc Yong for the information and started to leave. She grabbed my elbow. I was surprised at how cool her fingertips felt on my skin.
“Last night,” she said, “everybody say Horsehead punch you.”
I nodded. He did more than that. He also threatened my life but I didn’t tell her that.
“Chosim,” she said. Be careful.
Once again, I nodded, almost a bow this time, and left.
As I made my way through the waiting room, business girls, their puffy faces splotched and naked, stared at
