serious.
“I didn’t know anyone would kill him.”
“Who paid you to bring us the note?”
“A man. I don’t know name.”
“An American? A Korean? Who?”
“An American.”
“A GI?”
“I don’t know. His hair was short. He was very strong.”
“What color was his hair?”
She turned toward Ernie. “Like his.”
“His eyes?”
“Like his.”
Great. Light brown hair and blue or green eyes. That narrowed it down a lot.
“How tall was he?”
Miss Ku looked back and forth between us. “A little taller than him. Not as tall as you.”
Between six one and six four.
“Why’d you do it?”
“He paid me.”
“How much?”
“Not your business.”
Ernie grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her back. She squealed. I wasn’t sure if it was from pain or delight.
As long as Ernie was hurting Miss Ku, the Nurse seemed to like it. A smug expression spread across her face.
“How much did the American pay you?” I asked Miss Ku again.
She grimaced in pain. “A hundred thousand won.”
Almost two hundred bucks, depending on where you exchanged your money.
“How did he know you would do it? Maybe you’d just take the money and not talk to us.”
“He was watching.”
“At the Kayagum Teahouse?”
“Outside.”
“And he paid you then?”
“Half before. Half after.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know.”
Ernie pushed on her arm again. This time she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and bit on her lower lip. Her breathing became fast and rhythmic. She seemed to be savoring the pain.
The Nurse appeared happy, but as it dawned on her that Miss Ku was enjoying this wrestling match, she started to frown again.
A group of kisaeng gathered in the hallway nearby, murmuring and staring. Koreans don’t like seeing a couple of big Americans pushing around one of their own. I decided to hurry.
“How did you know this American?” I asked Miss Ku.
“He came in here,” she said, “with Korean friends.”
“Who were they?”
“Businessmen. With money.”
“I want their names.”
Miss Ku shoved her backside tighter up against Ernie’s crotch. He leaned into it.
“Their names,” I said.
“I don’t know their names. Only one of them. Mr. Chong, I think. He owns a print shop on Chong-no, third section.”
“What’s the name of the shop?”
“I don’t know. Something like modern, up-to-date. Something like that.”
“Had you seen the American before?”
“No. That was the first time. And the last time I saw him was when he paid me outside of the Kayagum Teahouse.”
“Why did he choose you?”
She lowered her head. “Sometimes I help Mr. Chong.”
“With what?”
“His problems.”
“What kind of problems?”
“Problems with his wife.” She looked up at me, defiance flashing in her eyes. “She doesn’t give him enough sex.”
“And you do?”
“I have plenty.”
The music stopped and a stagehand rushed out to change the set.
The cluster of kisaeng was growing larger. Time to finish it. I nodded to Ernie.
When he let her go, Miss Ku leaned back toward him. As he took a step away, she clutched his sleeve.
“Why you go?”
He stared at her without smiling.
She pressed her body up against his. Silk rustled against blue jeans.
“I’ll be back,” he said.
The Nurse bristled and shoved Ernie. “What you mean, you ‘be back’?”
Ernie held up his hands. “Hey. Police business. That’s all.”
She glowered at him. I knew she was contemplating punching somebody. Either Ernie or Miss Ku. The Nurse’s face flushed red in frustration and embarrassment. This was a problem that fists wouldn’t solve.
Miss Ku savored the Nurse’s discomfort.
Trouble brewing. Big trouble.
Smiling in triumph, Miss Ku released her grip on Ernie’s sleeve.
I grabbed the Nurse and grabbed Ernie and yanked them both away from the murmuring gaggle of kisaeng.
We hustled down the hallway, exited through a back door, and, once in the cold alley, plowed through frozen snow sprinkled with soot.
Bare-bulbed streetlights shone harshly on the Nurse’s face, filling the deep shadows with lines that should never have been there.
Ernie seemed lost in thought.
22
Chong-no means “Road of the Bell.” At the base of the road, where it begins near the old Capitol Building, is an ornate temple housing a massive bell made of solid cast bronze. Every morning the bell is rung by Buddhist priests. Its low vibrations spread over the city of Seoul, rattling stacked beer bottles and resonating out in circles that bring the citizenry to life.
The alleys shooting off Chong-no contain shops and small factories where, even at this hour, men worked under the glare of floodlights.
Sparks shot out from grinding wheels. Hammers pounded on plumbing fixtures.
We found the Hyundai Print Shop in the third alley we visited. Three men hunched over rattling presses, oblivious to our presence.
