“Doesn’t look like the owner of this place could afford to go to the Tiger Lady’s,” Ernie said.
“Maybe this isn’t his only enterprise.”
“Maybe not.”
Ernie had spent almost a half hour trying to convince the Nurse to go home. She didn’t want to leave him- danger or no danger. When I finally told her that it was necessary for her to leave, she resigned herself to her fate and allowed Ernie to put her in a taxi and pay for her fare back to Itaewon.
I watched the red taillights of the cab fade off into the deepening night, feeling sad for some reason. This quest for Miss Ku had been the best day the three of us had ever spent together.
A few of the young workmen across the street from the print shop halted their chores and looked at us. When you wander away from the GI bar districts, get used to being stared at. They don’t see many foreigners back in these alleys. We stepped forward into the shop.
The three young men inside were still too preoccupied with their work to look up. We wandered around. Browsing.
Finally, one of them noticed movement and took off his goggles. His mouth fell open.
“Anyonghaseiyo,” I told him. Hello. “We are looking for the other foreigner who usually comes in here.”
“Mulah-gu?” What?
“The American. With blond hair. A little taller than him.” I jerked my thumb toward Ernie.
“No. We didn’t see him in a long time.”
I turned, as if I were surveying the ink-stained presses, and mumbled to Ernie. “It’s the right place.”
I swiveled back to the printer. “Are you the owner?”
“Oh, no. Not me.” The young man shot his eyes toward Ernie. “What is he doing there?”
Ernie had wandered back through the equipment to a tiny office area with a desk and a file cabinet.
“He’s just curious,” I told the young man. “Tell me about this American. Did you meet him?”
The other two printers stopped their work. The one I was talking to barked an order to the youngest. “Go fetch Chong.”
The youngest man peeled off his filthy gloves and sped through the door. I pulled out my badge.
“This is police business,” I told the two printers. “You must tell me what you know.”
While they gawked at the badge, not making any sense of the English lettering, Ernie opened the drawers of the desk and searched them. I shot more questions.
“Is the American a good friend of Mr. Chong’s?”
They shook their heads, grimacing.
“What’s the matter?”
They looked at each other but didn’t answer.
“Did he come in here often?”
“Only twice.”
Emie tried the filing cabinet but it was padlocked with a bar down the center of the drawer handles. Somewhere, he found a short metal pry bar, propped it between the hasp and the edge of the cabinet, and levered it forward with both hands. He tried twice but the drawer didn’t budge. Lowering himself and rebracing his feet, he gave it a tremendous pull. The lock popped open and clattered across the cement floor until it clanged against a printing press.
“What’s he doing there?” the printer hollered.
“Police business. Don’t worry about it.”
Some of the workers across the way started to come out of their shops. I heard the word “Miguk” floating through the air: American.
Ernie riffled through the files quickly, checking behind and under each folder. He had started on the second drawer when a man burst into the shop. Red-faced. Hollering.
“What are you doing here?”
The print shop owner was a squat, sturdy Korean man with a square, leathery face that was burning crimson. The youngest printer stood behind him nervously. It looked as if he’d had to drag the owner out of a soju house.
“Get away from my files!”
The red-faced man stormed back toward Ernie. I zigzagged through the presses and placed my body in front of him. When he came to a stop, I showed him my badge.
“We’re looking for an American,” I said. “You did business with him. You took him to see the Tiger Lady.”
“What? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes you do, Mr. Chong. You introduced him to a kisaeng, Choi Yong-ran. She also calls herself Miss Ku.”
Worry crossed his scarlet features. “Who in the shit are you?”
“Eighth Army CID,” I said.
He turned his face from me, spittle exploding from his lips as he spoke. “Sangnom sikki.” Born of a base lout.
I ignored the insult. “The American, Mr. Chong, what’s his name?”
“I don’t know his name.”
“But he’s a GI?”
“He was a GI.”
“Where can I find him?”
“I don’t know.” The owner pointed a squat finger, the tip swirled with black, at my nose. “But if you do find him, tell him he owes me money.”
“How much?”
“Plenty.”
“What’d you sell to him, Chong?”
“Not your business.” Sobering slightly, he became aware of Ernie again. “Hey! What are you doing?”
Ernie was on the bottom drawer now. Before I could react, Chong shoved his way past me, took three long steps forward, and grabbed Ernie by the back of his jacket. Without thinking, Ernie turned, swung his fist in an arc, and punched the man on the side of the head.
The printers let out a howl. I ran forward and stood in front of Mr. Chong again, but now he was screeching.
“Get away from my stuff, you long-nosed foreign louts!”
The printers started jostling me. Across the street the crowd of workers swelled. They made rude comments about people of nationalities other than Korean.
I grabbed Ernie’s arm and jerked him close.
“We have to un-ass the area,” I told him. “Now!”
“I’m right behind you.”
I made my way through the machines to the front. Some of the workers walked over to block my way. I swerved away but when one shuffled in front of me, I held him gently and said “Mianhamnida,” I’m sorry, as loudly as I could. Ernie slipped by me and we were moving down the alley. The crowd slowly flowed toward us, still undecided as to whether or not to attack. I turned and smiled and said I was sorry and bowed repeatedly, like a big overgrown pigeon. When we reached the end of the alley, we started to run.
We strode through the busy nighttime streets of Seoul, avoiding pedestrians, stepping over soot-speckled piles of slush.
Ernie reached in his pocket and pulled out a small plastic card. It was beige on the bottom with a brown stripe on top and a red-and-white cloverleaf in the upper left. The emblem of the 8th United States Army.
I took it in my fingers and studied it front and back. A perfect facsimile of a U.S. Forces Korea ration control plate. Blank. Suitable for embossing with whatever name and serial number you chose to put on it.
The RCP is used by all GI’s in Korea when they purchase anything out of military PX’s or commissaries. The idea is to limit what they buy so they won’t violate customs law and sell American-made goods in the Korean villages.
I pulled out my own RCP and compared them. The forgery was a fine piece of work. The only difference was that the plastic on the authentic one was a little more pliable. I nestled them both back into the folds of my worn
