but I repeated them as best as I could.
Finally, So nodded. Satisfied.
So I’d lowered myself to a common thief. A Korean one, at that. Most GI’s would swear that they’d never do such a thing. But most GI’s bubbled over with racial hatred and an inflated sense of pride that came from being part of a country that had been on the top of the heap for over a century. Such things didn’t bother me. I was from East L.A. I’d been fighting my way up from the bottom all my life. Herbalist So had power. A lot more than I did. In certain areas, more than the Commander of 8th Army. He deserved respect. This little ceremony didn’t bother me any more than standing at attention in a military formation and saluting some potbellied general with stars on his shoulder.
Herbalist So began to speak.
“Already, our minions are watching the village for the man you seek, Agent Sueno. But he seems to be intelligent and resourceful. We don’t expect to capture him with such crude methods. As far as your print shop is concerned, that will be checked tonight. Tomorrow you will be contacted with the results.”
“Where?”
“Wherever you are.”
“Who will contact me?”
“Whoever we designate. Keep an open mind, Agent Sueno.”
“I will.”
Herbalist So nodded. The meeting was over. 1 stood up, put my shoes back on, bowed once more, and made my way out through the tiny tea shop. There were still no customers. And no one serving tea.
At the bottom of the hill I saw a familiar figure, wrapped tightly in a flowered raincoat. The Chinese girl. The same one I had seen inside the slicky boys’ dungeon.
She held out her umbrella for me.
“lrri-oseiyo,” she said. Come this way.
I wasn’t about to argue with her.
She led me by the hand to a tiny, immaculately clean yoguan, tucked back in an alley I’d never seen before. She paid for the room and, to my surprise, accompanied me down the creaking hallway. Once we were alone she told me to take off my clothes. It was an order she didn’t have to repeat. She took me into the bathroom and scrubbed me down and rinsed me and dried me and soon had me lying naked on the warm sleeping pad under a silk comforter.
After washing herself, she turned off all the lights except for a soft red bulb in the entranceway and slipped into the bed with me.
She was slim and soft and completely naked. And as sweet as any woman has a right to be.
This woman, with her perfect features and her hairless, unblemished skin, and her supple body like a willow bending in the wind, seemed to be another species altogether from us regular human beings. She seemed too perfect. Too smart. Too gentle. Too dreamlike.
I still think of the night I spent with the Chinese woman as something that happened to me while floating in a world untouched by hatred or fear or cruelty or death.
Of course, she was being paid for her work. That took some of the edge off. Not much.
Before drifting off to sleep, I realized that working with Slicky King So wasn’t half bad.
In the morning, the Chinese woman woke me. She held a breakfast tray, hot turnip soup, steamed rice, roasted mackerel. I washed my face and sat down on the floor to eat. As I wielded my wooden chopsticks, I noticed an envelope on the edge of the tray. When I reached for it she grabbed my hand with her soft fingers.
“Monjo pap mokku, kudaum ei ilkoyo.” Eat first, after that, read.
I did as I was told. She had risen from bed early, and her hair was up and braided and she wore her bright red silk chipao with its high collar and the short skirt riding up above her round knees.
The turnip soup and the rice and the mackerel were delicious. I was hungry and finished it quickly. She cleared the bowls, asking me if I wanted more. I told her not to bother. She handed me the envelope.
Inside was a piece of blank paper with a neatly printed series of numerals.
“RCP’s,” she said.
Ration control plates. The numbers that had been on the phony ration control plates the print shop had embossed for the killer.
Also inside the envelope was a small black-and-white photograph, and a list of four names and serial numbers that had appeared on bogus military identification cards. Each name was associated with one of the ration control plates. When a customer approaches the door of the PX or commissary, an attendant checks his ID card and RCP to make sure everything matches.
I studied the photograph. Short, light brown hair. A square face with a crooked jaw. A nose that had been broken somewhere along the line, tight lips, lifeless eyes. The Chinese girl looked down at the photo and shuddered.
He seemed like any normal GI-but mean.
I twisted the photo so the light from the naked bulb above us would hit it more clearly. Tiny scars, barely visible, ran along his cheeks and the ridge of his nose. There were others on his chin and at the side of his jaw, extending back toward his ears.
I handed the photo to the Chinese woman, tracing the scars with my finger. She nodded, very solemn.
“Orin i ddei, nugu deiryosso,” she said. When he was a child, someone beat him.
She had to be right. It was obvious that no one would’ve been capable of whipping him that badly and leaving so many scars once he reached adulthood.
That’s all I needed. A vicious, abused mongrel. The eyes in the photograph didn’t look particularly intelligent, but that could be deceiving. His actions so far had been swift, brutal, and cunning.
I didn’t want to leave, but the sun would be coming up soon and I had a lot of work to do. I kissed the hands and lips of the Chinese woman, trying to convince myself that she was real. She bowed as I left.
I strode out of the yoguan, her gentle fragrance still lingering about me, the killer’s face clutched in my fist.
30
I arrived at the CID office early. When Riley showed up, he pitched in and helped me. We compared the photograph the slicky boys had given me to MP mug shots and the long lists of AWOL GI’s and the photos the Korean National Police had sent along.
It took us over an hour. When we finished we still had nothing. No match.
“He’s not an AWOL GI,” Riley said. “And if he mustered out of the army and came back to Korea, he hasn’t raised enough hell, as far as the KNP’s are concerned, for them to bother taking his mug shot.”
“He’s the cautious type,” I said. “He wouldn’t have let himself be picked up for anything trivial.”
“No.”
Miss Kim came in, silently handed us two steaming cups of coffee, and removed the old ones. We were too preoccupied to thank her.
“But the print shop guy told you he used to be a GI?” Riley asked.
“Yeah. What he said exactly was Migun.” I snapped my fingers. Most of the U.S. forces in Korea are army units. But there is a sizable air force presence and even a small contingent of navy. “What that means literally is ‘American military person.'”
Riley was puzzled by my excitement.
“It doesn’t necessarily mean army,” I explained. “This guy could’ve been air force or navy.”
“You’re right,” Riley said. “A sailor who jumped ship or a zoomie who got tired of rocketing around the universe.”
Ernie walked in, a copy of the Stars amp; Stripes folded under his arm. Blue bags sagged beneath his eyes. Miss Kim swiveled on her typing chair and started pounding away on the keys, producing nothing coherent.
Riley studied Ernie. “Late night?”
