miniskirts appeared in dark doorways.
Ernie and I never had gotten that breakfast we wanted on the compound so we decided to break for some chow at a noodle shop with big steamed windows. We sat up front where, after rubbing a couple of portholes on the plate glass, we had a pretty good view of the street.
A girl of about thirteen took our order. She looked like she should’ve been in school. Two bowls of meiun- tang. Colas. No beer.
“He could be anywhere,” Ernie said.
“Yeah. He might’ve gone to the train station and caught the Blue Line heading north or he might’ve hopped on a bus or he could be next door taking a nap. The only thing we got going for us is that he doesn’t know how close we are.”
“At least we don’t think he knows.”
“Sure. But it doesn’t seem likely. And if he doesn’t know, he’ll do what he wants to do.”
“Which is stay here on Texas Street for a few days?”
“Wouldn’t you? He doesn’t know we have the stolen ration control numbers. If I were him, I’d use the four plates to the max, then head north.”
“So maybe we can stake out the PX tomorrow and catch him when he comes through the door.”
“Yeah. Maybe. But since we can’t count on it we have to stake out Texas Street for now.”
“Tough duty.”
The girl brought our steaming bowls of red broth. A glassy-eyed mackerel stared up at me, surrounded by three clam shells atop a pile of onion shoots. The girl set down the bowls of rice and the plates of fermented cabbage and diced turnip while Ernie and I unwrapped our wooden chopsticks and pried them apart. After pouring our colas, she left us and we dug in; all the while keeping an eye on the people parading through the lively drizzle of Texas Street.
After we finished eating, we paid the girl, left her a little tip which sort of surprised her, and went back to work.
The Texas Street district was composed of one main drag stretching about three blocks, with side streets shooting off from it. We decided to start on the northernmost end, near the black market mama-san’s hooch, and work our way south.
As more and more joints opened, we had more and more opportunities to ask questions and flash Shipton’s photograph. Apparently he hadn’t made a big splash in townbecause every bartender and business girl and boy mopping floors swore they’d never seen him before.
We also checked yoguans. Climbing up creaking staircases that smelled of urine and charcoal smoke, flashing the black-and-white photograph to old men and women who looked as weathered as the wooden buildings they lived in, always receiving the same unknowing stare.
I was beginning to understand why even the ROK Navy investigative services hadn’t been able to collar Shipton.
At midafternoon, a truck with workmen came by and made a big to-do about climbing up power poles and unraveling a cloth banner across the roadway. The wind and rain fought them but they finally unfurled the long canvas, and it rippled out its message: Welcome, U.S.S. Kitty Hawk!
We asked some of the girls in the bars about it and they bubbled with excitement. The Kitty Hawk had already entered the harbor. Tonight the liberty launches would be pulling into the port loaded with American sailors, all wearing tight pants bursting at the seams with three months’ pay.
Girls were pouring in from all over the country, they told us, from as far north as Seoul and Inchon, to get in on the easy money.
“Just what we need,” Ernie said. “Three thousand horny sailors getting in our way. And half of them who look just like Shipton. Or close enough so a bunch of busy Koreans won’t be able to tell the difference.”
I thought about it for a minute. “He planned it this way,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean what better time to make a bunch of runs on the PX than when there’s an aircraft carrier in town? The squids’ll go right over to the compound, load up on cigarettes and scotch, and sell it here on Texas Street to pay for their three days of liberty. The clerks on the compound won’t have time to notice a guy going in and out three or four times a day, each time using a different name.”
“Yeah,” Ernie said. “He’ll just be another sailor.”
“And maybe he plans to run Texas Street, too. The MP’s and Shore Patrol will be too preoccupied with breaking up fights and keeping sailors from tearing down the town to notice what one quiet guy might be up to.”
“So he heard that the Kitty Hawk was on the way in and decided to take a working vacation?”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“But he’s not expecting us to be searching for him.”
“I hope not.”
“So we’ll find him in the crowd.” Ernie thought about it for a minute. “Have to wade through a lot of squids, though. Up to our assholes in squids.”
By the time the sun went down we’d checked out every bar or flophouse or brothel that ever existed on Texas Street. I’d come to the conclusion that Shipton wasn’t here; he was hiding out somewhere else. Still, I believed there was a good chance he’d show that night.
We found a cozy bar where the girls wore their hair up, held in place by jade pins, and floated around the room in the rustling silk of their full-skirted Hanbok gowns. Texas Street catered to just about every taste. Even if you were strange enough to prefer your women elegant and well-dressed.
The girls spoiled the effect of their appearance, however, when I listened to their conversations in Korean. They talked about how to get the most money out of a sailor and how to avoid VD and what to do if you got pregnant.
They were just as foulmouthed as any of the other girls on the street. But I liked the joint. The music was soft and the bar stools comfortable and fish floated in blue aquariums. The gentle notes of a Korean love song warbled out of the sound system. The women here probably serviced over-the-hill bosun’s mates who could hardly get it up anymore.
Another reason I liked this place was that they had draft OB Beer served in frosted mugs. It had been a hard day. Ernie and I were putting them down pretty good. We were both hungry but didn’t feel like leaving the tap, so we gave one of the girls some money and sent her out for “cut bait.”
That’s what we called it because it attracted business girls like schools of fish.
What she brought back was actually small bundles of grease-stained newspaper. She set the bundles down on the bar, unwrapped them, and the aroma of hot onion rings and batter-fried tempura billowed upward. The girls swarmed around us, picking away greedily at the hot slices. Somebody poured soy sauce onto a plate and we all dipped and munched and talked.
We ate as much as we could and enjoyed the girls rubbing their silk-covered bodies against us. After the chow was gone, however, Ernie seemed a little morose., I wondered if it was the fatigue of traveling. After the fourth beer, he started talking.
“She was pregnant,” he said.
“The girl who bought the onion rings?”
“No. The Nurse.”
I set my beer down. Looked at him. Waited.
“She said she wanted to ‘present’ the baby to me, but I didn’t answer her right away.” He sipped on his beer and looked over at me. “That’s why the Nurse said she’d kill herself if my extension didn’t go through.”
“Because the marriage paperwork takes six months?”
“Yeah.” Ernie looked at me, studying my face. “You think we’ll catch this guy?”
I nodded. “We’ll get him.”
He studied my face for a while longer. “Okay,” he said, “I believe you.”
A pack of American sailors burst into the room like Irish banshees on New Year’s Eve. Their black uniforms were neatly pressed and their spotless white hats sat at jaunty angles on their heads. I saw the patch on their left shoulders: U.S.S. Kitty Hawk.
