have nowhere to go.”
I wasn’t sure-if that was true. When the worst happens people always find some path to take. I know. I’d been through it. But I didn’t say so, to Ernie. He believed the Nurse would commit suicide and that’s what was important. And maybe he was right. In Korea, suicide is seen as a romantic act and sometimes a noble one.
Ernie shook his head. “Anyway, we got an asshole to catch. Where to? The Honor Guard barracks?”
“Hell, no.”
“I didn’t think so.”
He slammed the engine in gear and we rolled forward on the slick roadway. At Gate Number 7 the MP whistled us through and we turned left on the Main Supply Route, zigzagging through the traffic toward the greatest nightclub district in Northeast Asia.
Itaewon.
5
The windows of the Kayagum Teahouse were dark and fogged. Ernie pushed through the big double doors and we were greeted by the sharp tang of ammonia. Standing in the entranceway, it took a while for our eyes to adjust to the darkness after being exposed to the dull glare of the morning snow.
All the chairs were turned upside down atop the tables. A young boy, about thirteen or fourteen, mopped the tiled floor. His mouth fell open and he stopped mopping when we walked in. I went back behind the serving counter with its hot plates and teapots and urns and started rummaging through drawers. Looking for something-maybe a business card or an address ledger-anything that might give us a lead on the woman who had called herself Miss Ku.
I wasn’t worried about the rules of evidence. If I found Miss Ku, and turned her over to the Korean National Police, they wouldn’t be either.
Ernie waited by the door.
In a frail, frightened voice the boy called into the back room.
“Ajjima! Yangnom wasso.”
It wasn’t a very nice way to talk. Telling his aunt that a couple of base foreign louts had arrived. But I ignored him and continued to rummage through the drawers.
What I found mainly were knives and spoons and utensils, until finally I spotted a big hardbound ledger. I thumbed through it. It was dogeared and stained with splashes of tea and coffee, and all the entries were dates and amounts of money recorded in won, the Korean currency. I wasn’t getting very far.
Someone pushed through a beaded curtain. Apparently this was the boy’s aunt. The same woman who had greeted us at the door the night before last when we had met Miss Ku here. But today the woman looked different. She wore no makeup, her hair was tied in a red bandana, and a thick wool dress flowed to the floor. She was dressed for warmth at this time of day, not to impress guests.
Her eyes widened and her full lips formed a circle.
“Igot muoya?” What’s this?
I opened the last drawer. Spoons, ashtrays, cubes of black market sugar. Everything the well-equipped teahouse would need. I looked at the woman, raised my finger, and walked toward her.
“Two nights ago,” I said, “we were here and met a young Korean woman at that table.” I pointed to the far wall. “I want you to tell me everything you know about her.”
She stared at me, stunned. Maybe by my brazen attitude. Maybe by my rapid-fire Korean. Maybe both. She found her voice.
“I know nothing about her.”
“But you do remember her?”
“Yes. I was shocked to see such an attractive young woman talking to GI’s.”
“She was too high-class for us?”
“Yes.”
I didn’t take offense. Koreans categorize people by wealth and social position as casually as bird watchers classify red-breasted warblers by genus and species. They don’t mean anything by it. Just the facts of life.
“What was her name?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“But she comes in here often?”
“No. I’ve never seen her before.”
“But there’s someone else who comes in here often who she knows, who she talked to?”
“No. She came in here alone, said nothing to anyone until she talked to you. After you left, she paid the bill and left without saying anything. Who are you anyway? You’re the ones who know her. Not me.”
“It doesn’t matter who we are,” I said. I took a step toward her, pinched my nose with my left hand, then let it go. “You are lying. Tell me how I can find that woman or my friend will get very angry.”
Ernie had been watching me closely and spotted the signal. He took three rapid steps across the room, and as he did so the boy shrank back toward one of the booths. The woman swiveled her head. Without hesitating, Ernie leaned over, hoisted the mop bucket, and flung it twirling end over end through the air until it smashed into the stacks of porcelain cups at the end of the counter.
The woman and boy flinched and covered their faces.
“Who was she?” I asked the woman. “Tell me now or there will be more damage.”
Ernie grabbed the mop and started smashing the handle into the glass candle-holders on each table.
“Stop!” she screamed. “Tell him to stop.”
I grabbed her shoulders. “Who was that woman?”
She was crying now, in fear and anger.
“She came in here before, right?” I said. “She was friends with a woman named Eun-hi who works at the U.N. Club. Isn’t that right? Tell me! Who was she?”
“I don’t know. I only saw her that one time. She never said anything to me.”
The boy scurried away from Ernie, ran toward his aunt, and flung himself into her arms. They hugged, rocking back and forth, tears streaming from their eyes. Crystal and chairs and ashtrays continued to clatter to the floor. I looked at the woman and her nephew, feeling sorry for them. They didn’t know anything about Miss Ku and they didn’t deserve this type of treatment.
I felt ashamed of myself. I wanted to say I was sorry but fought back the urge. I turned.
“Ernie!”
He smashed one more tray of glasses, lowered the mop handle, and looked up. I stepped toward him and twisted my head toward the door. He held the mop handle out, gazed at it as if disappointed, then tossed it to the floor.
When I hit the door he was right behind me, huffing and puffing, excited by the violence.
“What’d she say? She knows where we can find that broad, right?”
“Wrong.” I kept walking. “She doesn’t know squat.”
Ernie’s face soured. He straightened his coat and, like ice quick-freezing on a lake, regained his usual composure.
“Oh, well,” he said. “Some of that glassware was due for replacement anyway.”
We kept walking. Up the hill. Toward the U.N. Club.
I tried not to think of the tears in the eyes of the woman and the little boy, but instead concentrated on the wounds of Cecil Whitcomb.
The U.N. Club didn’t smell nearly as antiseptic as the Kayagum Teahouse. In fact it smelled like a toilet, which is exactly what it was. The aroma of ancient cigarette smoke seemed to seep from the walls even though the cement floors were swabbed with suds. Rotted lemon, stale booze, the reek of the urinals, all of it coalesced to create a blast to the nostrils that I’d never noticed before.
Of course, every other time I’d been in here I’d been drunk. When your belly’s full of beer, the place smells like a field of roses.
