Out on the roof, the skyline of Samgakji was visible. Tile-roofed hooches clustered around the main drag of bars and chophouses and yoguans. In the distance were the neat manicured lawns of ROK Army Headquarters and beyond that, the Eighth United States Army. Behind us, vibrating with the low rumble of the endlessly charging herd of kimchi cabs and three-wheeled trucks, loomed the elevated traffic circle for which Samgakji was famous.
We were three stories up. Since this was a skyscraper- by Samgakji standards-our view of the village was unobstructed. I circled the ramparts, scanning the streets below. No Hatcher.
The sky was overcast, no rain, but dark clouds on the horizon, cavorting with the jagged peaks north of Seoul.
Ernie shouted, pointing, leaning over the edge. 'Got him! The son of a bitch took the damn fire escape!'
Before I could try to reason with him, Ernie was rappelling down the creaking metal ladder like a monkey on his way to a coconut feed.
Whenever we're after a suspect, and we have the full weight and authority of military law enforcement behind us, Ernie is joyous. Knowing that at the least sign of resistance he'll be able to vent all the violence that is constantly bubbling inside of him. And that no matter how badly he mauls the hapless victim, the honchos at Eighth Army will back him up. The honchos aren't particularly in love with all that Stateside civil liberties stuff, anyway.
Hatcher, though, was a hard case. If Ernie ran head first into him alone, he might be ground into dust before I had a chance to help. And, if we lost Hatcher, the nun would burn herself to death.
I reached the edge of the roof and peered down. Hatcher had dropped the last few feet to the alleyway, hit, rolled, bounced to his feet, and was sprinting toward the neon-decorated heart of the ville.
Ernie was already halfway down the fire escape. Rusty bolts creaked under the strain. Figuring they wouldn't hold my weight, too, I ran back to the stairwell.
Bounding down the steps, I made pretty good time and when I burst through the nightclub downstairs, hit the front door, and emerged on the street, I could still see Hatcher rounding a corner about two blocks down the road. Ernie was a few yards behind him.
In front of the Black Cat Club, Sister Julie, the owner, and the boy with the mop stood watching.
I ran down the street, twisted down a couple of alleys. Up ahead, metal clanged, canvas tore, water splashed, and voices were raised in a cacophony of cursing.
What I saw first was a pochang-macha, a cart that sells soup and dried cuttlefish and soju, tipped over on its side. A rubber wheel spun madly. Feet stuck up in the air. Two men rolled in the mud, punching one another.
Ernie and Hatcher. Kicking and gouging. And Ernie was getting the worst of it.
The owner of the cart, a woman with a bright pink knit cap pulled down over her ears, stood with her hands splayed at the side of her head. Screaming.
Without thinking, I was on Bro Hatch. Punching, mauling, slamming my kneecap into ribs as sturdy as tree branches. I rolled on the ground seeing only grunting flesh and sweaty male bodies.
Ernie's sneakers scraped against gravel. I realized that he had pulled away. Now it was only me and Bro Hatch grappling with one another, rolling on the ground.
As we twirled, I saw a large heavy black pan lift in the air. I never saw it fall. Bro Hatch tugged and whipped me over, and I felt the iron slam into my back. I went limp.
Bro Hatch managed to pull a fist out of somewhere and ram it into my jaw. I almost laughed. Not much power for such a big guy but, of course, he wasn't able to launch his best punch while wrestling on the muddy streets of Samgakji.
The black pan orbited above us and slammed to earth once again. This time it found its mark. I heard a bong and felt it reverberating through the thick skull pressed against my shoulder. The pan raised again and crashed once again into bone.
This time, Hatcher's bloodshot eyes rolled back. He lay still.
As Ernie fumbled with the handcuffs attached to the back of his belt, I unwrapped bearlike arms from around me and raised myself unsteadily to my feet. I inventoried the damage. A few more cuts. A few more bruises. Nothing serious.
After the world stopped spinning, I gazed down at Bro Hatch.
He lay on the ground, his hands cuffed securely behind the small of his back, gnashing his teeth, cursing.
Ernie checked the snugness of the cuffs, straightened, and grinned.
'This is one seriously bad dude,' he said.
I nodded, still trying to slow my breathing.
We hoisted Hatcher to his feet and walked him through the village back toward the Black Cat Club.
I checked my jaw. Not busted. A little bruised. It would heal.
Business girls in shorts and workmen carting crates of Oriental Beer into nightclubs gaped as we passed by. Sister Julie swayed her round butt out into the center of the street and stood with her hands on her hips.
'You think you take Bro Hatch?' She sneered at us. 'No way.'
Hatcher was still groggy, his head lolling between his massive shoulders. Ernie shoved Sister Julie out of the way.
'We got him and we're taking him in,' he said.
'He make you pay later,' Sister Julie smirked, following close at our heels. 'When he get out of monkey house, he punch lights out on two T-shirts.'
'We'll risk it,' I said.
Hatcher submitted meekly as we shoved him into the backseat of the jeep.
Ernie trotted over to an open storefront, dropped a ten-won coin into the public phone, and dialed the number for the Eighth Army Military Police Desk Sergeant. It took a while for the Korean operator to connect the call to the on-post military phone exchange, but finally Ernie got through.
'Suspect in custody,' he said. 'Private First Class Hatcher, Ignatius Q.'
Even from this distance, I heard shouting on the other end of the phone line.
'No,' Ernie said. 'No problem at all. Piece of rice cake.'
A small crowd began to gather around the jeep, staring curiously. All Koreans. GIs were on compound at this time of the duty day. Working. At night, arresting Bro Hatch amidst a teeming mob of half-drunk soul brothers would've been impossible.
Hanging up the phone, Ernie strode back, poked his head into the back of the jeep, and grabbed Hatcher's limp paw. Immediately, Hatcher jerked his hand away. But not before Ernie spotted the tooth marks on his knuckle where the little nun had chomped into him during the attack. Ernie leaned into Hatcher's face.
'There ain't no way out of it, blood. We know everything about it. We got the word from the litde nun out in Itaewon herself.'
Hatcher's head had apparently stopped ringing. He looked up at Ernie.
'You ain't got shit.'
His expression was sullen, wary, and I had the impression that the lines on his still-youthful face were set there in stone at a very early age. But no matter how much he'd been pushed around when he was a child, nobody was pushing Ignatius Q. Hatcher around now. Not without a fight. He was a big man, no question about that, and must've spent a lot of time lifting weights. Even in defeat, he let out a palpable air of menace, an aura of violence that glowed around his bulky shoulders.
Ernie ignored it. He wasn't much into auras.
'Sure we do,' Ernie told him. 'We have the bite marks on your fist and the identification from the nun and the eyewitness testimony of my partner here. He saw you running away.'
'Don't mean nothing.'
Ernie jerked his thumb over his shoulder, toward the sullen Sister Julie. 'And we even have the word from the woman who was there when you beat up the nun.'
Hatcher's head jerked back. 'Sister Julie won't tell you shit.'
Ernie was an expert interrogator. Hatcher had just confirmed that Sister Julie was a witness to the crime. Not even for a second did Ernie allow himself an expression of triumph.
Ernie had been purposely speaking low and rapidly, so Sister Julie wouldn't be able to hear all he said. But she heard her name. With red-tipped claws, she grabbed his arm.
