in terror. Stepping back, he held up his hands.
'Na kuriqu an hagosipposo!' I didn't want to do it!
Herman either didn't understand or didn't listen. He grabbed the boy by his narrow shoulders and slammed him up against the brick wall. As thick fingers clutched his neck, the boy started to croak. Rivulets of rain ran from his short black hair, puddled in his eyes, and streamed down his cheeks.
Ernie shoved Herman. 'Let him down! George will interrogate him.'
Herman hesitated, glaring. Finally, his fingers curled open and he eased the boy to the mud. I made Herman back up a few steps and then leaned over.
'Orini oddiso?' I asked the boy. Where's the child?
He answered in quavering Korean.
'I don't know of any child. All I know is that men came and forced my grandfather to make dumplings, using the meat they gave to us.'
'Did you know what kind of meat that was?'
The boy shook his head. 'I don't know. I don't know.'
The shout came from behind us. 'Manji-jima!' Don't touch him!
We all turned.
The old cook stood in the doorway, a huge meat cleaver in his hand, his face twisted like the mask of a demon.
Herman seemed not even to notice the cleaver. He sloshed forward through the mud, heading directly toward the cook. The old man raised the heavy chopper. Herman stopped.
'We've had enough!' the old man said in Korean. 'This is the second time today foreigners have tormented us. No more!'
Herman stared at the old man and the blade. Then he suddenly lunged forward, ramming his big round head into the man's narrow chest. The blade slammed down, twisting in midair, thudding onto Herman's back.
The two men crashed back into the kitchen. Pots clattered onto cement, sizzling oil splashed against flesh, smoke and flames leapt up toward the ceiling.
The boy screamed.
'Christ, Herman!' Ernie yelled. He glanced toward me, a smile starting to curve across his lips. 'That guy's crazier than I am.'
We ran into the kitchen and pulled them apart. I grabbed an earthen jar of barley tea and poured it over the burning spots where hot oil had splattered onto their arms and necks. Using a can of flour, Ernie put out the small fire. In the serving area, all the tables and chairs were empty, customers vanished, plates of hot food abandoned.
We jerked the two combatants to their feet. Ernie had the old cook shoved up against the wall, his forearm pried beneath his wrinkled neck. Herman stood huffing and puffing, his eyes watery as if he was about to cry. In Korean, I yelled at the old man.
'Who were the men who brought the meat? Who told you to make the dumplings?'
The old man shook his head. 'I don't know. Foreigners.
'Americans?'
'No. At first I thought they might be Japanese, but they spoke some strange language. Not Japanese.'
The cook was old enough to have lived through the occupation of Korea that ended with the Japanese surrender at the close of World War II. He'd know if the foreigners were Japanese. They weren't.
'Had you ever seen these men before?'
'Never. It was as if they were demons who floated in on the monsoon clouds.'
'From Asia then?'
'Maybe.'
'How many of them were there?'
'Five. Maybe six.'
'How did they talk to you? How did they tell you what they wanted done?'
'In GI talk.'
'You understand English?'
'No. Just a few words. Mostly they pointed, gave me the meat. Made me make the dumplings.'
'How did you know where to deliver them?'
'When the dumplings were finished, they took them, and took my grandson.'
I turned to the boy and jabbed a thumb toward Herman.
'How did you know where he lives?'
'I didn't.' The boy's lips started to tremble. I turned back to Ernie.
'Let the old man down,' I said. 'But keep an eye on the hatchet.'
Ernie reluctantly released his hold on the cook and even helped him straighten his grease-splattered tunic. A sense of hope entered the boy's dark eyes. Herman breathed more heavily. The boy tensed again.
'If you didn't know where this man lived,' I asked him, gesturing toward Herman, 'how did you know where to deliver the dumplings?'
'They went with me.'
'All of them?'
'Just one. The one with the thing wrapped around his head.' The boy swirled his forefinger in a circle above his skull.
'The thing? A hat?'
'No. Rags.'
A turban, I thought, but I didn't know the Korean word.
'So this man with the rags on his head guided you to the home and ordered you to deliver the dumplings?'
'Yes. And he waited outside while I delivered them.'
I translated for Ernie. His eyes widened slightly. Mi-ja's kidnappers-at least one of them-had been close. Very close.
'Did he pay you?' I asked the boy.
'No.' The boy seemed surprised.
'Then why'd you do it?'
'They were going to hurt my grandfather.'
At that, the old man rolled up his sleeves. His underarm was lined with cigarette burns, the same type of wounds the kidnappers had branded on Herman.
Out front, the door slammed open. We heard voices. Korean voices. Men.
'KNPs,' Herman whispered. 'Let's get out of here.'
I was reluctant. The Korean National Police would interrogate the dumpling house owner and his grandson thoroughly. They might learn something we hadn't. Something useful.
Herman yanked on my arm. 'Come on,' he urged. 'Those guys'll kill Mi-ja if I don't keep the Korean police out of this.'
I allowed him to pull me through the back door of the kitchen. Ernie followed.
In a few seconds, we were lost in the catacombs of Itaewon. A police whistle sliced through the rainy night.
When we reached Herman's Hooch, Slicky Girl Nam was holding her hair out to the sides of her head with splayed fingers. Screaming. Her eyes were glazed. A teenaged girl stood next to her. Cringing.
Herman strode up to his wife and shouted, 'Nam!'
When she didn't stop screaming, he slapped her with his fat, rough hand.
The flesh of Nam's face shook and she looked up at Herman, surprised.
'What happened?' he asked.
'Chonhua,' she answered. Telephone.
Herman looked at the girl. She wore a black skirt and white blouse and black tunic. A middle-school uniform. Her glossy hair was in braids. The girl motioned toward the gate. All of us, including Slicky Girl Nam, followed her
