“Shangnom-ah!” Ernie shouted.
Another kimchee cab swerved in front of us, horn blaring, and Ernie slammed on his brakes and cursed again. We were winding our way through the heavy midday downtown Inchon traffic, heading for the Huang Hei Medical Center, the hospital where the young female blackjack dealer had been taken. The one who’d been shot.
Korean curse words Ernie had down pat. “Common lout” is what shangnom means. Rough talk in the Korean lexicon. He turned to me.
“Why the hell do you want to go to the hospital anyway?”
“I want to see,” I said.
“See what? She’s a dealer in a casino. Young, female, twenty-two years old. Her name is Han Ok-hi. She was shot with a bullet that appears to be. 45 caliber, from a gun that is probably yours. What else do you want to know?”
For a moment I thought I’d punch him. For the first time since I’d met Ernie Bascom, in all the months we’d worked together and arrested bad guys together and run the ville together, I had an overwhelming urge to lean across the gear shift and punch him flush upside his Anglo-Saxon head.
But I didn’t. Instead, I held onto my knees and stared straight ahead. It’s a trait, part of Mexican-American culture, I’m told, to become very quiet when confronted or angry. To do nothing but think-or better yet, to let your body decide whether to strike or wait and let it pass.
Ernie glanced at me and then glanced again, quickly returning his attention to the swirling traffic, maybe seeing something in me that he hadn’t seen before.
For the rest of the ride, he kept his mouth shut.
The nurse at the reception desk, with her straight black bangs and her immaculately white uniform, was surprised that I could speak Korean. But when Ernie flashed his badge and I told her what we wanted, she gave us directions to the room of Han Ok-hi. On the first floor, she said, toward the rear of the hospital. Chonghuanja Sil, she said. Critical Care Unit.
We received even more stares as we strode down the long cement corridors of the Huang Hei Medical Center. Nurses and patients swiveled to see; even the doctors looked up from their work. GIs are seldom seen in the City of Inchon. With a total population of about 500,000, only a tiny fraction-maybe two dozen-are GIs assigned to the transportation security unit at the Port of Inchon. Other foreigners, for example the merchant marines who visit the city by the thousands every year, stay mostly near the strip of bars and brothels outside the main gates of the Port of Inchon. Tourists are almost non-existent; except for the Hong Kong and Japanese high-rollers who visit the big Olympos Hotel and Casino overlooking the entrance to the bay.
3
Two sad-faced Koreans, a man and a woman, sat in a reception area in front of the double-doored entrance to the Critical Care Unit. The nurse at the front desk had already told me they were here: the parents of Han Ok-hi. I was afraid to pause and talk to them. After all, what would I say? I’m the guy who allowed some crazy woman to steal his pistol so your daughter could be shot? Pity welled up in me for this middle-aged couple, but for the moment, I prayed they didn’t know who I was or what I had done. Cowardly, yes. But if they dragged me down into their anguish, I might drown before I finished the job I knew I had to do.
Without acknowledging them, Ernie and I pushed through the double doors and into the ward.
The inner chamber of the Critical Care Unit was bathed in a green glow. As we waited for our eyes to adjust to the dim light, a blue-smocked technician, and then a doctor, confronted us.
The doctor’s name tag said Oh.
Ernie showed his badge.
“Han Ok-hi,” I said. “Where is she?”
Doctor Oh insisted we put on face masks. A pair were found for us, then he ushered us down a corridor. Patients lay on beds surrounded by paraphernalia: tubes, bottles, air bags, beeping respirator machines. Finally, we stopped. The doctor pointed.
Her feet only reached two-thirds of the way down the bed. A loose plastic mask covered most of her face; the mask gently filled, then deflated. Her black hair had been shoved into a translucent blue cap. Tubes were stuck into her arms and down her throat and into other strategic spots around her body.
Doctor Oh tried to stop me, but I couldn’t help myself. I reached out and touched the palm of her hand. It was much colder than it should’ve been.
This was my fault. Sure, I knew rationally that it was the criminals involved who were responsible. Not me. But that couldn’t change my feelings. That couldn’t change the debt I owed to this small young woman whose fingers lay cold and limp in my palm. It was a matter of honor now. I had to find the men who did this. Not for the Korean National Police, nor for the 8th Army Criminal Investigation Division. Not even for Han Ok-hi herself. But for me.
Dr. Oh grabbed my elbow. Even through his mask, I could tell he was frowning.
“Will she live?” I asked.
Doctor Oh shrugged.
On a coat rack near the bed hung a long traditional Korean silk skirt. I let go of Han Ok-hi’s hand and stepped toward it. The silk was hand-embroidered in red on a pale pink background. Flowers. Mugung-hua. The Rose of Sharon. The national flower of Korea. Then I remembered. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the strip of silk I’d found under the desk that belonged to the owner of the Olympos Hotel and Casino. The material hung loosely in my hands, and I realized it was the short blouse that matched this long skirt hanging next to the supine body of Miss Han Ok-Hi. As I hung it on the rack next to the skirt, Dr. Oh stared at me curiously.
He grabbed my elbow again and walked me down the hallway. Ernie followed. At the entranceway, the doctor motioned for us to step outside.
When I hesitated, he slipped off his mask and said, “It was your gun?” His English was precise, expertly pronounced.
I nodded.
“Would you like to see a doctor?”
Before I could answer the double doors burst inward. The middle-aged couple we had seen outside, the parents of Han Ok-hi, stood still for a moment, as if bewildered. Then the woman’s eyes focused on me, and her round face contorted in rage. Somehow, she’d found out who I was. Her husband grabbed her arm, trying to pull her back, but she bulled her way across the tiled floor until she stood in front of me.
Her husband looked disheveled, his suit coat wrinkled, his collar loose and his brown tie askew. She wore a traditional Korean chima-chogori, the skirt and blouse of white silk with blue embroidery, as if she were on her way to church. Or a Confucian ceremony.
Apparently, hospital gossip had reached her already. She knew that her daughter had been shot by an American gun. One that had been lost in a most irresponsible manner. And she wasn’t happy with me. That much was clear.
“Tangshin!” she screamed. You!
Then she opened her fingers wide, sharp nails pointing at my face, and charged.
The thieves carrying my. 45 and badge walked into the Olympos Casino at eleven hundred hours, the minute it opened. They presented themselves to the security guard- speaking English, flashing my CID badge-and the guard ushered them behind the blackjack tables to the desk of the casino manager, Mr. Bok.
This is another example of the power of Americans in Korea. In the early Seventies, with the United States still in the throes of the Cold War tussle between capitalism and communism, the military junta running Korea receives millions of dollars annually in American military and economic aid. Therefore, representatives of the U.S. Government-even lowly GIs-are not questioned. We’re presumed to be legitimate. Questioning a GI would be like questioning cash.
The blond-haired criminal told Mr. Bok that they were from 8th Army CID. They were investigating a case concerning a GI who had been frequenting the casino, attempting to buy American currency with Korean won. Mr. Bok denied that there had been any such transaction. Buying American dollars with Korean won is a widespread
