The Turkey Lady stared at Ernie blankly for a moment and I was prepared for the usual criminal response that always added up to something like “I know nothing.” I was already planning my counter move. But, as it turned out, I didn’t need to threaten her.
“Come on,” the Turkey Lady responded. “I show you.”
We left the little office with its couch and its coffee table and walked back into the hallway. We were halfway down the corridor when I stopped dead in my tracks.
“What the hell is this?”
The Turkey Lady stopped, as did Ernie and Ok-hi.
I shone my flashlight into a room less than half the size of all the others.
“That new girl room,” the Turkey Lady said.
“New girl room?”
“Long time ago, when new cherry girl come Turkey Farm, maybe she don’t like sleep with smelly GI. She don’t like have boom-boom.” Sex. “So house mama-san make her sleep in this room.”
“It’s too small to sleep in,” Ernie said. “You can’t even sit down.”
“Yeah. Pretty soon she tired, pretty soon she tell mama-san she want sleep in her own room. Then GI come, no sweat.”
“And if she gutted it out?” I asked. “If she didn’t ask for a larger room?”
“Then mama-san knuckle-sandwich with her. Maybe papa-san, too.”
The Turkey Lady told us all this in a matter-of-fact tone, the years, and maybe the repetition, having leached away any emotion the story might’ve once held for her. Had she once been a “cherry girl” banished to this narrow closet? I wanted to know but there were too many things I wanted to know and we had work to do. Besides, the reason I’d stopped everyone here was not because of the small size of the room but because of what it contained. I shined my flashlight on an open, crate-like framework with a matting of straw at the bottom. Inside the cheap packaging stood a vase. Greenish blue. Celadon, the type manufactured most perfectly during the Koryo Dynasty, more than seven centuries ago. Intricately painted white cranes floated skyward on a blue green background. Wispy clouds, like knotted strings of fluff, glided heavenward. The glow of the flashlight made the delicate porcelain seem not like a solid object but like a dreamscape of jade shading off into infinity. For a moment, I thought I heard the wings of the white cranes flapping but actually it was only Ok-hi, and even Ernie, gasping for breath.
Breathtaking. That was the word. I don’t think I’d ever seen such an exquisite work of art this close up. Sure, when I was a kid in L.A. we’d gone on field trips to the L.A. County Museum but everything had been trapped behind plastic or glass, safe from our grasping little hands. This vase was alive. It was right here. It was as if the ancient artist stood in the room with us. Smiling. Taking a bow.
“Chon hak byong,” Ok-hi said, in reverential tones. The Thousand Crane Vase.
The Turkey Lady beamed.
“Who’s this for?” Ernie asked.
The Turkey Lady waved her hand. “Some honcho. Come on. I show you roof.”
At the far end of the corridor a rickety wooden ladder led up to a trapdoor in the ceiling. The Turkey Lady climbed up the ladder quickly, her jade skirt billowing. Then she reached up and pushed open the trapdoor and, as she climbed through, Ok-hi, Ernie, and I were treated to a full view of her undergarments, white cotton pantaloons. Then Ernie climbed up followed by Ok-hi and me.
We stood on the flat roof, then strolled around, staring over a three-foot-high cement wall. The entire world of Tongduchon spread before us: The blazing lights of the nightclub district; meandering moonglow reflecting off the East Bean River; the empty darkness of the rice fields to the west. And to the east, the sporadic blinking of the scattered bulbs of Camp Casey. I turned and inhaled the fresh winter air. The cold breeze floated in from the north, off snowcapped mountain ranges. Having blown, I imagined, across Manchuria, all the way from the mysterious heart of Siberia.
A lean-to had been set up, with sturdy wooden poles and a canvas top secured by ropes, probably part of an old bivouac tent used in field maneuvers. Beneath, on a wooden platform, comfortable tatami mats were spread, topped by flat silk cushions, the kind of cushions Koreans use when they sit cross-legged on a warm ondol floor. Huatu, Korean flower cards, lay scattered about, interspersed with a few Bicycle brand U.S. playing cards. A small refrigerator near the elevated platform was plugged into a transformer and humming. I opened it and, using my flashlight, examined the contents within: bottles of soda water, orange juice, about a dozen cans of beer.
Ernie leaned past me and helped himself to one of the cold beers. After popping the top and taking a slug, he handed the half-empty can to Ok-hi. She sipped daintily.
“Nice set up they have here,” Ernie said.
I turned to the Turkey Lady. She’d slipped off her plastic sandals, stepped up on the tatami-covered platform, and seated herself, legs crossed, on one of the flat cushions. Reaching into the folds of her skirt, she pulled out a pack of Kent cigarettes and then a Bic lighter and toked up. Exhaling gratefully, she surveyed her little domain, a beatific smile spread across her lips.
“Who comes up here, Ajjima?” I asked. “GIs?”
She shook her head vehemently. “Not all GI. Only MP come here. They can’t go village.” She pointed to the nightclub district to the south. “So MP come here.”
Every MP unit in the U.S. Army counsels its soldiers not to spend their off-duty time in the same hangouts as other soldiers. Too often when a GI becomes drunk and remembers being busted by an MP, trouble starts. To set up their own little getaway, their own little club, is not unusual. And it seems that the 2nd Division MPs had a nice one here on top of this dilapidated former brothel in the heart of the Turkey Farm.
I surveyed the patio. During the day, when the sun shone, it would be a nice place to party. I spotted something against the far wall and shined the flashlight on it.
“Hibachi,” Ernie said. “They barbecued up here, too.”
“Which MPs came up here?” I asked the Turkey Lady.
“Any MP. Any Camp Casey MP. All the time they bring yobo.” Their Korean girlfriends. “They bring music, they bring beer, they play poker, they have fun. Sometimes laugh, sometimes argue, sometimes fight.”
She frowned and blew smoke out of her nose.
“How about Druwood?” I asked. “Where was he standing when he fell?”
“Right there.” She pointed to the spot where Ernie and Ok-hi stood, near the edge. “But he no fell.”
I walked over and followed Ernie’s gaze. Below, straight across the walkway stood the heitei. I shined the flashlight at it. Even from here I could see that the heitei’s ear had been shattered. Maybe it was a trick of the light but his fangs and cruel lips seemed to be twisted up toward me and his eyes stared into mine.
I switched off the beam of light and turned back to the Turkey Lady. “Druwood didn’t fall? Are you saying someone pushed him?”
I no see.”
“Then why do you say he didn’t fall?”
“Because I hear.” She pointed to her left ear. “They taaksan argue. Argue a lot. Everybody mad at Druwood. Say he better go back stateside. He no can handle be Division GI.”
“What did they mean by that? Why couldn’t he handle it?”
“Because MP in Camp Casey, they got special job. Kind job other MP no have.”
“What kind of job is that?”
She knew she had our attention now. Slowly, the Turkey Lady drew deeply on her American-made cigarette, held it, then blew out the smoke.
“Division MP, they gotta take care of honcho. Korean honcho. GI honcho. All kinda honcho. But they don’t mind. They get many things. They makey extra money black market, they get plenty kind of special girlfriend. They get free beer, free food, all the time good time. Everybody happy.”
“Sounds nice,” Ernie said. “But who pays for all this free food and free booze and free women?”
The Turkey Lady waved her right arm in a circle. “Black market pay all. Everybody happy. Nobody sad.”
“Except for Druwood,” I said.
“Yeah. He sad. That’s why all MP mad at him.”
“What did they say to him?”
“I don’t know. I don’t listen. You ask them.”
“Ask who?”
