Ernie and I rose from the sofa. She shook my hand.
“And one more thing,” she said. “When you find Paco, don’t hurt him. Jessica would never forgive me.”
“We’ll try not to hurt anybody, ma’am,” I said.
We walked down the long driveway to Ernie’s jeep. Mrs. Tidwell stood at the huge entranceway to the J-2’s quarters and watched until we drove away.
Ernie glanced at me as he rounded a corner. “Sticking our necks out for the brass. I’m not sure I like it.”
“I figure we’re doing it for Eighth Army.”
Ernie raised one eyebrow and asked again. “What has Eighth Army ever done for you?”
We were just leaving Yongsan Compound South Post and crossing the MSR, the Main Supply Route. I waved my hand toward Itaewon.
“Eighth Army’s given me all this,” I said. “And this.” I plucked the front of my white shirt and tie.
Ernie grunted and wheeled the jeep between the barricade that led to main post.
At the Yongsan Compound Military Police Arms Room, Staff Sergeant Palinki, the Unit Armorer, presented me with a well-oiled. 45 automatic and matching shoulder holster. Ernie was already carrying. He was supposed to have turned the weapon in when we were stripped of our investigative duties but he hadn’t bothered. Ernie handed over his weapon and allowed Palinki to perform a quick maintenance check and cleaning.
“Bad boys,” Palinki said. “This will make them think twice before messing with you two.”
“Nobody messes with us, Palinki,” Ernie said.
“Nobody. Sure, boss. Nobody mess with Sueno and Bascom. In case they do though… ” He pointed a big finger at the business end of the. 45. “This is the part you point at them, brother. Make them think twice. If they don’t be good boys, you blow their fucking heads off, OK brother?”
Ernie offered Palinki a stick of ginseng gum. The big man took two. He chomped on them both and grinned as we slipped into our leather straps, holstered the. 45s with the grips pointing out, and then put on our jackets over them.
“Nobody know you packing,” Palinki said.
Nobody except somebody who might wonder why we had two-inch-wide bulges under our armpits.
We saluted Sergeant Palinki and left.
10
I was the only CID agent-or MP for that matter-in the entire Republic of Korea who could speak Korean. Not that I received any credit for having slaved in night classes. On the contrary, I was most often accused of being “too close to the Koreans.” The honchos wouldn’t admit that actually talking to the people you’re investigating can sometimes help.
Ernie, on the other hand, could move in any low-life circles. Whether the G.I. s off post were druggies or criminals or perverts on the prowl for unmentionable delights, Ernie could gain their confidence. Probably it was Vietnam that had done it to him. He spent two tours there. On the first he’d bought marijuana and hashish like most G.I. s but on his second tour all the marijuana and hash had disappeared, replaced now by vials of pure China White. A plan encouraged by the North Vietnamese to incapacitate American soldiers, he thought. Upon returning to the States, Ernie found the willpower to lay off drugs. He switched to booze, a perfectly acceptable alternative as far as the United States Army is concerned. I admired him for his strength of will and his ability to move chameleon-like from one world to the other.
But what ultimately forced the provost marshal and the other honchos at 8th Army to tolerate George Sueno and Ernie Bascom was that Ernie and I were the only investigators in country willing and able to waltz right into any G.I. village and come back with the goods. The other CID agents were tight-asses. They didn’t know how to conduct themselves in nightclubs or bars or brothels and they froze up, acting stilted and embarrassed. And, of course, none of them could speak the language. Neither the language of the people of Korea nor the language of the night.
Eighth Army needed Ernie and me. And because there was a lot more G.I. crime off compound than 8th Army liked to admit-which was the reason they kept the SIRs under lock and key-the skills of George Sueno and Ernie Bascom were, if not prized, at least tolerated. But you wouldn’t have known it by the scowling countenances of the CID first sergeant and the 8th Army Provost Marshal, Colonel Brace.
“You went over my head,” Colonel Brace told us.
Ernie and I kept quiet.
“Out of nowhere,” Colonel Brace continued, “the CG’s chief of staff calls me and says that I’m to reinstate your full investigative powers and to hell with what the Korean National Police might think. And, furthermore, I’m to let you concentrate full time on the Jessica Tidwell case.”
Ernie and I hadn’t been asked a question, so we didn’t respond.
“Don’t you have anything to say for yourselves?” Colonel Brace asked.
“The KNPs are just playing games,” Ernie replied, “embarrassed that we’re digging up old, and not-so-old, skeletons in their closets. They’re using the murder of Two Bellies to badger us into dropping the investigation.”
This seemed to make Colonel Brace even angrier.
“I don’t give a damn about this Two Bellies. But I do give a damn about unidentified G.I. bones. You keep looking for them and to hell with the ROKs.” Now Colonel Brace jabbed his forefinger at us. “And by god you’d better find Jessica Tidwell and find her fast before something happens to her. You got that?”
What he was so angrily telling us to do was exactly what the chief of staff had just ordered him to do. Pretending you’re a tough guy while slavishly following orders is an excellent way to enhance your career in the United States Army.
Ernie and I nodded.
Once Colonel Brace dismissed us, we saluted and walked back through the CID Admin Office. Both Staff Sergeant Riley and Miss Kim sat at their desks, pretending to be engrossed in their work. Neither one of them looked up at us.
Out in the parking lot, Ernie said with exasperation in his voice, “Lifer bullshit.”
Huatu, Korean flower cards, is played with twelve suits that are identified by vegetation. The suits follow the seasonal progressions. The first suit is January and features the evergreen pine; the next suit is February and is symbolized by brightly splashed paintings of purple plum flowers. The suit representing March is festooned with red cherry blossoms opening in early spring. Colorful stuff. Idyllic. But in contrast, actually gambling with huatu is a ferocious exercise.
The friends of the late Two Bellies surrounded the tattered old army blanket and took turns slapping the tough little plastic cards atop a pile of bronze coins, all the while cursing, grabbing money, and surveying every move as the next player took her turn. If a player stuck her hand into the center at the wrong time, one of the flying cards would have sliced off a finger.
When Ernie and I stepped onto the creaking wooden floorboards outside the hooch, the group of women stopped their game and gazed up at us.
“We know nothing,” one of them said.
Each of the retired business girls-women who were so aggressive only seconds ago-now seemed frozen in fear.
“Who killed Two Bellies?” Ernie asked.
No answer.
“Was it the Seven Dragons?”
Still no answer.
Ernie stepped past the open sliding door, grabbed the edge of the army blanket, and in one deft movement swept it off the floor. Flower cards and coins and ashtrays and lit cigarettes flew everywhere. Strangely, none of the women screamed. They merely scooted back on the warm vinyl floor until their backs were protected. Some of them covered their knees with their arms and looked down. Others glared at us directly.
“She was your friend,” Ernie said.
Finally, a woman spoke. “She dead. She help you so she dead. You no protect her. You no help Two Bellies.”