The back door of the Grand Ole Opry Club creaked open and a sliver of light bit into the dirty darkness of the narrow alleyway. A figure emerged. A young Korean man, wrapped in a heavy coat, a white shirt and a bow tie barely visible beneath it. He stepped out into the alley and slammed the door behind him. Ernie and I hid in the shadows-he on one side of the alley, me on the other-holding our breath. Without looking to either side, the bartender marched past us, hands shoved deep into his pockets. At the end of the alleyway, he turned a corner and Ernie and I emerged from the shadows.
Following.
Itaewon is an endless maze.
Narrow pedestrian lanes zigzag every which way because the homes and hooches and stores and brothels were plopped down every which way. So now, with frigid moonlight shining down and the midnight curfew finally upon us, Ernie and I were having trouble keeping up with the young bartender. We couldn’t run or he’d hear our footsteps. Periodically, we had to stop and listen for his. But he kept turning this way and that, like a very intelligent rat winding his way through a maze. Finally, headlights flashed against a wall. Ernie and I ducked into darkness- a recessed wooden gate in a cement brick wall.
“White mice,” Ernie said. The curfew cops. Their jeeps were painted white and their uniforms were white, supposedly so they wouldn’t be mistaken, after curfew, for North Korean intruders and be shot by their fellow cops. Ernie and I were not dressed in white and therefore were subject to being shot. Few people were actually gunned down for a curfew violation. Usually, what happened was that the white mice took the violator into custody, locked him or her up overnight at the local police station, and in the morning a relative came by to vouch for them and profusely apologize to the cops for having caused them any inconvenience. Of course, they also had to pay a fine. G.I. s would be similarly detained, but the MPs would be called and their transgressions would end up on the 8th Army blotter report.
Ernie and I were protected by our CID badges which allowed us to be out after curfew. Still, we didn’t want to talk to the white mice because we didn’t particularly want anyone taking note of our stalking the Grand Ole Opry bartender. Another reason we hid from the white mice was because it was always possible that the curfew cops would make a mistake-or be having a bad day-and we would be shot on sight. Perfectly permissible in a country trying to protect itself from 700,000 half-crazed Communist soldiers stationed just thirty miles north of their capital city.
We stayed hidden and when the beam of the headlights passed on, we breathed a sigh of relief. We resumed following the young bartender. Ernie ran to the intersection where we had last spotted him and stopped; we both listened. Pots and pans clanged. A stray voice shouted in the distance. Far away, a dog barked.
No footsteps.
We stood listening for a long time. Perspiration ran down my forehead. I wiped it out of my eyes.
Nothing. No sound.
I checked one intersection, Ernie checked another. Then we returned to where we had started.
“Shit,” Ernie said finally.
My sentiments exactly. We’d lost him.
Ernie snorted.
Using back alleys, we made our way the mile or so to Yongsan Compound. At the main gate, I talked to the MP and, citing law enforcement solidarity, I asked him not to write us up for having returned to compound after curfew. Even though CID agents were allowed to be out after curfew, the gate guards were supposed to make a record of our return, but I didn’t need grief from the first sergeant.
The MP listened-at this late hour no honchos were around anyway-and he finally agreed. Ernie promised to buy him a drink at the NCO Club. But since the MP didn’t drink, Ernie was at a loss as to how to reward him.
I just said thank you.
11
The next morning, Doc Yong pulled me out of her office and into the back hallway. “No time now, Geogi,” she said. “Too many girls sick.”
Influenza was storming its way through Itaewon. G.I. s on compound were coming down with it too, especially the ones who had avoided taking the mandatory annual vaccination. So far, neither Ernie nor I had any symptoms; we’d taken our shots.
Doc Yong waited for me to say what I’d come to say. I asked her about health certificates. Specifically, the one belonging to the Grand Ole Opry bartender.
Of course, he had one. Everyone who worked in a food or beverage establishment was required to be checked for communicable diseases, particularly tuberculosis, a scourge that ran rampant after the Korean War. She looked it up in her files. His name was Noh Bang-ok. Then she gave me his local address here in Itaewon and his home of record, an address in Mapo. Next, I asked if Horsehead had a county health certificate.
Doc Yong stared at me, her eyes wide. She knew something, I’m not sure what. Maybe she’d heard of our altercation last night. While she stared, I studied her soft flesh and hungered for its touch.
“Horsehead doesn’t need a health certificate,” she finally said.
“Why not?”
She looked at me as if I were dumb.
“He own Itaewon,” she said. “Owner don’t need nothing.”
She was busy and exasperated with me and exhausted by the full waiting room in her little clinic. That’s why her English was deteriorating.
“How’s Miss Kwon?” I asked.
“Better.” Then she shook her head. “Everywhere hurt but anyway she start work last night.”
“Still at the King Club?”
She nodded.
I wondered if Miss Kwon had been involved in the white-on-black fighting last night. I hoped not. I thanked Doc Yong for the information and started to leave. She grabbed my elbow. I was surprised at how cool her fingertips felt on my skin.
“Last night,” she said, “everybody say Horsehead punch you.”
I nodded. He did more than that. He also threatened my life but I didn’t tell her that.
“Chosim,” she said. Be careful.
Once again, I nodded, almost a bow this time, and left.
As I made my way through the waiting room, business girls, their puffy faces splotched and naked, stared at me. I wondered why but probably they’d heard of Horsehead’s threats too. Maybe they were studying someone who they expected, any minute now, would be dead.
Ernie and I checked the bartender’s address in Itaewon. His landlord told us that early this morning he’d packed his few belongings and moved on. No, he hadn’t left a forwarding address. I had to believe that Noh Bang-ok was a clever young man. He’d spotted us last night, following him, and he’d taken evasive maneuvers. He’d also realized that from here on out things were going to get rough. We’d want to interview him and whoever was behind the murder of Two Bellies might decide that he knew too much to be allowed to go on living. Whatever his motivation, there was no doubt he was scared. Nobody in this country leaves a good paying job on a lark. Noh Bang-ok was running. To where? I could only hope he’d act like most frightened people and return to the place where he felt safest. In this case, his hometown of Mapo.
We returned to Yongsan Compound, gassed up the jeep, and then drove over to the CID office. I told Staff Sergeant Riley where we were going.