Maybe they were at the Seven Club because her main employer, Mrs. Bei at the King Club, would’ve nagged her to go home and recuperate rather than immediately return to the money-making grind. Hilliard had her waist pulled in tightly and her legs spread so he could shove his knee up into her. He was almost lifting her off the ground. Control. That’s what this was all about. So Hilliard could show anyone who cared to watch that Miss Kwon, bandages and all, was his and he could do anything he wanted to do with her. For her part, Miss Kwon’s uncovered eye was closed tight, her teeth clenched. I couldn’t be sure from this distance but my guess was that tears were seeping out of her eyes. She was suffering pain, from Hilliard’s grinding knee, and humiliation, from being manhandled like this in public. But she kept her eyes shut and did her best to bear this, the fate that poverty had thrust upon her.
“That son of a bitch,” Ernie said.
At that moment I knew Ernie was gone. There was no stopping him.
Before I could reach out and make the attempt to reason with him, he was shoving his way through the crowd, ignoring the outraged rebukes of G.I. s and business girls alike. Within seconds, he’d grabbed Hilliard by the shoulders and spun him around. Hilliard let go of Miss Kwon and Miss Kwon’s good eye popped open in surprise. And then the left jab shot out and the right and Hilliard staggered back, falling against cocktail tables, flailing wildly with his arms, knocking over glassware and beer bottles and magnums of cheap sparkling wine. Women screamed. G.I. s cursed.
Hilliard was back on his feet now, pointing at Ernie, shouting “Racist attack!”
Like a leopard, Ernie pounced on him and began pummeling away and Hilliard did his best to cover himself. By the time I fought my way through the screaming crowd, a few of Hilliard’s soul brothers had joined the fray. One of them punched Ernie in the back. I pulled the guy away and, keeping his body’s momentum going, twirled him into a fallen cocktail table. While I did this, another friend of Hilliard’s punched me in the side of the head. I crouched, swiveled, and caught him with a left cross as he came in. Breath erupted out of his mouth, he curled over, and I slammed him with a right to the head. He went down.
The place was madness now; everyone was punching everyone else. Even some of the business girls were duking it out with G.I. s, releasing frustrations that had been pent up for years. I found Ernie and pulled him toward the door.
On our way out, Miss Park pointed her finger at me and screamed. What she was saying, I couldn’t hear but it had something to do with “Snake.”
Outside, snow swirled through the air. Ernie and I ran on the slick surface through an alley that led toward the Itaewon Market. The open wooden stalls were deserted. In the morning, farmers would arrive with cabbages and oversized turnips and fist-sized scallions and before dawn the market would be bustling with buyers and sellers. But two hours before the midnight curfew, we stood under a flapping canvas roof, listening to MP sirens howl and the pounding footsteps of squads of KNPs as they made their way toward the melee at the Seven Club.
“What in the hell’s the matter with you?” I said.
“He deserved it,” Ernie replied. “That little girl was just out of the hospital and Hilliard forces her, immediately, to become his sex slave.”
“How do you know she’s his sex slave?”
“Did you see the way he was grinding on her? The way he had his hands on her butt?”
“Hey, Ernie,” I said, “take a deep breath.”
He did. Then he let his shoulders slump.
“You can’t save the world,” I said.
“Maybe not.” Ernie rubbed his knuckles. “But I can pop one son of a bitch upside the head.”
“You did that,” I said. “Royally. But we’re in trouble again,” I continued. “Hilliard’s certain to lodge an EEO complaint.”
“Let him. No jury in the world would convict me.”
I wasn’t so sure about that but, at the moment, we had other things to worry about, like how to find out who murdered Two Bellies, and Horsehead, and where to find Jessica Tidwell. And Snake.
Down the alleyway, a stick tapped and then something thumped. Ernie and I stepped back into the shadows. Behind the turnip stall was another, larger canvas lean-to. This one contained bamboo animal pens. Dark splotches stained the ground and the odor of raw pig flesh suffused my sinuses. The sound grew louder: a rhythmic series of one tap and then one thump. Whoever was coming down the alleyway was making slow progress.
Flickering neon from the main drag illuminated the alleyway. When her silhouette came into view I realized that whoever was approaching was somewhat shorter than your average Korean woman. She couldn’t see us but I could see her. Perspiration streamed off her face and her eyes darted around as if looking for something. She was balancing herself with one crutch, her left foot encumbered by a white cast. Miss Kwon.
She stopped and peered into the canvas-covered darkness, looking right at us as if she could see us but she couldn’t. I was sure of that. It was too dark back here. But somehow, she’d known where we’d hide.
Ernie and I stepped out of the shadows.
After an involuntary intake of breath, Miss Kwon said, “Geogi, I look for you.”
Her English was improving.
I nodded. Ernie offered her a stick of ginseng gum. She declined.
“Yong Uisa kidariyo,” she said. Doctor Yong is waiting for you.
“Why?” I asked.
Miss Kwon shrugged her shoulders. “Come,” she said. “I show.”
With grim determination, Miss Kwon turned around on her crutches and then started her slow progress back up the alley. I followed, Ernie right behind me, but Miss Kwon stopped and said. “Him, no.”
“Doc Yong doesn’t want to talk to Ernie?”
“No.” Miss Kwon shook her head vehemently. “You.” She pointed at me.
“Must be something personal,” Ernie said. I glared at him. He shrugged and said, “I’ll see you in the morning.”
I nodded and followed Miss Kwon as she struggled through the darkness.
Doc Yong was waiting for us outside her clinic. A white light from inside lit the narrow alleyway. She was dressed for an outing in blue jeans, a warm sweater, and a bright red cap pulled down over her black hair. Her round nose was flushed from the cold and her glasses were fogged and I thought she was just about the cutest pixie I’d ever seen. She thanked Miss Kwon for bringing me. Miss Kwon paused for a second, facing Doc Yong. Then, as best she could while still holding on to her crutch, she bowed at the waist. Then she turned and hobbled her way back toward the sparkling lights of Itaewon.
When she was gone, I turned to Doc Yong and said, “What is it?”
Doc Yong shook her head. “Not good.”
“What’s not good?”
“No talk now. Come.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, hunched her shoulders slightly, and marched off into the darkness of Itaewon. I followed.
She seemed to know exactly where she was going but after five minutes, I was totally lost. Korean society isn’t built around the car. Many pathways are only wide enough for pedestrians to pass, maybe two abreast, sometimes only single file. And people are used to walking long distances, carrying heavy loads, climbing up steep and slippery inclines, or gingerly stepping down precipitous slopes.
Dark ice patches covered many surfaces so we had to watch our step over the haphazardly cobbled pathways. A light snow continued to fall. I pulled my jacket tighter around my chest and wished I’d brought the long heavy overcoat the army issues. The lanes became gradually narrower and there was less sound in the hooches behind the high brick walls. I started to realize where we were going. Approaching from this direction I hadn’t been sure at first but now I was. Within ten minutes, we stood in front of the rotted wooden gate that led into the home of Auntie Mee, the fortune teller.