“Thank you, sir,” I said.
“And your other cases,” Colonel Oberdorff continued. “Word must be getting around. Goddamn it, you two ruffle a lot of feathers but you get results. People are noticing. So the KNPs want you on the case and they want you to take the five p.m. Blue Train to Pusan.”
“Why the train?” Ernie asked. “If we took a chopper, we could be there before evening chow.”
“I know. But the ROKs want you to take the train. Apparently, there’s going to be someone else on the train, some VIP who doesn’t like to fly.”
Ernie and I looked at one another.
“The VIP will meet you on the train, brief you about the case. I suppose you know that all hell has broken loose in the Korean newspapers. It’s even hit the radio, they tell me, and tonight the TV. The ROK government wants to put a stop to all the bad publicity, but that kind of censorship could cause more trouble than it’s worth. Better to get the truth out, let the chips fall where they may. ‘The G.I. Rapist,’ they’re calling it. And now that a woman’s been murdered
…”
Colonel Oberdorff allowed his voice to trail off.
“Murdered?” Ernie said.
“Yes. You’ll be briefed on the details. No time to go into all that now. You have a train to catch.”
“Who is this VIP we’re supposed to meet?” I asked.
“Hell if I know. All I know is that he’s some sort of inspector. Highly respected. They’re putting their best on this case.”
“How will we know him?” Ernie asked.
“He’ll know you. I don’t know who he is or what he looks like. All I know is his name.” Colonel Oberdorff shuffled through a stack of paperwork on his desk.
Ernie and I waited.
“Gil,” Colonel Oberdorff said. “Gilbert maybe. No, that’s his last name. Damn Korean customs.” In frustration, the Chief of Staff mumbled to himself. Koreans put their family name first, then their given name. When working with Americans, they sometimes switch them around to follow our customs. Confusion ensues. Finally, the colonel stopped shuffling and said, “These Korean names make no sense to me.”
I leaned forward and studied the paperwork. “Mr. Gil,” I said.
Colonel Oberdorff brightened. “That’s right. Mr. Kill,” he said, mispronouncing the name. “It says so right here.” Then he shuffled through more paperwork. “What the hell kind of name is that?”
Ernie and I knew who it was. I glanced at Ernie. He glanced at me. I realized that we were both holding our breath. Five minutes later, we were out of the Chief of Staff’s office, heading for the barracks to pack our traveling bags; ten minutes after that, we were on our way to the Seoul RTO, 8th Army’s Rail Transportation Office.
The stewardess walked by again and Ernie glanced at me as my eyes followed her.
“You like that, don’t you?” he said.
“What’s not to like?”
“You’re weird, you know that, Sueno? All those gorgeous Texas women in the Country Western All Stars. Shelly the lead guitar player has even hinted that she’d like to get to know you better, and you pay her no attention.”
“When we’re with them,” I replied, “we’re on duty.”
“Bull. If we were really on duty twenty-four hours a day, like the lifers say, nobody’d ever get laid.”
I sipped my beer.
“But instead of a tall, gorgeous blonde,” Ernie continued, “you like the kind of Korean woman who just stepped out of a rice paddy. What is it with you?”
I shrugged.
The stewardess knelt with her back to us, her knees pressed primly together. She spoke soothingly with a group of children who’d gathered around an old halaboji, a grandfather. Like many elderly people in Korea, the man made no bones about his age. He wore the gentleman’s hanbok, Korean clothing that consisted of light blue silk pantaloons, tied above white socks at the ankles, and a waistcoat of the same material that covered an outer vest the color of jade. This getup indicated that he was retired and no longer had to wear the suit and tie or other Western-style work clothes that indicated he was gainfully employed. The old man balanced a varnished wooden case on his knees. It contained an ink stone, a horsehair brush, and a small lacquered writing area. Deftly, he held the brush with his thumb and two fingers while he sketched out a Chinese character on crinkly rice paper. The children watched, fascinated by the ancient writing implements, occasionally asking questions. Then he offered the brush to the smallest girl. Shyly, she gripped the brush in her hand, dipped the tip into black ink, and traced a few lines across the paper. The halaboji complimented her, as did the stewardess, and then one of the boys insisted on his turn. After the boy had his chance, the stewardess complimented him too, rose gracefully to her feet, and continued her way down the aisle.
Ernie finished his beer, crumpled the can, and tossed it into his AWOL bag.
“Why didn’t you talk to her when she was standing there?”
I shrugged again. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”
He shook his head. “If you’ve got the hots for her, you’ve got to do something about it.”
I didn’t answer.
“Okay,” he said. “If that’s the kind of kinky dude you are, I’ll help.”
He rose from his seat and started down the aisle. I tried to call him back, but he ignored me. Instead of following, I sat for a minute wondering what he was up to. And then it dawned on me: whatever it was, it couldn’t possibly end well. Already, since boarding the Blue Train, we’d received some nasty looks. The case of the Blue Train rapist was on everyone’s mind, and every G.I. was a suspect. Ernie’s shenanigans normally were embarrassing enough. Under these conditions, they could be dangerous.
I rose from my seat, nodding to the halaboji across the aisle, realizing that his hair was mostly black, with only a smattering of gray. He wasn’t as old as he pretended to be. Instead of constantly trying to look younger, like Americans, Koreans often purposely try to appear older. I shoved the thought out of my mind and followed Ernie.
Without really intending to, I found myself stopping at the end of every car, checking into the bathrooms that weren’t occupied. Nothing amiss. I passed through the dining car with its long bar and square tables covered with white linen. Only a handful of customers were sitting there, but some of the black-clad waiters glared at me suspiciously.
Near the end of the train, I found him. The stewardess had stopped in the middle of the aisle and was looking back at him, her eyes wide. From this distance, I couldn’t hear what Ernie was saying; but whatever it was, most of the Korean passengers weren’t pleased with his little display. His hand was on her elbow and he leaned toward her, so closely that the stewardess leaned away from him. Ernie kept talking until finally the stewardess stepped back abruptly and said in Korean, “Na moolah.” I don’t understand.
A burly Korean man stood up from his seat, pointed at Ernie, and said, “Ku yangnom weikurei?” Which could be translated to “Why is this foreigner acting this way?” except that the word he used for foreigner, yangnom, was anything but polite. It meant something akin to foreign lout, and was a well-known insult. So well-known, in fact, that Ernie understood.
“What’d you call me?” Ernie said.
The Korean man bristled, placing both his hands on his hips, facing Ernie directly. Other men stood up.
By the time I stepped up next to Ernie, the stewardess had scurried toward the back of the passenger car and five or six more Korean men were standing in the aisle, wagging their fingers at Ernie and chattering among themselves. I knew what was causing this. The news of a rape, and now a murder, on the Blue Train had made everyone nervous. Seeing Ernie taking what the Koreans considered to be an overly aggressive stance toward the stewardess was not going to sit well.
I placed my hand on Ernie’s elbow. He jerked it away.
“What did this guy call me?” he asked.