Ernie and I looked at each other.
Miss Choi grabbed our hands and led us back down the dark pathway to the bottom of Kuksadang.
The next time I attended the classroom of Miss Choi Yong-kuang, I sat up a little straighter and paid a little more attention to her instruction. After the lesson, I waited behind until the other students had left. I didn’t have to say anything. Miss Choi read my mind.
“The Widow Po is crippled,” Miss Choi told me. “She hasn’t moved from her hooch since the night we were up there.”
“How will she live?”
“Rich people make offerings to her.”
“They’re still afraid of her.”
Miss Choi nodded. I watched as she packed her lesson notes and her textbook into her leather briefcase.
“You knew what was going to happen,” I said.
She shrugged.
“The Widow Po brought all this upon herself,” I continued. “Because of a guilty conscience.”
Miss Choi clicked the hasps on her briefcase and looked me in the eye. “The Widow Po is a brave woman.”
I nodded in agreement.
“What about Moretti?” I asked.
“No need to do anything further. Mori Di’s taken his revenge.”
I studied Miss Choi for a long moment. “You really believe that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she said. “I do.”
I helped her lock up the classroom and then walked her out the main gate of 8th Army Compound and escorted her to the bus stop. No muggers jumped out at us.
Neither did any evil spirits.
THE COLD YELLOW SEA
Freezing outside an Asian brothel in the middle of the night with a cold rain blowing in off the Yellow Sea is enough to make even the most dedicated investigator ponder the worth of a career in military law enforcement. Fabulous pay and benefits. Fun, travel and adventure. Three hots and a cot. And, if President Ford was to be believed, a raise that would bring my corporal’s pay all the way up to $450 per month by the end of this fiscal year.
Wow.
The wet pellets slapping my face suddenly didn’t sting so badly. Still, I shuffled deeper into the shadows beneath an overhanging eave.
Tonight, Ernie and I were after an MP gone bad. Last we heard, he was shacked up inside Building Number 36 in this maze of narrow alleys known as the Yellow House. Down the lane, light flickered out of large plate glass windows. Behind those windows sat groups of Korean women in flimsy negligees, waiting for the foreign sailors who periodically invade this port of Inchon on the western coast of Korea on the edge of the Yellow Sea. Merchant marines from all over the world-Greece, the Philippines, Japan, Holland, Sweden, and even the United States-are regular customers here.
The local US military contingent is not huge-just one transportation company, which trucks supplies from the Port of Inchon to the capital city of Seoul, and one platoon of Military Police to provide security for the duty-free shipments.
A door slammed. A tall, dark figure emerged from the foot of the stairwell just outside the glow of the plate glass window. Then I saw someone behind him. A girl, bowing; telling him in a nice way: thanks for the money but now it’s time for you to get lost. The tall man didn’t acknowledge her farewell. He turned, shoved his hands into his pockets, and strode toward the alley.
As he passed the light of the big window I caught a glimpse of his face. Dark eyes, pug nose, heavy stubble of an eight-hour beard. Our quarry. The MP gone bad: Buck Sergeant Lenny Dubrovnik.
Ernie was on the other side of Building 36, making sure Dubrovnik didn’t slip out the back. My.45 sat snugly in the shoulder holster beneath my armpit but I didn’t expect to have to use it. Dubrovnik knew the deal. He was a GI in Korea. Once you’re busted, there’s nowhere to run. The peninsula is surrounded on three sides by choppy seas. The only land route is across the Demilitarized Zone. And all international ports of embarkation are monitored with a degree of efficiency that only a militarized police state can provide.
As Dubrovnik approached, I stepped out of the shadows, showing my badge.
“Hold it right there, Sarge,” I said. “The games up. Take your hands out of your pockets and assume the position.”
Dubrovnik came to a halt on the flagstone steps, glanced at my badge and then at my face. His eyes seem baffled for a moment and then his lips began to curl.
“Alone?” he asked.
I should’ve told him I had a squad of MPs lurking right around the corner. The least I should’ve told him was that Ernie would be here in a matter of seconds. But Dubrovnik was an MP himself and cops always claim that we can make any bust by ourselves. Backup’s not necessary. So instead of telling him what I should’ve told him, that he had nowhere to run and I could claim the entire weight of the 8th United States Army as my backup, I made my first mistake of the evening: I let pride take over.
I looked Dubrovnik straight in the eye and shrugged. As if to say: Go ahead, Charlie, try it if you’ve got the nerve.
My shoulders had barely lowered again when Dubrovnik turned and darted away.
I let out a yell-incoherent, but I knew it would be enough to alert Ernie. And then I was running down the narrow pathway. Past the three- and four-story buildings that lined either side of the lane. Past the women sitting in the well-lit rooms behind the large windows, gazing out at us, their mouths half open.
Dubrovnik turned a corner. I skidded after him. Dubrovnik turned another corner, winding away from Building 36. The district known as the Yellow House was actually about two acres square. The entire area was composed of one pedestrian alley turning into another, winding around like a maze, brothel upon brothel, no vehicles allowed.
Dubrovnik was fast and had the added incentive of knowing he was about to be locked up. Just when he was about to pull away from me, another figure leapt out of the darkness. Dubrovnik tried to dodge this new phantom but the shadow wrapped its arms around his shoulders.
Ernie.
How the hell had he gotten all the way over here? And then I remembered. Ernie knew the maze of the Yellow House probably as well as Dubrovnik did.
But Ernie’s lunge was too high. Dubrovnik shoved it off and kept moving, turning and slapping at Ernie’s grasping fingers. While they struggled I closed in but Dubrovnik was gaining distance and then Ernie and I were both panting down the alley, giving chase to the crooked MP.
Dubrovnik darted into an open door.
As we crashed in after him I noticed the number atop the opening: 47. Each brothel in the Yellow House area was licensed and therefore numbered. We sprinted up the first flight of cement block stairs into a foyer with varnished wood-slat flooring. Korean women stood around in various states of undress.
“Odi?” Ernie asked. Where?
One of them pointed toward a short flight of broad wooden steps that led down to the display area behind another plate glass window. Dubrovnik must be around the corner. Trapped.
Before we could consult on the best way to take him, Ernie leapt down the flight of stairs. Sitting and squatting women screamed and scooted out of his way but before I could react, Dubrovnik exploded from behind a mother-of-pearl inlaid chest and landed a punch solidly on the back of Ernie’s head.
Ernie’s knees buckled, he reached for his neck, but he didn’t go down. Dubrovnik swiveled, realizing that the man he had just punched wasn’t the first man who’d been chasing him. When he saw me standing at the top of the flight of steps, his shoulders sagged and for a moment a look of resignation spread across his swarthy features. I smiled and reached for my handcuffs. But then Dubrovnik seemed to brighten and before I could lunge forward he took a step backward, stiffened his body and leapt through the huge, gleaming, shimmering pane of glass.