“Been that long, huh?”
To me, the premature taking of life was a sin against humanity no matter the rank of the victim.
“Colonel Brace is the Provost Marshal,” Riley continued. “It’s his job to protect people.”
“It’s our job too.”
When he continued to cuss, I hung up on him. Ernie and I trotted out to the jeep.
“They took it well?” he asked.
“They’re delighted with our plan,” I told him.
He hopped behind the wheel of the jeep and started the engine. “I knew they would be.”
– 7-
Delicate flakes of snow drifted in the gentle breeze until they slapped haphazardly onto the grease-stained pavement of the main drag of the Itaewon nightclub district. The afternoon was so dark and overcast that most of the joints had already switched on their neon. Beneath a red glow, we entered the King Club.
The first thing we did was sit at the bar. We ordered two beers; the young bartender wearing a white shirt and black bowtie popped the bottle caps off for us as the middle-aged female cashier took our money.
“You early.”
It was Miss Peik, the senior waitress at the King Club. Koreans often form a family structure in business, even if everyone involved is not related. The King Club’s “parents” were the owners, the aunt was the cashier, the grandson was the young bartender, and the sisters were the cocktail waitresses. Miss Peik, as the oldest cocktail waitress, was uniformly called onni, older sister, by the other girls.
She had “CQ” today, the daytime shift. They’d stolen the term from the US Army. The CQ, or Charge of Quarters, was the GI who was hit with the unfortunate duty of staying up all night in the barracks, forced to be alert and answer the phone in case there were any fires or other emergencies. During the work week, daytime business at the King Club was so slow that they only needed one “CQ” waitress. On weekends, two or three. At night, of course, all the waitresses were on duty, about a dozen of them in a busy joint like the King Club. Holidays were not observed, and each girl was granted only one day off a month.
Miss Peik wrapped her arms around Ernie’s neck. She was a tall, thin woman wearing the bright red smock that was the uniform for the King Club. I pegged her at pushing forty.
“You rabu me?” Ernie asked.
“I rabu you too muchey. You buy me drink?”
“Ijo jo!” Ernie said. Forget it!
Another phrase I’d taught him. He’d worked hard at memorizing it because it came in so handy.
Miss Peik backed away. “You no rabu me?”
“I rabu you too muchey.” Ernie pulled her back toward him.
While Miss Peik and Ernie horsed around, I asked the bartender where the other waitresses were. The club was empty. None of the two or three dozen cocktail tables held any customers, and the stage where the rock band usually performed was dark. Not unusual for a mid-afternoon on a work day, but I had paid for the beer with a 10,000 won note-about twenty bucks-so they’d know I wasn’t short on cash. By my impatience, I made it clear that if there were no girl for me, I’d pick up my change and suggest to my friend that we try another bar.
The bartender whispered to the cashier. She nodded her approval and he trotted out back. Ten minutes later two more cocktail waitresses joined us. It cost management nothing to bring them on duty. The girls were paid by the month, the equivalent of about forty dollars. Any other money they made was from tips, which were few and far between from their frugal clientele, and from direct payments from any boyfriends they were able to land. Many of them had steady yobos, GIs who lived in their hooch and paid their rent and, more often than not, bought black market items out of the PX or commissary that the girls then resold for a tidy profit. It was a way of life in Itaewon that had lasted, as far as I could tell, since the end of the Korean War. It had been over twenty years now, and I saw no indication that this method of employing the excess Korean female labor force was about to change.
The two waitresses glommed onto me. I did my best to act interested, but these girls were experts at reading men-that’s how they made their living-and they soon realized I was faking it. One of them stood back and placed her manicured fingernails on her hip. “You have steady yobo?”
“Not steady,” I said, “not yet.”
“Why not?”
I sipped on my beer. “I met her at the UN Club, about a month ago,” I told them. I described her and then told them her name. “Miss Jo,” I said. “I went to her hooch but the mama-san said she doesn’t live there anymore.”
They pulled Miss Peik away from Ernie. As I suspected, they loved nothing better than a soap opera situation to add spice to their boring days. They conferred amongst themselves, speaking rapid Korean. I pretended not to understand. In fact, much of it I couldn’t understand because they were speaking so quickly and in shorthand bursts. But I did get the gist of it. They had decided that she was the Miss Jo who’d been beaten up by GIs and had to go to the hospital, and they were wondering how much they should tell me.
Finally, Miss Peik stepped toward me. “You likey Miss Jo?”
I sipped on my beer and set it on the bar. “She’s okay.”
“You wanna talk to her?”
“You know where she is?”
“You wait,” Miss Peik told me.
The three women conferred again and one of them left through the back door.
Ernie pulled Miss Peik back toward him and reached out for the other remaining waitress. Both women laughed and pretended to resist, but finally gave in as Ernie Bascom, agent for the 8th United States Army CID, nuzzled their necks and tried to paw at their bodies, especially the round parts.
The building had long been notorious as a brothel in the heart of the Itaewon catacombs. The waitress who led us there had us follow her through twisting pedestrian lanes until finally we reached a crossroads and she pointed and said, “That gate.”
Then she ran back to the King Club.
“Aren’t you going to tip her?” Ernie asked.
“She didn’t give me the chance.”
He nodded, agreeing with me. “They don’t think like Americans.”
The small door in the large wooden gate was open. We pushed through into a narrow courtyard. To the right stood a low wooden porch that ran the length of the building, lined with sliding oil-papered doors that led into one-room hooches. The byonso, with the letters w.c. etched into the wooden door, stood alone along the back wall. Ernie and I strode down the row. Many of the doors were padlocked shut.
“Probably at the bathhouse,” Ernie said.
“Or the temple,” I replied. Many of the girls who worked as prostitutes in Itaewon were surprisingly religious. Mostly Buddhist. They routinely made pilgrimages to temples here in the city or monasteries in the surrounding countryside.
A few of the rooms were occupied and unfamiliar faces stared out at us.
A wooden flight of stairs led upstairs to another long row of hooches. We walked along it, planks creaking beneath our shod feet, until finally we found her at the end. Miss Jo Kyong-ja. She stood and approached the door and peered at us as if she’d expected us.
“You,” she said.
“Yes, us.”
With her right hand, she brushed back her hair. “Okay,” she said, as if resigned to some tedious task. “Come in.”
She switched on the overhead bulb and tossed two flat cushions on the floor. Ernie and I slipped off our shoes and entered.
“Sit,” she said.
We did. She squatted in front of us, shoving a glass ashtray in the center of our cozy circle. She pulled out a pack of Turtle Boat cigarettes and offered one to each of us. We both declined. She slid a box of wooden matches out from beneath the Western-style bed, pulled one out, struck it, and lit up. After a couple of puffs, she lowered the cigarette and said, “You find me.”