“Igot muoya?” What’s this?
I opened the last drawer. Spoons, ashtrays, cubes of black market sugar. Everything the well-equipped teahouse would need. I looked at the woman, raised my finger, and walked toward her.
“Two nights ago,” I said, “we were here and met a young Korean woman at that table.” I pointed to the far wall. “I want you to tell me everything you know about her.”
She stared at me, stunned. Maybe by my brazen attitude. Maybe by my rapid-fire Korean. Maybe both. She found her voice.
“I know nothing about her.”
“But you do remember her?”
“Yes. I was shocked to see such an attractive young woman talking to GI’s.”
“She was too high-class for us?”
“Yes.”
I didn’t take offense. Koreans categorize people by wealth and social position as casually as bird watchers classify red-breasted warblers by genus and species. They don’t mean anything by it. Just the facts of life.
“What was her name?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“But she comes in here often?”
“No. I’ve never seen her before.”
“But there’s someone else who comes in here often who she knows, who she talked to?”
“No. She came in here alone, said nothing to anyone until she talked to you. After you left, she paid the bill and left without saying anything. Who are you anyway? You’re the ones who know her. Not me.”
“It doesn’t matter who we are,” I said. I took a step toward her, pinched my nose with my left hand, then let it go. “You are lying. Tell me how I can find that woman or my friend will get very angry.”
Ernie had been watching me closely and spotted the signal. He took three rapid steps across the room, and as he did so the boy shrank back toward one of the booths. The woman swiveled her head. Without hesitating, Ernie leaned over, hoisted the mop bucket, and flung it twirling end over end through the air until it smashed into the stacks of porcelain cups at the end of the counter.
The woman and boy flinched and covered their faces.
“Who was she?” I asked the woman. “Tell me now or there will be more damage.”
Ernie grabbed the mop and started smashing the handle into the glass candle-holders on each table.
“Stop!” she screamed. “Tell him to stop.”
I grabbed her shoulders. “Who was that woman?”
She was crying now, in fear and anger.
“She came in here before, right?” I said. “She was friends with a woman named Eun-hi who works at the U.N. Club. Isn’t that right? Tell me! Who was she?”
“I don’t know. I only saw her that one time. She never said anything to me.”
The boy scurried away from Ernie, ran toward his aunt, and flung himself into her arms. They hugged, rocking back and forth, tears streaming from their eyes. Crystal and chairs and ashtrays continued to clatter to the floor. I looked at the woman and her nephew, feeling sorry for them. They didn’t know anything about Miss Ku and they didn’t deserve this type of treatment.
I felt ashamed of myself. I wanted to say I was sorry but fought back the urge. I turned.
“Ernie!”
He smashed one more tray of glasses, lowered the mop handle, and looked up. I stepped toward him and twisted my head toward the door. He held the mop handle out, gazed at it as if disappointed, then tossed it to the floor.
When I hit the door he was right behind me, huffing and puffing, excited by the violence.
“What’d she say? She knows where we can find that broad, right?”
“Wrong.” I kept walking. “She doesn’t know squat.”
Ernie’s face soured. He straightened his coat and, like ice quick-freezing on a lake, regained his usual composure.
“Oh, well,” he said. “Some of that glassware was due for replacement anyway.”
We kept walking. Up the hill. Toward the U.N. Club.
I tried not to think of the tears in the eyes of the woman and the little boy, but instead concentrated on the wounds of Cecil Whitcomb.
The U.N. Club didn’t smell nearly as antiseptic as the Kayagum Teahouse. In fact it smelled like a toilet, which is exactly what it was. The aroma of ancient cigarette smoke seemed to seep from the walls even though the cement floors were swabbed with suds. Rotted lemon, stale booze, the reek of the urinals, all of it coalesced to create a blast to the nostrils that I’d never noticed before.
Of course, every other time I’d been in here I’d been drunk. When your belly’s full of beer, the place smells like a field of roses.
An emaciated waitress in a blue smock shuffled toward us.
“You too early,” she said. “We no open until ten.”
“We’re not here for a drink,” I said. “Where’s Eun-hi?”
Emie sauntered over to the bar. The waitress’s tired eyes followed him. She turned back to me.
“Eun-hi?”
“Shit.” The tears at the teahouse had made me impatient. I pulled out my identification and shoved it in front of her face. “Where’s your VD card?”
All women who work in Itaewon bars are required by the government to have monthly medical checkups for venereal disease.
The girl stepped back and for the first time her face showed a trace of doubt. “Who are you?”
“CID. If you don’t show me your VD card, I’ll turn you over to the Korean National Police.”
“I don’t need a VD card,” she said. “I’m a waitress.”
“Bullshit! Every woman who works here needs a VD card.”
A sullen-faced Korean man emerged from the back and stood behind the bar. I recognized him. He was Lee, the guy who poured our double shots of brandy. I walked over to him, hands outstretched.
“She doesn’t have a VD card, Lee. Am I going to have to take her in?”
Ernie had plopped atop a bar stool as if he were about to order a wet one.
“No sweat,” Lee said. “She newbie. Most tick we get her VD card.”
“Better be most rickety tick,” I said. “Let me see your VD card register.”
Lee smirked, used to GI’s trying to throw their weight around, figuring he’d smooth over the whole thing with a free round of drinks.
Ernie lounged against the bar, scanning the room, keeping alert for trouble.
Lee plopped the big leather-bound ledger on the bar. The pages were of thick construction paper. Stapled to each page were black-and-white photographs of the girls who worked here. Next to each picture, handwritten in a neat Korean script, was the name and address, date of birth, home of origin, and Korean National Identity card number. Korea is a highly organized society. Even for bar girls.
Lee stared at me with heavily lidded eyes, trying to pretend that he was extremely bored. “Why you fucking with me, Geogie?”
Ernie shot him a warning look. Lee ignored it. Some of these bar owners in Itaewon were hard-ass little brutes. I’d seen them jump into brawls with GI’s twice their size, get knocked down, and bounce back up and slug somebody else. We weren’t going to intimidate Lee. He had gone along so far only because he didn’t want us to actually sic the Korean National Police on him. That would cost him money.
I thumbed through the ledger but didn’t find it right away.
“Where’s Eun-hi?” I said.
His face didn’t move much but a veneer of knowing condescension passed over it, like a shadow crossing the moon, then disappeared. He thought I was just another horny GI trying to hit on Eun-hi. He wasn’t far from wrong so I didn’t bother to set him straight.
He riffled through the ledger, found the proper entry, and shoved it toward me.
“Here,” he said.
Ernie leaned forward and looked at the photo with me. It wasn’t very flattering. Eun-hi’s face looked puffed and plain, not at all like the knockout we saw parading around the U.N. Club every night. I breathed deeply, wincing once again at the foul stench of the U.N. Club. If I hadn’t noticed that before, maybe I’d never noticed that Eun-hi wasn’t all that attractive either. It didn’t matter. I was sober now. I’d find out for sure this morning.
“Is this address correct?”