Martin Limon - Buddha's money

Looked like we were arriving just in time. The monsoon was about to hit hard, and all military flights were sure to be canceled.

The chopper dove through the mist, bounced a couple of times, and came to rest on a cement helipad. We were on Camp Ames, an American compound on the outskirts of Taejon. We took off our gear, folded the overalls neatly, and thanked the crew chief for the ride.

After flashing our identification to the MPs at the front gate, Ernie and I stepped out into the streets of the city. As we walked down the brick sidewalk, I felt as if we'd stepped back into a different era.

The city of Taejon had been leveled during the Korean War. What had been rebuilt was done, for the most part, in a traditional Korean style. Each hooch was surrounded by bushes sprinkled with purple mukunghua, the Korean national flower. Long-faced men on three-wheeled pedicabs rolled solemnly through the narrow lanes.

There wasn't even much hustle outside the GI compound, a spot which had to be a major source of income for this slow-moving city. No bars. Only a couple of tailor shops and souvenir emporiums. A short row of pedicab drivers waited patiently outside them for passengers, and didn't run up offering "special deals" for Americans.

One driver looked surprised when I spoke Korean to him.

"Yes, you want to go downtown," he said, "but where downtown?"

"Chungang," I replied. The center.

The driver smiled at that and I asked him how much and he told me. Ernie and I piled into the back of his pedicab. We paraded through the quiet lanes toward downtown Taejon.

Unlike Seoul, where everything is cement and exhaust fumes, the streets of Taejon were lined with elm trees rustling in the morning breeze. Shop owners splashed buckets of water on brick sidewalks and scrubbed away filth with long-bristled brushes. A few cars wound through the traffic, but mostly the thoroughfares were filled with women on foot, carrying bundles over their heads, and men on bicycles, clanging out warnings of their whereabouts with the ringing of tinkling bells.

The leather sandals of a bevy of robed Buddhist monks slapped past us. The monks strode up ancient stone steps toward an intricately carved and brightly painted wooden pagoda. Schoolchildren in yellow caps crossed the street and bumped into each other every time the teacher brought their centipedelike procession to a halt.

The pedicab driver dropped us off in front of the August Moon Yoguan. When I paid him he said "Komowo-yu," ending the verb with a "yu" instead of a "yo" as they would've said in Seoul. It was an accent that I was to hear often in these southern realms.

Ernie stood on the sidewalk with his bag draped over his shoulder, glancing around, chomping on gum.

"Nice place they got here," he said.

I wasn't sure if he meant the city of Taejon or the August Moon Yoguan, but whatever it was I had to agree.

The August Moon Yoguan was a ramshackle two-story building made of darkly aged lumber. Through the red-lacquered gate of the inn was a small garden filled with roses and tulips camouflaging rows of earthen jars pushed against the outer brick wall. A woman in a long blue cotton dress and rubber slippers with upturned pointed toes stepped out to greet us. She bowed.

"Oso-oseiyo." Please come in.

The rooms were cheap, and larger than what we were used to. Each had a sleeping mat with a bead pillow, a two-foot-high writing desk, a black-and-white TV, and a bathroom. Hot water in the early morning and in the evening from eight to ten.

We ordered chow.

A boy from a Chinese restaurant brought in a tin box and Ernie and I stared at it suspiciously. But when the boy slid up the side panel and pulled out a plate of chap chae-fried noodles laced with beef-and two steaming bowls of shrimp fried rice, we relaxed, paid him, and commenced to wolf down the food.

We didn't speak as we ate. We were both thinking the same thing. How in the hell were we going to find this Lady Ahn in a city we didn't know? How in the hell were we going to keep little Mi-ja from having her throat cut by the scar-headed Ragyapa and his Mongol horde? And what the hell was this all about?

I glanced out the window. The first plump droplets of monsoon rain hit the sidewalk so hard that they bounced like Ping-Pong balls. A steady patter tapped against the wooden roof. I wondered about the moon. It would be more than three-quarters full tonight.

We finished our chow, went downstairs, told the yoguan owner we'd be out, and pulled our jackets over our heads. Splashing through puddles, we trotted into the bustling center of downtown Taejon.

A wise man once said that the way to get rich is to ask a bunch of tomfool questions and listen well to the answers.

Apparently, this wise man had never been an American CID agent in the Korean city of Taejon. Most of the people we talked to didn't have answers. They were just frightened.

There isn't a very large American military presence in Taejon, and tourism in these parts is unknown. We might've been the first long-nosed foreigners many of these people had ever encountered.

Ernie wasn't helping matters much. He was impatient and surly, and the more people acted as if we'd just landed in a spaceship from Mars, the more Ernie felt compelled to feed into their neuroses and act weird.

At one shop that specialized in porcelain, he grabbed a teacup and sipped on it, slurping loudly. Of course there was no liquid inside. Ernie wiped the dust out with his tongue. At an antique furniture shop, he rummaged through an ancient hand-carved cabinet as if he'd stashed something there and forgotten where he'd left it.

It hadn't been a big problem finding the antique shops themselves. Most were clustered in the upscale shopping area downtown. At each place, I described the type of jade-carved skull we were after but every time I did, I received puzzled looks. No one had heard of such a thing.

I also described Lady Ahn. Everyone seemed intrigued by a woman so tall, so gorgeous, but no one had any leads for me. Until finally the face of one old crone puckered at the description. She pointed. A shop. Two blocks down the road, she said.

"The owner is very famous," the old woman said in Korean.

"Famous how?" I asked.

"Famous in nightclubs."

Her wrinkles drew in so tight around her lips that I was worried that her face might turn inside out.

Ernie looked at me quizzically, knowing something was up. "We have a lead," I said in English and switched back to Korean for the old woman. "What's the name of this shop?"

"Rising Phoenix," she replied. "Very easy to find. The outside is as brightly painted as the owner's face."

"What's her name?"

"The Widow Kang. But she never calls herself that."

"What does she call herself?"

"Fifi."

"Fifi? You mean like a Frenchwoman?"

"Yes. She thinks she's too good for Taejon." The old woman shook her forefinger at me. "But she's not. We're too good for her."

On the way down the road I explained to Ernie what the old woman had said.

"Fifi? You've got to be shitting me."

"No way. That's what she said. Fifi."

"And this gal, this Fifi, is hooked up with this Lady Ahn?"

"Looks like it."

By the time we reached the shop, Ernie and I were both drenched. The front was ornately carved, each wooden knob painted with vivid splashes of color. A shimmering bird lifted off of the branch of a cherry tree, scattering pink blossoms in its plumed wake.

"Damn," Ernie said. "This Fifi would fit right in on Madison Avenue."

"She's not exactly a bashful maiden."

We pushed through the door. A bell tinkled.

An attractive young woman in a short skirt and silk blouse stepped out from behind a glass counter and bowed. "Oso-oseiyo." Please come in.