Martin Limon: Buddha's money

She popped the gum in her mouth and then, for the first time, she smiled. The gleam of her white teeth and the radiant beam of her small round face made even the hardened cops in the room sigh with appreciation.

Captain Kim touched the bottom of her chin lightly, tilted her head up, and pointed toward us.

"Did the man who attacked you, did he look like these men?"

"Yes. He looked like them."

"So he was a foreigner?"

"Yes."

"Was he as big as them?"

"Yes. As big as the biggest one." She turned her eyes on me.

"Was he dark like him or light-skinned like the other one?"

"He was dark. Very dark. As dark as the night. As dark as moktan." As dark as charcoal.

"Had you ever seen him before?"

"Oh, no. The foreigners frighten me. Whenever I see one, I turn my eyes."

I had to ask a question. To see the crime from her eyes. To make sure my own observations weren't skewed.

"How can you be so sure he was a foreigner?"

When I blurted it out in Korean, she seemed surprised. Her big eyes studied me for a moment, as if seeing something inside that most people don't.

"I am certain he was a foreigner," she answered.

"But it was dark. Maybe he was a Korean man. A very large Korean man."

"No. He couldn't have been."

"Why not?"

"Because he smelled like you." She pointed at me and then at Ernie. "He smelled like meat."

For some reason, that started her crying again. Captain Kim stood up. All the policemen turned their eyes on me, eyes of accusal.

Outside, a howl went up from the mob.

The nun seemed to realize the discomfort she was putting us through, identifying us so closely with her assailant. She reached inside her tunic, pulled out her felt purse, and motioned for Ernie to come forward. She cupped Ernie's hand in hers and plopped the half-full coin pouch into his palm. To our surprise, she spoke in halting English.

"I go hospital now. You save me, so I trust you. You keep this money," she said, patting his hand. "It is Buddha's money. Bring back to me later." With her finger, she pointed to the north. "At the Temple of the Celestial Void. On Tobong Mountain."

Ernie nodded, hefted the bag, rattled the coins inside, and stuffed it into his pocket. "Can do," he said, snapping his gum between his teeth. "Can do easy."

The little nun smiled.

Outside, the mob howled.

Behind the desk Sergeant's counter, Captain Kim pointed his stubby finger at my nose. "I want that GI."

Involuntarily, I took a step backward. "We'll find him. Don't worry about that."

Captain Kim nodded and then asked me to fill out a police report. I told him I would.

I sat at a rickety wooden desk and went as far as I could in the form using Korean but switched to English when my vocabulary ran dry. It took about twenty minutes. By then, the nun had been whisked away in a small white ambulance and Ernie was out of ginseng gum and anxious for action. The crowd still loitered outside the Itaewon Police Station. Bigger than ever. Some of them were burning candles now.

Ernie and I walked to the front of the desk sergeant's counter, under the brightly lit fluorescent lights. I slipped the report into a half-filled wire basket. People outside spotted us through the windows and started shouting. They waved their fists. Maybe they thought we had been arrested for the assault. Maybe they weren't thinking at all. Just enraged at the sight of a foreigner.

Outside, the gruff voice of a policeman ordered someone back.

"Weiguk-nom chuko!" someone else shouted. Kill the foreigners!

Ernie's eyes widened. He'd understood that. "Maybe I should change my breath mint," he said.

A murmur rose from the crowd. Someone was trying to push his way through. A dark figure burst past the shouting citizens and bulled his way up onto the broad cement porch. The officers tried to hold him back but he shoved forward with tremendous strength and finally, with four sets of hands still clawing at his back, popped free into the Itaewon Police Station.

The man who stood in front of us was built like a bowling ball. Claw marks scratched his bald head. I knew him. He was an old retired First Sergeant, Herman Burkowicz.

Nobody knew exactly what nationality Herman was- some said Polish, some said Hungarian-but he spoke with an accent so everyone just called him Herman the German.

Herman had been in Korea for longer than anybody could remember. A couple of decades anyway. Black-marketing his ass off.

Another army success story.

The KNPs unhooked their riot batons and stepped toward Herman. I held up my hands and shouted in Korean.

"It's all right! I know this man. We'll handle it."

Scowling at the loss of face, the cops stared sullenly at Herman the German. Still, he was an American and Ernie and I had already grabbed him by the armpits and taken him into custody. The KNPs resecured their riot batons and turned back to face the crowd outside.

"For Christ's sake, Herman," Ernie said. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Herman's moist eyes scanned our faces. His face was splotched, with large, blubbery lips and a pug nose. The broad brown belt and the creased slacks and the pullover golf shirt he wore were strictly PX. No Paris fashions for Herman the German.

Out front, the cops kept pushing back at the mob.

Crimson rivulets streamed down Herman's ears. He rolled glistening blue eyes up at me and started to open his mouth, but instead of speaking he just gurgled and sputtered bubbles across wet lips.

Ernie realized first that something was wrong. He reached for Herman. Before I could move, Herman crashed to the floor in front of us. He lay there, moaning and gripping the mountainous bulge of his stomach. That's when I noticed that the entire side of his skull was puffed into a nasty bruise.

I knelt down, rolled him over, and lifted his head up. Ernie squatted and slapped his loose jowls.

"Evening, Herman," Ernie said. "Nasty bump. You have to stop walking into walls."

"It wasn't a wall," Herman moaned.

"What was it?" I asked.

Herman turned his sad blue eyes toward me. His throat convulsed and air rushed out in a croak. "Doduk-nom," he said.

Herman had lived in Korea so long that certain words- the important ones-he remembered only in Korean, the English completely forgotten. Doduk-nom meant thieves.

"Where, Herman?" I asked.

"At my hooch."

I started to rise. Herman clutched my forearm with an ironlike grip. "Wait. I'll go with you. Help me up."

Ernie and I hoisted him to his feet. When he finally reached the standing position, Herman tottered like a round-bottomed clown. Ernie towered over him. So did I, being a couple of inches taller than Ernie.

"I don't know," Ernie said, gauging Herman's steadiness. "A simple burglary. The Korean National Police can handle it. What'd the thieves take? All your black market shit?"

"No." Herman was still woozy. Even when he was clearheaded, Herman the German wasn't the most articulate guy in town.

"No?" Ernie asked.

"No. They weren't those kind of thieves."

Ernie's face darkened like the monsoon sky. He was suspicious now. Smelling a rat in the rice wine jar. "If they don't want stereo equipment and liquor and cigarettes, then what the hell kind of thieves are they?"

"The kind who want people."

"People?"

I thought of Herman's wife. Slicky Girl Nam was one of the oldest hags who had ever worked the streets of Itaewon. Nobody wanted her. It was even doubtful that Herman wanted her.

Ernie lost his patience. He shoved Herman's haunch of a shoulder. "What the hell did they steal, Herman?"

Herman stood perfectly still, his thick arms hanging at his sides. Somewhere in the short gap between his chin and his shoulders, he swallowed.