Martin Limon: Buddha's money

"Mi-ja," he said.

Mi-ja. A name that in translation is simple and direct: Beautiful Child. The little Korean girl whom Herman's wife had adopted. The girl with the topknot tied by a pink ribbon and the sparkling smile and the bright eyes like black diamonds.

Every day Mi-ja could be seen flitting to and from the Itaewon market. Snatching candy from the business girls, making them laugh. Bantering with the playful GIs. Mi-ja was the mascot of Itaewon. The one fine thing that prompted everyone-no matter how debauched-to remember where they came from. Remember that they were once part of a loving family. Remember that they once had brothers and sisters and wives and parents and children.

Taking in Mi-ja was the only good thing two lowlifes like Herman the German and Slicky Girl Nam had ever done.

No one doubted that Mi-ja was adopted. Slicky Girl Nam had probably had venereal disease so many times that her reproductive tubes were nothing more than a burnt-out memory.

"How old is Mi-ja?" I asked.

"Nine," Herman answered.

Ernie chomped on his gum. "Why would anyone want her?"

Herman wasn't surprised by the question. In Korea, after the devastation of the Korean War, children were an economic burden, not a prize. Especially girls. Not something to be fought over. Even now, more than twenty years later, things hadn't changed much.

Saliva bubbled on Herman's lips. "I don't know," he told Ernie. "But you've got to help me get her back."

"It's a matter for the Korean National Police," Ernie said. "It happened off-post. A Korean was kidnapped so it falls under their jurisdiction. You're here now. Report it." Ernie glanced around at the shoving and hollering and screaming going on outside. "After things calm down a bit."

"I can't," Herman insisted.

"Why not?"

"The guys who took her already told me. They'll kill her ifltelltheKNPs."

Ernie scowled. "Don't worry about threats from a bunch of crooks. Kidnappers always say that kind of shit. Doesn't mean nothing."

"No KNPs," Herman said. His round body was frozen like a rock. "This time they mean it."

"How do you know?"

"Because the kidnappers are not Koreans, they're foreigners. Some sort of brown guys, I don't know which kind. And they're after something. Something valuable."

"What? Your new stereo?"

"No." Herman's big moist eyes searched Ernie's soul. "I've seen you guys let people off after busting them. Maybe they gave you a little money, maybe something else. I don't know. But if you don't help me, I'll turn you in. I'll say I saw you taking bribes."

Ernie leapt forward and shoved Herman's shoulders with all his might. The former First Sergeant barely budged.

"I ought to pop you for that remark." Ernie cocked his fist.

Herman stared at the naked knuckles. "If you don't help me now, they'll kill her. And you know as well as me that the KNPs will only be interested in keeping the ransom for themselves."

Herman was right. Kidnapping, especially of female children, is not seen as being the most serious offense in the country. Tragic but not serious. The KNPs would go through the motions but if they didn't solve the case easily, they'd move on to more pressing matters.

When Herman didn't jump at him, Ernie slowly lowered his fist. He turned to me and grinned.

"I've never heard our man Herman here make such a long speech."

The crowd outside was becoming even more unruly. In the back room, Captain Kim shouted into the telephone.

If it had been Herman who was kidnapped, or Slicky Girl Nam, neither Ernie nor I would have bothered. But Mi-ja was an innocent child. She didn't deserve what had happened to her.

Besides, Ernie and I were constantly on the outs with the Eighth Army honchos-for our unorthodox methods, for busting people regardless of their rank. Any formal accusation made against us-even a false one-would make our working life more uncomfortable than it already was.

"It wouldn't hurt to take a look," I said.

"Yeah," Ernie said. "Why not?"

Herman straightened himself and took a deep breath. He stood shakily on his two broad feet, like a bull in the middle of a ring. He snorted in acknowledgment, turned, and stumbled toward the front door.

I grabbed him by his thick forearm. "Hold it, Herman. Let's wait until these folks outside quit discussing religion."

Herman gazed up at me, confused. It was as if he hadn't even noticed the riot going on outside the Itaewon Police Station.

Sirens sounded in the distance. Plaintive wails that grew steadily louder. Headlights converged on the concrete-block walls of the station. Reinforcements unloaded from jeeps. That must've been what Captain Kim ordered on the phone. More troops.

Suddenly, the commander of the Itaewon Police Station stormed out of his office. He pulled a dented metal helmet down low over his eyes and snapped shut the leather chin strap. He gave the pack of policemen at the door a short pep talk and led them out the door. Responding crisply to his orders, they formed up in ranks and unhooked their riot batons. After Captain Kim shouted the command, the policemen charged into the crowd.

People screamed, cursed, and fell back in panic. Over the sea of heads, I glimpsed nightstick-wielding policemen, whaling away. Swiftly, the crowd started to melt into the night.

The policemen surged forward, chasing the retreating foe.

Herman and Ernie and I walked outside. On the wet pavement lay wounded rioters, some in pools of blood.

Ernie surveyed the damage. "These KNPs sure know how to bust up a party," he said.

A battalion of monsoon clouds drifted low, blotting out the gray pallor of the moon. Rain started to pelt down and we hurried through the narrow lanes, swerving always in the direction of Herman's hooch.

My blue jeans and black nylon jacket were soon soaked and clung to my body like bloody sheets on a corpse.

In the distance, far up amongst the jumbled tile roofs that spread like a maze behind the bar district, we heard a shriek. From a shredded voice.

The forlorn wail of a woman in anguish.

Rusty barbed wire coiled atop the stone-and-brick walls that lined the narrow pathway. Rain pattered on upturned tiles. The sound increased in volume when we passed a roof made of tin.

I breathed deeply of the damp air, occasionally inhaling a hint of garlic from cooking pots bubbling in open kitchens. When we passed a byonso, I held my breath, hoping to avoid the aroma of lye-encrusted septic tanks festering in soggy ground.

Wooden gates of various colors and thicknesses were stuck in the center of each wall, most of them locked and barred against interlopers.

I held my hand over my head to keep water from dripping into my eyes, but it wasn't working too well.

Ernie strolled along unconcerned, as if the rain drizzling down his round-lensed glasses and his pointed nose concerned him not in the least. Physical surroundings were something Ernie paid attention to only when they interested him. Usually, they didn't.

By now, the shrieks we'd heard earlier had become moans.

Herman ducked through an open gate. When he did, the shrieking started again. I recognized the distinctive bark: Slicky Girl Nam. Mrs. Herman the German.

An address was embossed on a brass plate embedded in the stone wall: 45 bonji, 36 dong.

A short walkway of flat stone led into a courtyard festooned with scraggly shrubs and an ancient iron-handled pump with a plastic bucket beneath it. On a raised wooden platform, hooches with sliding paper doors faced out at us.

The joint didn't look much different from the whorehouses in the area. In fact, from previous visits I'd determined that a couple of the residents next door were freelance business girls working the local clubs. By Itaewon standards, this was a routine place to raise children.