Martin Limon - Buddha's money

Ernie nearly leapt over the counter. "Where'd he go?"

"Caught one of our routine medical flights. Chopper left here not twenty minutes ago. Heading to the H-105 airfield, Yongsan Compound, Seoul."

"Shit!" Ernie pounded his fist on the vinyl countertop.

"Any chance of radioing them to turn back?"

"No way."

"This is official business," Ernie said. "Involving the crimes of kidnapping and murder. What's this 'no way' bullshit?"

The sergeant's eyes narrowed. "I said no way because it's not possible to turn the copter back."

"What do you mean?"

"Radio report came in just before you guys walked in here. They've already landed and… let me check here." He shuffled through a sheaf of papers. "The passenger disembarked, five minutes ago."

I thought about calling the MP Station in Seoul and sending a patrol jeep out to the landing pad. But it was too late. Herman had already hoofed it out the gate by now. He'd disappeared into the swirling madness of Seoul.

Ernie kept cursing. The sergeant behind the counter glared at him. I tried to make peace but my heart wasn't in it.

The ride back to Seoul was quiet. Except for the gears. Ernie kept grinding them.

Along with his teeth.

It was already late afternoon, we could've gone into the office, but who needed another ass-chewing from the First Sergeant? Besides, the groups of demonstrators holding portraits of Choi So-lan, the Buddhist nun, had grown. Traffic was backed up all along the MSR. Seeing the concerned faces on the small gaggles of women was depressing. Just another reminder of our failure.

We cruised into Itaewon, found a parking spot in one of the alleys behind the main drag, and strolled listlessly down toward the nightclubs.

The first few splats of rain hit the pavement.

Ragyapa was well hidden. So was Herman. It could take us weeks to find either one of them. Time we didn't have. Not if we wanted to save the life of Lady Ahn.

And meanwhile the clock was ticking for Choi So-lan, the nun who'd been attacked here in Itaewon. If Eighth Army didn't turn Pfc. Hatcher over to the Korean authorities- and turn him over soon-she would pour gasoline over her bald head late tomorrow afternoon and light it with a match.

All our effort in stealing the jade skull of Kublai Khan from the monks of Bian-do was for nothing. Mi-ja was dead. And now it looked as if Lady Ahn and the nun would soon meet the same fate.

A filthy street urchin tugged on my sleeve.

"Hey, GI!"

"Go away. We're busy."

"Somebody look for you. Behind UN Club. You go cheeky cheeky."

"Who is it?"

"I don't know. He say you come quick."

Ernie handed the boy a stick of gum by way of a tip and the dirty child scurried off.

"He didn't even ask for money," Ernie said.

"Somebody already paid him. So we might as well check it out."

Ernie patted the. 45 under his jacket. "I'm ready."

Behind the UN Club, a maze of alleys stretched back to the Itaewon Market. A few droplets of light rain managed to penetrate the gloom. Our shoes sloshed in mud.

I heard heavy breathing, and then someone stepped out of a side alley.

Herman the German.

Ernie reached for his. 45.

Herman raised his stubby arms. "Where the hell you guys been? I been waiting for you."

His eyes were still aggrieved and moist and his lips were as blubbery as ever. A large leather bag that looked as if it held a volleyball hung from his shoulder.

Ernie clanged back the charging handle of his. 45.

"Turn around, Herman," Ernie said. "Slow."

He did as he was told and I slammed him up against the stone wall and frisked him. No weapons.

Herman turned his pleading eyes on me and clutched my arm. "You have to hide me, Sueno. They're after me."

"Ragyapa and his Mongols would only give you what you deserve."

"Mongols? Who gives a fuck about a bunch of Mongols?"

If Herman wasn't worried about Ragyapa, then who was he so frightened of? I shoved him away.

"Somebody's got you about ready to shit in your pants, Herman. Who is it?"

Even as I asked the question, I suddenly knew the answer.

Ernie screwed the nozzle of the. 45 into Herman's ear. "Who's after you, Herman?"

'The Slicky Boys!" Herman roared. "Who in the hell else?"

Slicky girl Nam placed both hands flat on the stone floor-thumbs and forefingers touching-and bowed her head three times. She kept her skull pressed against the granite, waiting for permission to rise.

"It has been many years," said Herbalist So, the King of the Slicky Boys.

Slicky Girl Nam sat back on her heels, keeping her eyes demurely cast toward the floor. "Too long, Good Herbalist. You honor me by accepting this worthless old one into your presence."

The cavern was dark, lit only by flickering fires beneath simmering earthen pots. The odors of bat wings and ginger root and boiling deer antler wafted through the shadows.

"I have never forgotten your service to my father," Herbalist So told her.

"And I have never forgotten it either. At that time I was barely more than a child. But my friend Kimiko and I were your father's favorites. We served him well."

Herbalist So's father was the man who had established the slicky boy operation, the man who had organized all the Korean thieves who preyed off the compounds of the American military. He controlled their operations, stealing only what the Americans could afford to lose, ensuring long-term profitability for everyone.

When she first came to Itaewon, Slicky Girl Nam was only fifteen. Fresh-faced and shapely, she had been summoned to the presence of the King of the Slicky Boys. Even now she trembled at the thought of the power in the man's eyes-and the hot need of his hard body.

Although his son, Herbalist So, controlled a multimillion-dollar cartel of thieves, Slicky Girl Nam still thought of him as a boy. She always would. Because her finest memories were of the nights she had slept with his father.

Herbalist So seemed to read her thoughts, and was impatient with them. He used a less formal level of Korean. "You've come to me for a reason, Mother of Mi-ja. State it."

Slicky Girl Nam bowed once again. "I seek revenge," she said.

"Against whom?"

"Against my husband."

Only a slight rustling of cotton betrayed Herbalist So's shift on the hard wooden bench. He stared at her with dark eyes gleaming from a face as weathered as his earthen pots.

"A dispute between a husband and a wife," he said. "This is a very difficult thing."

"My husband, Herman the German, murdered my daughter. He killed my Mi-ja. All for greed. Because he lusted for possession of an ancient antique." Slicky Girl Nam straightened her back and stared directly into Herbalist So's eyes.

"You owe me," she said. "For years of service. First, for being your father's consort. And after he died, I became a streetwalker for the big-nosed GIs." She waved her arm. "Thousands of them! And when I was too old for even them, I took a job as a trash truck driver on the American compound and told you of the location of all the valuable commodities." She jabbed her thumb into her chest. "But did I ask anything for myself? No. You became rich, rich beyond imagining, and I received only a common wage."

Herbalist So's eyelids lowered. "You are forgetful, Mother of Mi-ja. Did we not forge a new set of documents for you to use in your marriage application? So your new husband wouldn't know you'd been a prostitute. So he wouldn't know how many times you'd contracted venereal disease. Or how many times you'd had abortions. Or how many times you'd been arrested for petty thievery." The craggy lines of Herbalist So's face set into hard ridges. "Don't tell me that we've done nothing for you!"

Slicky Girl Nam realized she'd gone too far. She lowered her face toward the floor. After a few moments, she spoke in a softer voice.