Martin Limon: Buddha's money

Holes were punched in the paper in the doors of Herman's hooch. Some of the latticework was splintered. Inside, shards of pottery and smashed glassware and ripped pillows lay strewn across the vinyl-covered floor.

Ernie whistled. "A lot of damage, considering it's not typhoon season."

Elderly Korean women squatted along the edge of the wooden platform, like a patient jury of ghosts. We stepped under the large corrugated fiberglass overhang to get out of the rain.

When she saw Herman, Slicky Girl Nam bounded across the courtyard, long nails bared like a tigress.

"Shangnom-ah! Tangsin weikurei?" Born of a base lout! What have you done?

She wore a flower-print blue dress that clung to her quivering belly and rode high above plump knees. Her hair was dyed raven black and ratted into a headdress that would've startled a New Guinea headhunted

She swiped at Herman's eyes. He stopped, and without moving his neck, leaned his rotund body backward. The claws sliced by his face within inches. The miss threw Slicky Girl Nam off stride; she reeled forward and rammed her shoulder into Herman's stomach. A "whoof" erupted from his blubbery lips and he stumbled backwards. Ernie and I caught him, but just in time for him to open his eyes and see the wild-eyed Slicky Girl Nam charging at him again.

"Kei-sikkya!" she shrieked. Issue of a dog!

Ernie jumped between them, grabbed Slicky Girl Nam by the wrists, and tried to hold her. For a moment it was touch and go as to who was going to win the wrestling match. But finally she jerked her hands away, stepped back, and pointed at Herman.

"Shangnom-ah! You let them take Mi-ja. What's a matter you? You dingy dingy. You no have brain?"

Herman kept his bull-to-the-slaughterhouse blue eyes on her, his aggrieved expression staying perfectly in place. Slicky Girl Nam pushed past Ernie, reached, and rapped two knuckles atop Herman's round head.

"No have nothing inside?" she demanded. "Why you no stop them? Why you let them mess whole house, break everything, and then take Mi-ja? You no man? You no have nothing down here?"

She thrust a claw toward Herman's crotch, but he jerked back in time and managed to avoid her wicked nails. Again Slicky Girl Nam rapped Herman on the side of the head.

"Where she go? You tell me, where she go?"

Herman stared at us, ignoring the steady knocking on his head.

"They took her," he said.

"Who took her?" I asked.

He waved his heavy arm towards the hooches. "The guys who searched the rooms."

"What were they looking for?"

"Antiques."

"Antiques?"

"Yes. A special antique. One they thought I have, but I don't."

Slicky Girl Nam let out a low growl, raised her hand, and stepped closer to Herman.

"You stupid! You stay black market. Don't need old, what you call it… antique. You make enough money. Why you mess with old Korean things? Pyongsin-a!"

Herman didn't respond to being called a cripple, any more than he had to any of Slicky Girl Nam's attacks, verbal or physical.

I could only figure it was love.

When Herman the German and Slicky Girl Nam were married, it was the biggest social event of the Itaewon season. They rented the patio on the top of the 7 Club, right in the heart of the strip, and hired a band and a go-go girl and dressed Mi-ja up as a little Korean flower girl. The beer and the chop were free, so they had a pretty good turnout. Ernie and I chipped in and bought the newlyweds a gift, two rolls of quarters for the slot machines at the NCO club on post.

The man who performed the ceremony was the owner of the 7 Club, which was okay because the official wedding between a Korean woman and an American man takes place when you receive a bunch of stamps on a pile of paperwork at Seoul City Hall. Neither Herman nor Slicky Girl Nam was very religious anyway. But superstition, that was different.

They hired a mudang, a Korean witch, to chase ghosts away with a torch during the wedding ceremony. Later, the witch performed a few chants until she fell into a trance. After a couple of drinks, the trance must've been working pretty well because the mudang grabbed Herman and performed a lewd dance with him in the center of the patio until Slicky Girl Nam got pissed off and punched her in the nose.

All in all, it was a successful party. During the last couple of hours, both Ernie and I went into alcoholic blackout, which is the criteria we use to judge any social event.

Now Ernie strode around the courtyard, surveying the damage that had been done to the hooches. Whoever had decided to search had been thorough about it. Drawers and clothes and kitchen utensils were scattered everywhere.

Slicky Girl Nam glared at Herman, occasionally knocking on his bowling ball skull with her gnarled fists, but she wasn't hysterical anymore.

"Why you no change charcoal?"

"I'm sorry, honey," Herman answered. "I'll take care of that right now."

Herman scurried over to a large metal plate canted into the stone foundation of the hooch. He opened it and, using a nearby pair of metal tongs, reached in and pulled out a glowing cylinder of flaming charcoal. He scooped out the orange-tinted ash beneath it and tossed the refuse into a pile of spent fuel. After reinserting the flaming briquette, and placing a fresh charcoal briquette on top of it, Herman slapped his dusty hands together and closed the lid of the stove.

Koreans call it the ondol heating system. Flues carry charcoal gas beneath the hooch, which heats the stones above and the wood-slat floors above that. All in all it's very cozy and Koreans love a hot platform to sleep on, even during the warm monsoon season.

Generally, changing the charcoal is considered to be menial work, and most people with any money hire someone to do it for them. Sticky Girl Nam could've afforded a maid. But, apparently, changing the charcoal was another method she used to humiliate her husband.

Three of the old women put on their slippers and surrounded Slicky Girl Nam, rugging on her arms, cajoling her to sit down. Slicky Girl Nam let her face slump, now playing the role of the bereaved mother. The old women sat her down on the raised varnished floor and cooed over her. One brought her a glass of warm barley tea.

When Herman finished with the charcoal, I stood in front of him.

"Spill it, Herman. What the hell were you into this time?"

"Nothing."

Ernie, hands on his hips, strode behind Herman and booted him in the butt. Herman didn't jump as I'd expected him to but turned slowly, tears building until his eyes looked like boiled eggs.

"What'd you do that for?" he asked.

"For not talking to my partner. For not spilling it all." Ernie jabbed his pointed nose into Herman's round one. "Your little girl has been kidnapped. You came to us for help. If you don't start talking there's no way anybody's going to find her. So talk!"

For a moment I thought Herman might slug Ernie, but instead he rotated his torso back toward me.

"A skull. Carved in jade," he said. "From some old king. That's what she told me it was. Worth a lot of money, too."

"Who's 'she'?" I asked.

"The chick," Herman said. "The tall chick. The one with the big yubangs."

Yubang. Breast. Another important word.

Ernie raised one eyebrow. "What's this chick's name?"

"Lady Ahn."

"Lady Ahn?"

"Yeah. That's what she calls herself."

"And these guys were looking for that antique?"

Herman nodded.

"How do you know?"

"They told me." He held up his arm. Fresh round burns had been seared into the flesh above his elbow. I hadn't noticed them before. "They told me they wanted it."

"What'd you tell them?"

"I told them the truth. I don't have it."

"Who does?"

"Lady Ahn. I'm meeting her tomorrow to set up the transfer. So I can get it back to the States for her."