Martin Limon - Buddha's money

A man in faded blue pantaloons and a blue tunic hobbled out into the courtyard and bowed to us. In Korean, I told him I wished to speak to the head monk.

"The monks have left," the man replied.

"Where'd they go?"

"Back to Mongolia. My wife and I are paid each month to preserve this place." He shook the wispy gray hair on his brown skull. "We don't get many visitors."

"Your payment comes from Mongolia?"

"Hong Kong now."

"Have there been any men visiting recently? Foreigners? Possibly Mongols?"

"No, sir. No visitors."

Ernie and I searched the grounds. The old man hadn't lied. The small temple seemed more like a poorly preserved museum than an active place of worship. Inside, the wood floors creaked, and demons snarled at us with fangs of faded bloodred. The place reeked of mildew. Rats scurried at our approach. The only sign of life was in the quarters out back. Smoke curled from a tin pipe chimney. An ugly woman hammered away at gnarled turnips.

I returned to the groundskeeper, scribbled my phone number on a scrap of paper, and handed it to him.

"If anyone visits, you must call me immediately. Police business."

His head bobbed like a pigeon. "Yes, sir."

We turned to leave. At the gate I paused, remembering one more question.

"These Mongolian monks, how long ago did they leave?"

The groundskeeper thought about that for a few sec- onds. "Hard to say, sir. My grandfather would've known exactly, but now…" He counted on weathered fingers. "… Yes, it's been almost a hundred years."

"Where in the hell have you guys been?"

It was the First Sergeant, an angry flush of red shining from beneath his gray crew cut. We'd left Herman outside the CID office, handcuffed to the backseat of the jeep. As soon as he heard our voices, the First Sergeant had stormed out of his office and cornered us in the Admin Office in front of Sergeant Riley's desk.

Riley hunched over a stack of paperwork and started scribbling, hoping to be spared the blast of the First Sergeant's anger. Ernie pulled out a stick of ginseng gum, unwrapped it, and popped it in his mouth. The First Sergeant stared back and forth between us.

"I asked you two a question!"

"Relax, Top," Ernie said. 'Tour blood pressure."

"Don't give me that blood pressure crap, Bascom. Ever since you guys got back from Taejon you've hardly even bothered to stop back in the office and grace us with your presence. Isn't that right, Riley?"

"Right, Top." Riley continued to scribble.

The First Sergeant took a breath and continued. "First, that kidnapped kid gets murdered out in Itaewon. You don't have nothing to report on that, which is bad enough, and you don't have nothing to report on anything else you've been working on except for dropping a stray little piece of news on us. You two told Sergeant Riley that this Buddhist nun who was allegedly attacked in Itaewon-"

"Nothing allegedly about it," Ernie interrupted. "She was jacked up royally."

"Allegedly!" the First Sergeant roared. "It's allegedly until Pfc. Hatcher is proven guilty in a court of law."

"Asshole's guilty," Ernie said. "I saw him."

I elbowed Ernie. He shut up. The First Sergeant continued.

"And so you stop in here and give us that little tidbit of news that this Buddhist nun intends to pour gasoline over her head and burn herself to death. When is this supposed to happen?"

Ernie glanced at me. I'm the detail man.

"Tomorrow afternoon," I said. "At four P.M."

"Do you have any corroboration of that?"

"We'll have corroboration," Ernie said, "when her skin starts to crinkle."

"That's enough out of you, Bascom!"

Ernie chomped serenely on his gum.

The First Sergeant looked at me. "How do you know this?"

"We talked to her," I said. "Outside. During the demonstration in front of Gate Five."

The First Sergeant drew an involuntary breath. "You know demonstrations are off-limits to Eighth Army personnel."

Ernie sighed. "They surrounded us, Top. If it hadn't been for that little nun, George and I'd be dog food by now."

The First Sergeant thought that over. "Maybe better for the organization."

"Yeah," Ernie said. "A hell of a lot less trouble for you. You wouldn't have to deal with the truth so often."

"I said that'll be enough out of you, Bascom."

Ernie stood at attention and snapped a mock salute. I stepped in front of him.

"If the nun burns," I told the First Sergeant, "the whole country's going to erupt. It could even lead to armed insurrection."

The words "armed insurrection" forced the First Sergeant's attention off of Ernie and onto me.

"You really think they'd go that far?"

"There are more Buddhists in this country than any other religion. The Christians control the government and the military, but the rank-and-file troops are mostly Buddhist."

The First Sergeant slowly shook his head. "Maybe you're right, Sueno. All I know is that ever since we passed the word up the chain of command that the Buddhist nun was planning on torching herself, they've been on our backs wanting to know more. And what could I tell them? I had every MP patrol out, but we still couldn't find you."

"We were investigating, Top. You know that."

His eyes narrowed. "Maybe. So what does she want?"

"The nun?"

"Yeah."

"She wants Eighth Army to turn Hatcher over to Korean jurisdiction."

"That takes time. There are legal procedures. Treaty restrictions. We have to get clearance from the embassy."

"Tough shit," Ernie said.

I pushed him back. "Short-circuit the procedures," I told the First Sergeant. "The Eighth Army Commander can get on the horn to Washington, D.C., if he has to. Turn over Hatcher to the ROKs. Do it now. Today. Once we have the guarantee, Ernie and I will inform the nun."

The First Sergeant's freckled brow furrowed. He jabbed a finger at Riley. "You hold these two troopers here, Riley. You understand that, Staff Sergeant? Don't let them move!"

"Right, Top."

The First Sergeant swiveled and stormed off down the hallway.

Staff Sergeant Riley rose from behind his desk and tugged on the belt of his khaki trousers. "Well, I guess you both heard what the First Sergeant said. You know who's in charge, and you know who's going to enforce the order."

Ernie flopped down in a chair. "Bite me, Riley," he said.

Ten minutes later the First Sergeant came back. Eighth Army had approved it. Private First Class Ignatius Q. Hatcher would be turned over to the Korean National Police tomorrow at close of business. Four P.M. sharp.

"That's as fast as they'd move," the First Sergeant said.

"Assholes are stalling," Ernie groused. "Trying to save face."

The First Sergeant didn't answer. I motioned to Ernie. He stood up and we walked to the door.

The First Sergeant hollered. "Where in the hell do you think you two are going?"

I wheeled on him. "Somebody has to inform the nun about the turnover of Hatcher."

"We'll just broadcast it on radio and TV."

"No," I said. "She has to be told by somebody she trusts."

The First Sergeant thought about it. "You know where to find her?"

"Yes. We know where to find her."

"Good. Make sure she doesn't roast herself. Eighth Army's counting on you."

"Fuck Eighth Army," Ernie said.

Ernie took the long way to Tobong Mountain, out the Han River road toward Walker Hill. It made sense, because we fought our way out of the Seoul rush-hour traffic about a half hour sooner than we would have if we'd cut straight across town. Once we were in the countryside, Ernie made a beeline for Tobong-san. It was already dark by the time we reached the Temple of the Celestial Void.

An elderly nun emerged into the courtyard, hands clasped in front of her, and bowed.