Martin Limon - Buddha's money

"Business looks good, Mama," Ernie said.

"So-so." She tilted her gnarled hand from side to side. Puffs of smoke filtered through her snaggled teeth, like fire from a dragon's mouth.

Ernie lifted the jade skull up to the light and examined it. "Thanks for holding this for us."

'You take go," Mama Lee said. "I no like. Chinguro." Creepy.

'Yeah, it's chinguro all right."

Ernie replaced the skull in the bag, slung it over his shoulder, and the three of us walked back to the jeep. We debated taking Herman to the MP Station and booking him.

Herman wasn't thrilled with the idea. "Hey! You guys can't do that. We had a deal."

"Fuck some kind of a deal!" Ernie said. "You had a deal with Mi-ja. To be her father and protect her. Instead you cut off her ear."

"That was business."

Ernie stepped toward Herman. I grabbed him and held on, feeling the jade skull pressing against my belly.

"Not now, Ernie. There's no time. We have to save Lady Ahn. And the nun."

Ernie took three deep breaths. Then he pointed at Herman. "As soon as this shit is over, we're booking your ass and the charge is going to be kidnapping and being an accomplice to murder in the first degree. You got that, you fat old lifer asshole?"

"I got it," Herman whispered.

As we shot through afternoon traffic toward downtown Seoul, Ernie had to swerve around groups of angry citizens, holding photographs of the little nun, throwing rotten persimmons at our jeep. I thought about what Herman had just said. It was the first time I ever remembered him answering a question with such humility in his voice. I looked back. His face was the same, aggrieved and worried, as always. But fat tears poured down his fleshy cheeks.

I didn't tell Ernie. It would've just pissed him off.

We knelt on the balcony of a Red Pagoda that sat on a hill overlooking the T-shaped intersection in front of Guanghua-mun, the Gate of the Transformation of Light.

We had left the jeep in a narrow alley in a stone-walled residential district. Ernie made Herman move to the front seat and handcuffed him to the front roll bar.

"You can't leave me here," Herman protested.

"The hell we can't," Ernie answered. "You'll be safe this far from the demonstrators. They never come up here."

"But you promised I'd be able to see Ragyapa."

"Fuck that promise. You don't deserve shit."

Ernie lifted the thick chain that was welded onto the floorboard, wound it tightly through the steering wheel, and padlocked it. With Herman's wrist handcuffed to the roll bar, both vehicle and suspect were now secure.

As we walked away, Herman cursed and shouted at us, spittle erupting from his moist lips. "You can't leave me here, you bastards! Come back and take these damn handcuffs off!"

No matter how loud he shouted, I wasn't worried about anybody interfering. The local residents wouldn't want to become involved with some half-crazed foreigner. And the police would have plenty to do with the largest demonstration of the year-maybe the decade-about to begin right in the heart of their precinct.

From the vantage point of the pagoda, we could see streams of students moving in an orderly fashion toward Guanghua-mun. Armored riot-control vehicles and helmeted riot police had already taken up positions near the periphery. In case anything got out of control.

Russet-robed monks and gray-clad nuns knelt silently on the damp pavement. A lake of tranquility. I couldn't see Choi So-lan.

In the center of all this activity, the ancient stone gate loomed about fifty feet high. Atop it were bright green tiles, upturned at the eaves, and rows of porcelain monkeys, a simian honor guard designed to ward off evil spirits. Behind the gate were the manicured grounds of the old capital building, built by the Japanese after their takeover of Korea in 1911. The domed building was still considered a reminder of colonization, and there was much talk about tearing it down.

Ernie watched the students. "They almost look like they're in military formations," he said.

"Close to it. Each university has their own student leadership council that organizes the students into groups. Boys march with boys. Girls march with girls. And the shock troops, the biggest and toughest boys, go in first."

All the students wore white bandanas across their foreheads, knotted in the back. Korean characters were slashed across the front in black ink, but from this distance I couldn't read what they said.

Around a far turn, more battalions of students emerged, all heading toward the big open intersection in front of Guanghua-mun. Vehicular traffic had long since been blocked off. A wooden platform had been set up in front of the gate; student technicians fiddled with wires and speakers and amplifiers.

The sky was overcast, but no rain. Not yet.

I grabbed the leather bag from Ernie.

"I better take up my position," I said. "Ragyapa wants me right in front of the gate."

"Why don't you let me take it?" Ernie patted the. 45 beneath his coat. "I'm better with this than you are."

"That won't help. Not with all these students. But speaking the language might make a difference. I know what to say to them." I stood and hoisted the bag over my shoulder. "Besides, if I act cool enough they just might think I'm a foreign correspondent or something."

"Did you bring a notebook?"

"Forgot."

"Well, then," Ernie said, "look studious."

And so I strode off toward the Gate of the Transformation of Light.

As I neared Guanghua-mun, the chanting of the students grew deafening.

"Jayu mansei!" Long live liberty.

"Weiguk-nom chukko!" Death to foreign louts!

"Miguk-nom mullo kara!" Yankee go home!

Although they were shouting all these terrible things, most of the students didn't even glance my way as I skirted their formations. But I felt as if I were tiptoeing past a giant tiger. His belly was temporarily full but if he became hungry and turned his green eyes on me, I'd be gulped down like a before-dinner aperitif.

Finally, I reached my position in front of the gate. I stood behind the podium, hoping no one would notice me.

I studied the area where the Buddhists had gathered. A sea of bald heads. There were too many of them and I wasn't high enough to see over the crowd. I couldn't tell if the little nun was there or not.

The buildings surrounding the intersection in front of Guanghua-mun were mostly deserted. But in a few of them, from high windows, people stared out at the crowd. In one or two windows I thought I glimpsed a glimmer of light. Maybe telescopes. Or photographic lenses. The secret police keeping tabs on troublemakers.

Suddenly, I felt naked standing out here. I wished we had set up a sniper in one of those windows. Ernie had promised to cover me, and I knew he would, but more students and more Buddhists were joining the swelling, noisy crowd every minute. Ernie would have trouble just keeping track of where I was, much less helping me if I needed it.

I searched for Ragyapa. So far nothing.

Suddenly, like a wave, the Buddhists rose to their feet, chanted for a moment, then knelt back down. The monks and nuns looked like a carpet of wool dotted with flesh-colored buttons. That's when I saw her. Choi So-lan, the Buddhist nun. She was in front with some large important-looking old monk who chanted and bowed to her. They were preparing her all right. Like a recipe: Marinate in righteousness before burning.

I wanted to charge over there, to give her the news that Hatcher would be turned over to them, to tell her that she didn't have to go through with this. Why hadn't I sent Ernie to do that? We'd been so nervous that we hadn't thought about it. Still, I had to stop her.

A door in an old wooden yoguan across the street slammed open.