Martin Limon - Buddha's money

"From Asia then?"

"Maybe."

"How many of them were there?"

"Five. Maybe six."

"How did they talk to you? How did they tell you what they wanted done?"

"In GI talk."

"You understand English?"

"No. Just a few words. Mostly they pointed, gave me the meat. Made me make the dumplings."

"How did you know where to deliver them?"

"When the dumplings were finished, they took them, and took my grandson."

I turned to the boy and jabbed a thumb toward Herman.

"How did you know where he lives?"

"I didn't." The boy's lips started to tremble. I turned back to Ernie.

"Let the old man down," I said. "But keep an eye on the hatchet."

Ernie reluctantly released his hold on the cook and even helped him straighten his grease-splattered tunic. A sense of hope entered the boy's dark eyes. Herman breathed more heavily. The boy tensed again.

"If you didn't know where this man lived," I asked him, gesturing toward Herman, "how did you know where to deliver the dumplings?"

"They went with me."

"All of them?"

"Just one. The one with the thing wrapped around his head." The boy swirled his forefinger in a circle above his skull.

"The thing? A hat?"

"No. Rags."

A turban, I thought, but I didn't know the Korean word.

"So this man with the rags on his head guided you to the home and ordered you to deliver the dumplings?"

"Yes. And he waited outside while I delivered them."

I translated for Ernie. His eyes widened slightly. Mi-ja's kidnappers-at least one of them-had been close. Very close.

"Did he pay you?" I asked the boy.

"No." The boy seemed surprised.

"Then why'd you do it?"

"They were going to hurt my grandfather."

At that, the old man rolled up his sleeves. His underarm was lined with cigarette burns, the same type of wounds the kidnappers had branded on Herman.

Out front, the door slammed open. We heard voices. Korean voices. Men.

"KNPs," Herman whispered. "Let's get out of here."

I was reluctant. The Korean National Police would interrogate the dumpling house owner and his grandson thoroughly. They might learn something we hadn't. Something useful.

Herman yanked on my arm. "Come on," he urged. "Those guys'll kill Mi-ja if I don't keep the Korean police out of this."

I allowed him to pull me through the back door of the kitchen. Ernie followed.

In a few seconds, we were lost in the catacombs of Itaewon. A police whistle sliced through the rainy night.

When we reached Herman's Hooch, Slicky Girl Nam was holding her hair out to the sides of her head with splayed fingers. Screaming. Her eyes were glazed. A teenaged girl stood next to her. Cringing.

Herman strode up to his wife and shouted, "Nam!"

When she didn't stop screaming, he slapped her with his fat, rough hand.

The flesh of Nam's face shook and she looked up at Herman, surprised.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Chonhua," she answered. Telephone.

Herman looked at the girl. She wore a black skirt and white blouse and black tunic. A middle-school uniform. Her glossy hair was in braids. The girl motioned toward the gate. All of us, including Slicky Girl Nam, followed her outside.

"She's the daughter of the pharmacist on the corner," Herman explained to Ernie and me. "That's where the phone is."

A red telephone was hooked onto a pole beneath the awning in front of a wooden shack with a big red sign in front that said "Yak." Medicine. The receiver was off the hook. It dangled on its metal cord.

Slicky Girl Nam held her fists to her mouth, staring at the phone as if it were about to explode. Herman's face was a round mask of worry.

"You'd better answer it," I told him.

Ernie strode toward the plate glass window and began studying the rows of medications. Even though he'd kicked the heroin habit, he couldn't give up his hobby-pharmaceuticals — altogether.

Herman snatched up the dangling receiver. "Hello?"

He held the phone away from his ear. A shrill wail erupted from the mouthpiece. A little girl's voice, screeching in pain.

Slicky Girl Nam backed up as if she'd heard a demon from hell. Herman stiffened his arm, holding an asp by the neck. Ernie stopped studying the medications and squinted at the phone, probably trying to decide whether or not to punch it into submission.

I grabbed the receiver from Herman's hand.

"Hello?" I said in English. "Hello?"

The voice that answered sounded as if it were ground out by metal gears.

"I will give you five minutes…" it said. The English was clear but thickly accented. But an accent I couldn't place. "… to climb to the top of Hooker Hill. Someone has been paid to give you a message. Do not bother her. She knows nothing. If policemen are following you, the fat man's daughter will be killed."

As I listened, a blade of ice slid along my spine. The words were pronounced precisely, like a mortician expressing condolences to a bereaved family. The accent seemed Asian but didn't sound like anything I had ever heard. Not in East L.A., anyway. And not in Seoul.

I shouted into the receiver. "We can work something out. I know you want the jade skull, but-"

The line clicked and went dead.

Herman and Ernie stared at me.

"What'd he say?" Ernie asked.

"We have five minutes to get to the top of Hooker Hill."

Hooker Hill is the name GIs have given to the narrow lane that stretches about forty yards, from the Lucky 7 Club on the main drag of Itaewon up to the Roundup Club on a rise overlooking the entire village. The pathway is lined with chophouses and hole-in-the-wall bars and wooden gates behind which lurk hooches jam-packed with Korean business girls. At night the women flood onto the street. Trap-door spiders searching for prey.

When business is slow, a GI with a pocketful of money is lucky to take two steps before one of the denizens of Hooker Hill latches onto him. Wrapped in a web of sensuality, most of the hapless GIs are quickly rugged back into the business girl's lair, there to be devoured at the spider lady's leisure.

Ernie and I didn't want to have anything to do with the women of Hooker Hill. Not now. Not when we were in a hurry. The problem was that it was a week before military payday, and although the rain had slowed somewhat, a steady drizzle was still keeping most GIs inside the cozy diyness of the nightclubs lining the main drag. As a result, Hooker Hill was so crowded with desperate business girls that a eunuch with an empty wallet would've had trouble wriggling past them.

Normally, Ernie enjoyed himself on this street, playing grab-ass with the girls, giving them eighteen reasons why he was broke and wouldn't be able to accommodate them. Tonight was different.

"Get your hands off me!" he bellowed.

The pack of girls just giggled.

"Ernie, why you go fast? You no want catch me?"

"No time," Ernie told them. "I have business to attend to."

Flesh slapped on flesh. "That's my crotch…"- Ernie's voice-".. and I'll use it the way I want to."

I was making better progress: Keeping my face somber, my eyes focused on my destination, and straight-arming every overly made-up business girl who had the courage to approach me.

Herman had fallen behind in the alleys but now, here on Hooker Hill, he was making up for lost time. The girls backed out of his way, moving so quickly that it was like Moses parting the Red Sea.

All he needed was a long beard and a staff.

I had almost made it to the top of the hill when a business girl wearing tight blue jeans and a brightly striped knit sweater sprinted out of the crowd. I recognized her immediately. Sooki. She had changed clothes. Not an unusual thing for a busy business girl to do.

She bumped into me, twirled, and jammed a wad of stiff paper into my hand. I tried to grab her but missed and watched her escape down Hooker Hill.