Nightmare Range (32 page)

The receipt for the money had to be filled out and verified by officials of the US government, namely me and Ernie. I cleared my throat and started asking questions.

“Who are the parents?”

All heads turned to the woman squatting next to the body and a man sitting cross-legged on the floor next to her. He was unbelievably thin, but he held his back perfectly straight. A white shirt and tie seemed incongruously bring beneath his weathered face. His cheekbones were high, like ridges of stone.

“You are Choi Heng-sok?”

He nodded.

“And the deceased is your daughter?”

He nodded again.

“May I see some identification?”

The words were written right there on the questionnaire, but as soon as I said them, I regretted them. An intake of breath rustled through the crowd. Even Ernie glanced over at me. Mr. Choi didn’t seem to notice, however. He reached back in his wallet and pulled out a laminated card and handed it across to me with bony, leather-skinned fingers, as steady as his rock-like expression.

I took the card, placed it on my clipboard, and copied down the Korean National Identification number. When I was finished, I handed it back to him.

As I filled in the receipt, I sensed movement next to the body. Something rustled. Then something shrieked.

“She is my daughter!” the woman screamed. “My baby and you have killed her!”

Ernie started to stand up. A couple of the relatives slid across the floor toward her, getting between us. Soon she was enveloped in grasping hands and cooing words.

She was crying now, shaking her head violently, her lips and cheeks quivering, drool dripping from her mouth.

I filled out the last of the form. Mr. Choi had turned toward his wife but looked back at me when I thrust the clipboard toward him.

“Sign,” I said. “It is necessary to receive your claim.”

He nodded and took the board from my hand, and while I pointed at the signature block he scribbled three Chinese
characters in a quick, sure hand. He started to give it back to me, but I wouldn’t take it.

“Your wife must sign also.”

He stared at me, confused. In Korea, a husband can sign for the entire family. He and his ancestors had a long acquaintance with the peculiarities of red tape, however, and he was dealing with foreigners, after all. Acceptance came to his face and he slid forward across the immaculately polished floor. He and the other relatives soothed the girl’s mother. She kept mumbling about the beasts from across the sea, and her family laughed nervously, glancing at us, hoping Ernie and I wouldn’t take offense.

Ernie couldn’t understand much Korean, but he knew an insult when he heard it. Still, it didn’t seem to bother him. After the initial shock of the scream, he had settled back on his cushion. The only concession he made to nervousness was a stick of gum that he pulled out of his pocket and resolutely chomped on. He hadn’t offered gum to anyone else, which was unlike him. I knew he hadn’t suddenly become stingy. He was just preoccupied. Worried about getting fragged.

Mr. Choi and the others finally convinced the girl’s mother to sign the form. They handed it back to me. Her signature looked like the frenzied slashes of a sharp blade.

I slid the money to him. Ernie and I stood.

For a moment I thought of saying I’m sorry. It would be embarrassing, but it would probably do them a lot of good. But I hadn’t killed their daughter. I wasn’t Dwayne Ortfield. And I wasn’t the US government that had brought him over here.

I tried to think of other times I’d heard apologies on behalf of the US government. I couldn’t think of any.

Maybe there was a regulation against it.

The mother started to cry. Softly this time.

A solemn man who’d been sitting by himself in a corner leaned forward and riffled through the briefcase, stacking the money on the floor and counting it. At first I thought he was some sort of bodyguard. He was tall and lean and strong, watchful of
everything. But then I realized he must be the lawyer. Taking charge of the finances. I wondered what his cut would be. Probably half.

We backed out of the room. To turn while leaving would’ve been a sign of disrespect. With things as tense as they were, even Ernie wouldn’t risk delivering such a slap in the face.

The courtyard was empty. The girls must’ve finished their ceremony and left so quickly that I hadn’t noticed. We shuffled across flat stone steps, but before we reached the gate, I heard footsteps behind me and someone grabbed me by the arm. I swiveled and stared into the stern face of the lawyer.

“What of Ortfield?” His English was heavily accented but understandable.

“The court-martial is finished,” I said. “He will be sent back to the States.”

“That is all? No jail? No punishment?”

I shook my head.

“Nothing?”

“He won’t last long in the army,” I said. “He will never be promoted again.”

His narrow eyes hardened. “That will not be good enough for Mr. Choi.”

I shrugged. “There is nothing I can do.”

Ernie stepped forward, positioning himself to kick the lawyer in the groin. I waved him back with the flat of my palm.

The lawyer glanced at him, coldly evaluating his size and strength, and turned back to me. His grip on my arm was strong, and his confidence, facing men a head taller than him, was impressive.

“The parents demand justice,” he said.

“It is too late for that. The Korean police gave up jurisdiction.”

“When does Ortfield leave?”

“Soon.”

“Not soon enough,” he said. “He won’t board an airplane without …” He searched for a word. “Without atonement.” He waved his arm around the courtyard. “This may not seem like
the home of a rich man, but Mr. Choi lived a hard life, and when he made money he saved it. There are many people who will do his bidding for the right price.”

There was no question about that. The going rate for a murder in Seoul was about two hundred thousand
won
—three hundred dollars US.

Ernie’d had enough. He pushed his way in front of me. “Are you threatening me?”

The lawyer let go of my arm and backed off half a step. “Not you.”

“Ortfield then?”

“Yes.” The lawyer nodded. “He will pay.”

I grabbed Ernie by the elbow. “Come on. Let’s go.”

He resisted, but I yanked him toward the wooden gate and pushed him outside. The lawyer didn’t follow.

I started to say something. To tell Ernie that they were just upset and the threats didn’t mean anything, but I gazed down the alleyway and my mouth slammed shut.

They were waiting for us. A hundred grim-faced girls lining either side of the narrow lane. Some were beautiful, some plain, some plagued by pock-marked faces or erupting complexions. But they all stared at us as we walked by.

Ernie strutted, twisting his head back and forth, disdainful of their hatred.

As we descended the long flight of steps, I felt the eyes of the girls on the back of my neck. Fire flushed through my skull until my face burned.

Back at the compound, Ernie was still angry and made the mistake of telling Riley about the threats to Ortfield’s life. It wasn’t long before the first sergeant heard about it and then the provost marshal.

Riley strutted into the admin office, the starch in his fatigues crinkling with each step.

“Straight from the first sergeant,” he said. “New assignment for you guys.”

“No more payoffs, I hope.”

“Not this time. Guard duty. Ortfield’s hold baggage is being picked up in the morning. He catches the first flight out of Kimpo tomorrow afternoon.”

He slapped a plane ticket and a packet of orders into my hand.

“Until then you and Ernie watch him. Every minute. Day and night.”

“Babysitting.”

“You got it. And if he doesn’t make it to that flight, the provost marshal is to send you both back to the DMZ.”

I unfolded the tickets, checking the flight times, making sure the emergency orders were signed and sealed. Ernie’s face flushed red. He looked as if he were about to bust somebody in the chops. I spoke before he had a chance. No sense bitching about it.

“Tell the provost marshal thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Be happy to,” Riley said. “Enjoy your duty. And have a nice day.”

We found Ortfield in the 21 T Car barracks—that’s the 21st Transportation Company (Car). He was playing grab-ass with one of the houseboys, a man twice his age, who was trying to ignore him and get his work done.

Ernie decided to set Ortfield straight from the beginning. He grabbed him by his scrawny shoulders and slammed him up against a metal wall locker.

“Hey! What’s the idea?”

Ernie shoved his forearm under Ortfield’s chin. Cheeks bulged. “The idea is that you’re a dirt-bag, and from this moment until you get on that plane you’re going to do everything we say.” Ortfield gurgled. “You got that?”

His voice came out choked and frightened. “Okay. Okay!”

Ernie let him go and told him to go back to his bunk and quit bothering the houseboy. We followed him over to his area and found that he hadn’t even begun to pack. Ernie dug out his canvas duffel bag from the bottom of his footlocker,
threw it at him, and told him to get busy. Ortfield grabbed it on the fly and, completely convinced of Ernie’s sincerity, went to work.

Ernie walked over to me and whispered, “The maggot. Babysitting him all night means we miss Happy Hour.”

“Tough duty,” I said.

“I’ll take the first shift. Put the fear of God into him. You come back after chow and take over for a while.”

“Right,” I said. “See you then.”

The sun was setting red and fierce into the Yellow Sea when I strolled back to Ortfield’s barracks. I went in the side door, down the hallway, and into the four-man room. Empty. No Ortfield. No Ernie.

I rushed out toward the front entrance and the office of the Charge of Quarters. An overweight staff sergeant in wrinkled khakis sat behind the desk reading a comic book.

“Have you seen Ernie?”

“The guy guarding Ortfield?”

“Yeah.”

“He left about ten minutes ago to pick up some beer. Decided to give the kid a break, his last night in country and all.”

And give himself a break, too.

“Did he take Ortfield with him?”

“No. Isn’t he in his room?”

“No. I just came from there.”

“Maybe he’s in the latrine.”

I sprinted down the hallway and checked the latrine, and when I didn’t find him there, I ran upstairs and pounded on as many doors as I could. After five minutes of scurrying around the barracks it was clear. Ortfield had disappeared.

Whistling, a bag of cold cans in his arms, Ernie strolled toward the front of the barracks. I caught him at the entrance but before I could speak he saw it in my eyes.

“The little dirt-bag took off?”

“You got it.”

“But I was being nice to him.”

I turned back to the CQ. “Did any Koreans come into the barracks?”

“Not that I saw.”

We checked around, but none of the GIs and none of the houseboys had seen any unauthorized Koreans in the barracks.

“We’re going to have to track him,” Ernie said.

We returned to Ortfield’s bunk. Ernie popped me a beer and opened one for himself.

“No sense letting it go to waste,” he said.

I sipped on mine, thought for a moment, and started looking through the junk in Ortfield’s locker. I found it amongst the toiletries, behind a red and white striped can of shaving cream. A photograph. Ortfield sitting at a cocktail table with a Korean woman. I handed it to Ernie.

“Do you recognize her?”

Ernie squinted, slugging back his beer. “Yeah. A business girl. I’ve seen her around. Out in Itaewon.”

I studied the façade behind them. “We’re experts at every bar in the red light district, Ernie. Look hard. Which club is this?”

He thought about it, sorting the possibilities in his mind. “Colored light bulbs on the ceiling, plaster made to look like the walls of a cave. Round cocktail tables with plastic tablecloths. The Sloe-eyed Lady Club. It’s got to be.”

“You’re right. That’s what I thought.” I stuffed the photograph in my shirt pocket. “Let’s go.”

Ernie glugged down the last of his beer and followed me out the door.

By the time we hit Itaewon, the sun was down and neon lights flashed lewd invitations to the few packs of GIs roaming the streets. Girls stood in doorways, half naked in the cold winter air, crooking their red-tipped fingernails, cooing siren songs of sensual delight.

We ignored them, heading like two hound dogs toward the top of the hill and the Sloe-eyed Lady Club. We pushed through the padded vinyl doors of the club and entered a world of blinking red bulbs and grinding rock music and the smell of stale beer. A sea of young women gyrated on the small dance floor. No men yet. Most GIs still hadn’t left the compound.

As our eyes adjusted to the dim light, we scanned the room. No Ortfield. Ernie spotted her first. “There she is.”

He waded out onto the dance floor, pushing girls out of his way like Moses crossing the Red Sea.

When he found her, he stood behind her, but she continued to dance. She still hadn’t notice him. The girls dancing with her stopped. Ernie wrapped his arm around her slim body, pinning her arms to her sides, and escorted her quickly off the dance floor. I led the way to a table in the corner, and we sat her down. I leaned toward her.

“Where’s Dwayne?”

“Who?”

“Ortfield.” I showed her the picture.

“Oh, him. I don’t know. I no see long time.”

“Weren’t you his steady
yobo
?”

“For two months. Maybe three.” She waved her hand. “Anyway, he go. Catch another girl.”

“Which girl?”

“I don’t know. He butterfly honcho. Maybe catch many girls.”

Ernie leaned in front of me and grabbed her wrist. Slowly, he began to twist.

“You
kojitmal
me?” he said, breathing into her face.

“Ok-hee no lie,” she said.

They stared at one another. She seemed to enjoy the pain, and he enjoyed giving it. For a moment I thought they were going to clinch, but the music stopped and we heard a murmur coming from the girls on the dance floor. I glance back and saw angry faces and pointing fingers. Korean business girls protect one another. If they attacked, they’d rip us to shreds with their manicures.