“A prostitute, isn’t she?” the Colonel asked.
“A hostess,” Ernie replied.
Colonel Brace raised one eyebrow. “There’s a difference?”
“If you met her, sir, you’d realize there is. She’s an innocent kid with no family to speak of who came to Itaewon because she had no other choice.”
Colonel Brace shrugged. “Probably,” he said, “this ‘innocent kid’ believed she hadn’t been paid enough and started a hassle with our servicemen.”
“They broke her arm, sir. And she received twenty-three stitches for her trouble.”
Colonel Brace glared at Ernie and then at me. He wanted to say something but instead he puffed on his pipe, not happy with us contradicting him. Most of the other CID agents would never dare. “I appreciate your concern,” he said finally. “I’ll have Staff Sergeant Riley forward your report up to Division MPI.”
Ernie sighed. We both knew that the 2nd Infantry Division Military Police Investigators hated criticism of their troops, especially when it came from rear echelon pukes like the 8th Army CID. They’d see the rape of an Itaewon “business girl” as nothing more than their self-sacrificing soldiers letting off a little steam. The case would not only be ignored but probably suppressed.
“Meanwhile,” Colonel Brace continued, “Eighth Army has other priorities, especially with these black market stats spiraling out of control. Now listen to me, the both of you. From this moment forward, you are assigned to the black market detail and the black market detail only. You’re both capable of increasing your arrest rate. I know you are because I’ve seen you do it before.”
He was waiting for us to say “Yes, sir!” or shout something gung-ho or at least nod. Neither of us did.
Colonel Brace frowned and stood up, leaning across his desk. He said, “I want you to put the fear of God into those yobos in the PX. I want them to be afraid to even think about black marketing. Do you understand me?”
This time we both nodded. He asked if we had any questions.
“How about an increase in our petty cash allowance?” Ernie asked.
To my surprise, Colonel Brace didn’t flat out turn the idea down. Instead, he said, “What is it now?”
“Fifty dollars a month.”
“Tell Sergeant Riley to increase it to a hundred.”
“Yes, sir.”
With that, we were dismissed.
On the way out the door, Colonel Brace said, “I’ll be monitoring your results.”
Staff Sergeant Riley sat behind his desk. “How’d it go?” he asked.
Neither one of us answered. Ernie told Riley about the increase in the petty cash allowance and then headed for the coffee urn. I plopped down in the gray vinyl chair in front of Riley’s desk.
“Smoke,” I said.
“What?”
“That’s the nickname of one of the GIs who raped Sunny.”
“That business girl out at the Lucky Seven Club?”
“She’s not a business girl, she’s a hostess.”
Riley shrugged. “Same difference.” He shuffled through paperwork and then paused. “Smoke. Isn’t that a term that’s used by the field artillery?”
That’s when I remembered. Each company-sized unit in the field artillery has an NCO who’s in charge of laying and firing the guns. His official title is Chief of Firing Battery but what GIs usually call him is Chief of Smoke-or just “Smoke.”
When Ernie returned with his coffee I ran the idea by him. He frowned. “But according to Sunny, these guys were young. A Chief of Smoke is usually an older guy.”
“All Americans look the same to a Korean,” Riley said. “They can’t tell our ages.”
Miss Kim, the statuesque administrative secretary, glanced up from her typing, a prim frown on her lips. When she noticed me watching, she turned away and resumed her typing.
“Maybe Sunny’s wrong about their ages,” Ernie said, “of at least one of them, this guy called Smoke. Or maybe he’s just a baby-faced guy who got promoted fast.”
“None of the faces Sunny told us about,” I said, “could be described as babies. They’re all monsters to her.”
“Still, it’s worth checking out,” Riley said. “There are four artillery battalions in the Second Division, with three batteries each.” He lifted the phone and dialed. Within seconds he was chatting with a buddy of his at 8th Army personnel, asking for a print out of every GI assigned to Division artillery. Riley said, “Thanks,” and slammed down the phone. “I’ll have the printout before close of business today.”
“Good. Another thing you can get for us.”
“What’s that?”
“The blotter report from the MPs up at Division.”
“Why would you need that?”
“Once GIs start raping women and kicking ass, they have a tendency to keep doing it.”
“Okay,” Riley said. “I’ll get that too. Meanwhile, you guys better get some black market arrests.”
“Screw that,” Ernie said.
“Don’t piss off the Provost Marshal,” Riley warned. “He’s serious about this. The shit’s rolling downhill big time.”
Ernie sipped again on his coffee, left the half-empty mug on Riley’s desk, and rose to his feet. Together, we headed outside.
Ernie and I sat in his jeep, sipping PX coffee we’d bought in the snack stand in front of the commissary. It was hot and tasted about as acidic as your average quart of battery fluid. We were watching customers, mostly Korean women, flow out of the commissary, trotting behind male baggers who pushed huge carts laden with freeze-dried coffee, soluble creamer, mayonnaise, concentrated orange drink, bottled maraschino cherries, and just about anything else that was imported and therefore highly prized on the black market. After the groceries were loaded into the trunk of one of the big black Ford Granada PX taxis, the women tipped the baggers and climbed into the back seat.
“Which one should we bust?” I asked.
“Let’s finish our coffee first.”
“Okay by me.”
We sipped on our coffee for a while and then Ernie said, “Whoa!”
I glanced up and realized immediately what had gotten his attention.
She was a tall Asian woman, with a willowy figure and raven hair piled high atop her head. She wore a long blue dress that clung to her curves like wet tissue paper moistened by a tongue. Silver earrings dangled from the side of her heart-shaped face and her slender arms were lined with bracelets.
“Who’s she?” Ernie asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “Never seen her before.”
Ernie poured his remaining coffee out the door of the jeep and tossed the empty cup into the back seat. He started the ignition.
“I think we’ve just found our culprit,” he said.
“I think we have.”
He slammed the jeep in gear, jolting forward. Coffee splashed on the front of my shirt.
The PX cab containing the tall woman didn’t leave Yongsan Compound right away. Instead, it crossed the Main Supply Route, heading for Main Post and came to a halt in front of the Class VI Store. “Class Six” is the old army supply designation for items such as beer, wine, and hard liquor. The cab waited while the tall woman went inside. A few minutes later she reemerged with a man in a gray smock following her, pulling a flat cart laden with two cases of American beer, two cases of soda, and a large paper bag containing what appeared to be bottled liquor.
“Max purchase,” Ernie said. “Four bottles of hooch, two cases each of beer and pop.”
Under 8th Army ration control regulations, that’s all a GI was allowed to buy in one day and four bottles of liquor was all that he, or his dependent, were allowed for a month. When everything was safely stored in the trunk, the woman tipped the man with the cart and climbed back into the cab. We followed her out Gate Number Five. Ernie swerved into honking traffic. She continued east along the Main Supply Route heading toward Itaewon but before she got there, the driver hooked a quick left toward the Namsan Tunnel.
“Where the hell’s she going?” Ernie asked.
“She’s a downtown woman,” I said.