“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.
I tapped Ernie on the elbow. “Come on, pal. Let’s get out of here.”
He let the girl go but continued to stare at her as we walked out the door.
There was nothing to do but search the clubs one at a time. When we saw business girls on the street, I stopped them and asked about Ortfield and showed them the photograph, but they all shook their long glistening black hair and said they hadn’t seen him.
It was less than an hour before the midnight curfew. We took a break and ordered some onion rings at a stand outside the Lucky 7 Club. The GIs were out in force now, swirling from one joint to another in drunken abandon. We ordered two cold ones to wash down the greasy batter.
“We’re screwed,” Ernie said.
“Maybe he’ll show up on his own.”
“Maybe. And maybe he’ll go AWOL, and you and I will both lose another stripe.”
I shrugged. I’d lost them before. “That’s not what worries me.”
Ernie set down his brown bottle of Oriental Beer. “Then what does?”
“Mr. Choi.”
“Who?”
“The dead girl’s dad. He doesn’t believe justice was done in our military court.”
“He’s right about that.”
“I’m afraid he might administer justice on his own.”
Ernie kept chomping on the onion rings. I heard footsteps behind me. I turned. It was the girl from the Sloe-eyed Lady Club, Ok-hee. Ortfield’s old flame.
“I see him,” she said.
“Where?”
“Chogi,” she said, pointing. Over there. “You come quick. Big trouble.”