Ping-Pong Heart

– 23-

When Miss Lee Suk-myong climbed out of her cab, she was not in front of a yoguan, a yoin-suk or even a hooch, but rather the one place in town that was reminiscent of a Western-style hotel: the Tower Hotel. Six stories high and easily the tallest building in Tongduchon, it held preeminence of place. It sat across the street, and only a quarter mile south from the main gate of Camp Casey. Many of the guests at the Tower Hotel were military officers on temporary duty from elsewhere in Korea or from the United States. As such, the Tower Hotel billed the US government directly for rooms. The hotel lobby had a Western-style coffee shop, which provided food and coffee of poor quality and was therefore usually empty. The Americans who stayed at the Tower seldom ate or drank there, since they could just take a short walk across the street and enter the pedestrian gate to Camp Casey, where they could find much better, more reasonably priced food and drink at the 2nd Infantry Division Officers Club.

But the hotel also had an elegant bar called the Tower Lounge. It was carpeted and softly lit, with comfortably upholstered chairs and waitresses in short skirts, all providing an air of American-style elegance. As such, it was extremely popular not with Americans, but with upwardly mobile young Koreans.

Miss Lee paid the cabbie and entered the front door of the Tower Hotel.

We ordered our driver to cruise past slowly.

“She can’t afford to live here,” Ernie said.

“No.”

“So what’s she up to?”

“We’ll find out.”

I told the driver to pull over about ten yards past the hotel entrance. Ernie paid him and we emerged from the cramped kimchi cab into the cold night.

“Maybe only one of us should go in,” I said. “She knows two guys are looking for her. If she only sees one, that might throw her off.”

I slipped out of my jacket and handed it to Ernie. Beneath, I wore a long-sleeved blue sports shirt with a buttoned-down collar. “If I’m not wearing a jacket,” I said, “she might think I’m staying at the hotel.”

“Unless she took a real good look at us at the Cherry Girl Club.”

“I don’t think she did,” I said. “At least, I hope not.”

Ernie pointed to a yakbang, a pharmacy, on the other side of the street. “I’ll go get the jeep,” he said, “it’s not far from here. I’ll be waiting in front of that pharmacy.”

“Good.”

Ernie trotted off and quickly faded into darkness. After he was gone, I turned, walked up the street, and pushed through the large glass front doors of the Tower Hotel.

Our goal was to prove what Major Schultz’s inspection report implied: that the 501st Military Intelligence agents were jerry-rigging investigations to make themselves look effective, and to expand both the unit’s budget and the reputation of its Commander, Captain Blood. Given the paranoia of the military officers who sat on court-martial juries-men who saw Commies behind every bedpost-it wasn’t too far-fetched to think that they would set aside their better judgment and go along, at least sometimes, with the counterintelligence “experts” of the 501st. No officer wanted to be seen as soft on Communism, not if he had any ambition in this man’s army.

The case against Staff Sergeant Hector Arenas seemed, thus far, to meet all the criteria of a sham trial. A guy who worked with classified documents, whose yobo was angry with him, and who had somehow become friends with a mysterious Korean named Nam. Money, sex, glory, and anti-Communism can all become a jumble in the fevered military mind. Under those conditions, a miscarriage of justice can occur. And I could see Captain Blood and the agents who worked for him panicking when Major Schultz threatened to expose them. But did it amount to murder?

It seemed like something was missing. There had to be more in order to push someone to hacking a field grade officer to death. But what was that something? If I could establish a motive in the Provost Marshal’s mind, we might receive clearance to investigate further. But to establish that motive, I needed one last thing: the testimony of Arenas’s girlfriend, Miss Lee Suk-myong. Not the official testimony she’d given to the court-martial, but her real testimony, right here in the center of Tongduchon, with no counterintelligence agents to protect her and no lawyers to promise her immunity.

I wanted to hear it straight. In Korean, English, or any other language she wanted, as long as she didn’t lie.

The Tower Hotel Lounge was dimly, tastefully lit and true to form; about a half-dozen tables were occupied, mostly by Korean men in suits, and in some cases, well-attired ladies accompanying them. But mostly it was men-discussing business, I imagined, although I couldn’t make out much amidst the jumble of conversation.

At a two-person table against the far wall, the woman I believed to be Lee Suk-myong sat across from a Korean man in a dark suit who blended in perfectly with the crowd. I took a closer look at her. She projected elegance, with a smooth complexion and a narrow face that tapered to a round chin. She also dressed better than I would’ve expected for a night’s work at a joint like the Cherry Girl Club. She wore a silk dress, beige with a light blue and pink flower pattern. She appeared to be in her late twenties, maybe her thirties, but she was a woman whose delicate features held aging at bay, at least for a half-decade or so longer than her contemporaries.

The man across from her was youngish, clearly in his thirties, and sported a well-tailored suit. He leaned his elbow on the white linen tablecloth, his palm up and a cigarette balanced between his fingertips. As Miss Lee spoke, he puffed on the cigarette, narrowing his eyes to avoid the fumes.

I sat at the far end of the bar with my back to the couple, as close as I could get without attracting attention. I ordered a Heineken, and a young Korean man wearing a black vest and matching bowtie opened it and poured frothing hops into a frosted pilsner. Suddenly, I realized that I didn’t have any Korean money, but when I pulled out a single US dollar, he looked at it, frowned, and told me I’d need another. I pulled out the second bill, trying to hide my outrage. In my entire life, I’d never paid two dollars for a beer, not in the US or in Korea. I reminded myself I was on an expense account and tried to calm down. The kid brought me two hundred won in change, which meant that I’d paid about a dollar sixty-five for the beer. A record for me.

Up-and-coming Koreans, especially those who fancied themselves to be in business, loved nothing more than to be spotted at an expensive place, paying too much for something-anything-especially if it was imported. The Tower Hotel Lounge-and the overpriced Heineken-fit the bill.

Articles in the local press claimed Korea would be rich someday. Industries were expanding, and millions of dollars’ worth of goods were being exported every year to Japan, Europe and the United States. But personally, I’d never believed it. I’d seen the poverty firsthand: farmers wrestling oxen-pulled plows through mud; old women squatting in open-air markets peddling malnourished produce; legions of young men wandering in search of jobs after completing their military service; girls barely out of middle school selling their bodies in order to provide food and rent and tuition for their younger siblings. I knew that Korea had been a great and prosperous society in the ancient past-that’s why the Mongols and the Manchurians and the Japanese had coveted it so avidly, and why they’d tried to take it by force-but I didn’t see how it could climb out of the devastation it had experienced during the twentieth century. Not any time soon, and certainly not in my lifetime. I fully expected that when I completed my twenty years in the army, I’d collect my five-hundred-dollars-per-month retirement and free medical and live here in Korea without an economic care in the world. But I had to admit that the Tower Hotel Lounge was as luxurious as anything I’d seen in Seoul, or in the States for that matter. And the background music was soft, the carpet plush, and the bar fully stocked with top-shelf liquor.

As I sipped my Heineken, I tried to focus on the couple’s conversation about five yards behind me. I was gradually able to isolate their voices from the rest of the ones buzzing around the bar. His was smooth and calm, while hers seemed shrill by comparison. Frazzled was perhaps a better way to put it. Apparently, Miss Lee Suk-myong was shaken by the sight of two strange Americans asking for her at the Cherry Girl Club. The man in the suit seemed less concerned.

Understanding Korean conversation-especially when it isn’t specifically slowed down for me-is difficult. Amongst themselves, Koreans speak so quickly words slur together, and use idiomatic phrases and terms that are often unfamiliar to me. Still, I listened as hard as I could, staring into the lowering foam in my glass.

I picked out the phrase sinkyong-jil. I’m nervous. Then Miss Lee said, yogi ei ilhagi sillo! I hate working here. And finally, tangsin gwakatchi domang kago shipo. I want to run away with you.

Apparently, she was into the guy sitting across from her. Maybe he’d been her real boyfriend all along, not Arenas. I strained to hear a name, but no such luck. Koreans don’t usually use one another’s names in one-on-one conversation. They refer to one another indirectly, most often by who they’re related to: older brother, younger sister, wife, etc. So far, I hadn’t discovered how these two were connected.

The man paused, probably puffing on his cigarette. Finally he spoke. “Kokchong hajima.” Don’t worry. He went on to say that it was probably nothing, but he would look into it.

Again, she asked him to take her with him. He was a cool customer. He didn’t answer her right away, but although I couldn’t understand the full extent of the conversation, it seemed to me that he was making her beg.

“Jamkkanman,” he said abruptly-wait a moment-and rose from his chair and walked across the lounge, checking his wristwatch. He turned the corner, moving out of sight. I waited a few seconds and told the bartender that I’d be right back. He nodded and set my cocktail napkin on top of my glass, protecting the foam.

The mystery man wasn’t in the lobby. What I did see was a sign guiding me to the men’s room, so I went in. Just before I entered, I saw him. Huddled over a large red pay phone hidden in a recessed alcove in the hallway. Without stopping, I breezed past him and took care of my business in the men’s room. As I washed my hands, the same guy stepped into the bathroom and headed toward the nearest urinal. I dried my hands and hurried back to the lounge. Miss Lee was still in her chair, head bowed and hands crossed over her purse, nervously twisting a pink handkerchief.

I took my seat and the man returned. This time, he didn’t sit down.

“Kaja,” he told Miss Lee. Let’s go.

In the mirror, I could see her eyes light up. “Jinja?” she asked. Really?

“Jinja,” he replied.

As they walked out of the lounge, I picked up my almost full-pilsner and chug-a-lugged it down. The bartender stared at me in disgust. I didn’t care. For almost two bucks, I wasn’t going to let a perfectly good beer go to waste. After a quick burp, I hurried into the lobby.

Out front, the valet trotted off while the guy in the sharp suit waited with Miss Lee. Within a couple of minutes, the valet returned in a black Hyundai sedan. He jumped out and held the door for the mystery man who climbed in behind the steering wheel. Fending for herself, Miss Lee sat in the passenger seat. As far as I could tell, no tip changed hands. That’s Korea for you. Americans were generally expected to tip, but not necessarily even wealthy Koreans. Ernie and I preferred to follow the Korean custom, as a sign of our deep respect for the culture.