Buddha's Money Read online

  In the center of the bare room, keeping her eyes tightly shut, sat a tiny woman wrapped in gray robes. Minute black stubbles dotted the naked flesh of her skull. Across her temple, a cruel purple welt was gradually beginning to bulge. Blood dripped in a thin line from the corner of her mouth.

  Ernie was a little bruised up himself but he grabbed some tissue paper, stepped toward the woman and, his face crinkled in concern, dabbed at the red trickle.

  Kim barked an order and one of the policemen hustled over to a first-aid cabinet and rummaged around. When the policeman found what he was looking for, he returned to the bald nun, cracked open a capsule, and waved it in front of the woman's nose. Her face crinkled, her head jerked back, and her eyes popped open.

  The first thing she saw was Ernie.

  Her mouth opened and she let out a scream. So loud it rattled the windows; a roar of anger rose from the crowd outside. The policemen all looked at us accusingly.

  Who were we, two foreigners, to upset this virtuous Bride of Buddha?

  AFTER SOOKI HAD LED US INTO THE CATACOMBS OF THE Itaewon alleys, we heard screams and scuffling. Somehow, in the dark, we crashed headlong into a mugger in the act of attacking his victim. Ernie lost his footing on the slick cobbled pathway, then so did I. Still, before I went down, I managed to lay a left hook into the culprit's rib cage. Bone crunched beneath flesh. I was sure of it.

  He was a big man and definitely knew how to handle himself in a fight. What with Ernie flailing around beneath me and it being so dark and Sooki screaming and me still trying to regain my footing, he landed a few punches and managed to slip away. I followed him through the Itaewon alleys but it was no use. He disappeared in the maze.

  The only thing I could say for sure was that the perpetrator was well above average height and weight and probably a black man. Therefore, he was almost certainly a GI. The number of blacks in Korea who aren't GIs is not worth considering.

  A lone mugger in our grasp and yet he'd escaped. Ernie and I were the best two CID agents in the country and we knew it. Still, I wasn't looking forward to the snide com- ments from the other agents when we returned to the CID office.

  We'd have to capture this guy. No question about that.

  What surprised me most was the identity of his victim.

  "She's a broad," Ernie told me after he examined her. "I know these things. Hands-on anatomy training I received in 'Nam."

  I shook my head wearily. "A GI attacking a Buddhist nun. The CG isn't going to like this."

  "Fuck the Commanding General," Ernie said. "I don't like it. I don't like it at all."

  We carried the unconscious Bride of Buddha through the village, Sooki leading the way. In about two minutes flat, word spread through Itaewon like poison filtering through blood.

  A GI had raped a Buddhist nun.

  At least, that's what they were saying. I doubted that the nun had been raped. There wasn't time. But facts have never been known to stop a rumor. A crowd of angry Koreans formed quickly.

  We were called names: yangnom sikki. Foreign bastards. And we were spit at and a few people even threw rocks. One business girl bounded out of the crowd that lined the main drag of Itaewon and tried to scratch Ernie's eyes out. While he was shoving her back, a Korean who takes photos of GIs and their girlfriends cuddling in nightclubs snapped a photograph of the scene. He ran away before I could confiscate his film.

  A squad of KNPs intercepted us and, wielding their riot batons, escorted us back to the Itaewon Police Station.

  When we were safe inside the cement-block edifice, Ernie gave vent to his rage. "Listen to those assholes! You'd think we were the ones who jacked up this Buddhist chick."

  "Remember what they tell us in training," I told him. "All GIs are ambassadors for America."

  Ernie put his hands on his hips and glared at the growing crowd outside. "Fuck some kind of ambassador."

  Curses floated through the open windows.

  CAPTAIN KIM GRABBED A CHAIR, STRADDLED IT, AND LEANED toward the frightened nun, speaking in soothing Korean. What had a nun been doing here in Itaewon? he wanted to know.

  After a few deep breaths, the little nun relaxed slightly and started to talk.

  She had arrived this afternoon, by bus from Tobongsan, north of the city, and had visited some of the young women who work in the bars, ministering to them about the Path of the Middle Way.

  Many of the business girls were devout. And despite what they had to do to make a living, they often made offerings of money and prayer, trying to assuage the guilt that gnawed at their souls.

  The nun's name was Choi So-lan. She was a novitiate at the Temple of the Celestial Void.

  Sweat beaded the ghostly pallor of her forehead. Eyeballs rolled up in their sockets until only the whites showed. Still, Captain Kim leaned over her, occasionally blasting her with the smelling salts, whispering gentle questions in her ear.

  Ernie didn't understand much but he kept quiet, knowing I had to concentrate to follow the conversation and that I'd translate for him later.

  There was no thought of rushing her off to a hospital, or having her examined by a doctor. Nobody was cordoning off the crime scene and bringing in lab technicians. Sophisticated crime-detection techniques were for the rich foreign countries. Not for Korea. Not for just a mugging. And certainly not for Itaewon. Maybe some effort would be made if a wealthy industrialist had been the victim. But not for a penniless nun.

  The young woman shook her head. Tears squeezed from her tight eyes.

  "He hit me. I was walking in that dark alley, leaving the home of a good woman, when suddenly the moon was blocked. For a moment I thought it was a monsoon cloud."

  She lowered her head again. Captain Kim kept whispering the soft, soothing words. The nun said, "He shoved me and tried to grab the pouch with the offerings. When I resisted, he punched me and punched me again."

  She sat up straighter and seemed to steel herself.

  "I am small but I am strong. While he held me, I managed to use my legs and my elbows and I kneed him good. Where a man hurts most. He stumbled and cracked his head against the wall.

  "I tried to run away but he was too fast. He caught up with me and dragged me back and now he was really angry. I fought back but it didn't help."

  Captain Kim pointed at the felt purse clutched in her hands. "But he didn't take your money?"

  "No. I wouldn't give it to him. This is Buddha's money. He tried to grab it but I bit his finger. I bit it hard. I crunched bone." Her pale face dripped with tears. She slipped the pouch inside her tunic.

  "Then he was on me again, punching, clawing, grunting like an animal, and I started to lose my mind, fading into darkness, and I screamed again and he punched me again. The next thing I knew, other people were there." She looked around, focusing on Ernie, as if seeing him for the first time. "Him. He was there. He chased the evil cloud away."

  Ernie shuffled his feet, nervous from the attention. I'd never seen him this way before. Women like Ernie. Everywhere he goes the best-looking chicks are after him. Something about him. What, I don't know. Usually he takes their attention in stride. But not so the attention of this tiny nun. He looked ill at ease. A schoolboy on his first date.

  When I thought about some of the gorgeous chicks he'd been with and compared them to this little, bald, bruised, battered Buddhist nun, it didn't make sense. Of course, most things about Ernie don't make much sense.

  That's what makes Ernie Ernie.

  He composed himself and reached in his pocket and stepped forward and offered the little nun a stick of ginseng gum. She accepted it but her hands were shaking so badly that Ernie had to unwrap it for her.

  She popped the gum in her mouth and then, for the first time, she smiled. The gleam of her white teeth and the radiant beam of her small round face made even the hardened cops in the room sigh with appreciation.

  Captain Kim touched the bottom of her chin lightly, tilted her head up, and pointed toward us.

&nb
sp; "Did the man who attacked you, did he look like these men?"

  "Yes. He looked like them."

  "So he was a foreigner?"

  "Yes."

  "Was he as big as them?"

  "Yes. As big as the biggest one." She turned her eyes on me.

  "Was he dark like him or light-skinned like the other one?"

  "He was dark. Very dark. As dark as the night. As dark as moktan." As dark as charcoal.

  "Had you ever seen him before?"

  "Oh, no. The foreigners frighten me. Whenever I see one, I turn my eyes."

  I had to ask a question. To see the crime from her eyes. To make sure my own observations weren't skewed.

  "How can you be so sure he was a foreigner?"

  When I blurted it out in Korean, she seemed surprised. Her big eyes studied me for a moment, as if seeing something inside that most people don't.

  "I am certain he was a foreigner," she answered.

  "But it was dark. Maybe he was a Korean man. A very large Korean man."

  "No. He couldn't have been."

  "Why not?"

  "Because he smelled like you." She pointed at me and then at Ernie. "He smelled like meat."

  For some reason, that started her crying again. Captain Kim stood up. All the policemen turned their eyes on me, eyes of accusal.

  Outside, a howl went up from the mob.

  The nun seemed to realize the discomfort she was putting us through, identifying us so closely with her assailant. She reached inside her tunic, pulled out her felt purse, and motioned for Ernie to come forward. She cupped Ernie's hand in hers and plopped the half-full coin pouch into his palm. To our surprise, she spoke in halting English.

  "I go hospital now. You save me, so I trust you. You keep this money," she said, patting his hand. "It is Buddha's money. Bring back to me later." With her finger, she pointed to the north. "At the Temple of the Celestial Void. On Tobong Mountain."

  Ernie nodded, hefted the bag, rattled the coins inside, and stuffed it into his pocket. "Can do," he said, snapping his gum between his teeth. "Can do easy."

  The little nun smiled.

  Outside, the mob howled.

  BEHIND THE DESK SERGEANT'S COUNTER, CAPTAIN KIM POINTED his stubby finger at my nose. "I want that GI."

  Involuntarily, I took a step backward. "We'll find him. Don't worry about that."

  Captain Kim nodded and then asked me to fill out a police report. I told him I would.

  I sat at a rickety wooden desk and went as far as I could in the form using Korean but switched to English when my vocabulary ran dry. It took about twenty minutes. By then, the nun had been whisked away in a small white ambulance and Ernie was out of ginseng gum and anxious for action. The crowd still loitered outside the Itaewon Police Station. Bigger than ever. Some of them were burning candles now.

  Ernie and I walked to the front of the desk sergeant's counter, under the brightly lit fluorescent lights. I slipped the report into a half-filled wire basket. People outside spotted us through the windows and started shouting. They waved their fists. Maybe they thought we had been arrested for the assault. Maybe they weren't thinking at all. Just enraged at the sight of a foreigner.

  Outside, the gruff voice of a policeman ordered someone back.

  "Weiguk-nom chuko!" someone else shouted. Kill the foreigners!

  Ernie's eyes widened. He'd understood that. "Maybe I should change my breath mint," he said.

  A murmur rose from the crowd. Someone was trying to push his way through. A dark figure burst past the shouting citizens and bulled his way up onto the broad cement porch. The officers tried to hold him back but he shoved forward with tremendous strength and finally, with four sets of hands still clawing at his back, popped free into the Itaewon Police Station.

  The man who stood in front of us was built like a bowling ball. Claw marks scratched his bald head. I knew him. He was an old retired First Sergeant, Herman Burkowicz.

  Nobody knew exactly what nationality Herman was— some said Polish, some said Hungarian—but he spoke with an accent so everyone just called him Herman the German.

  Herman had been in Korea for longer than anybody could remember. A couple of decades anyway. Black-marketing his ass off.

  Another army success story.

  The KNPs unhooked their riot batons and stepped toward Herman. I held up my hands and shouted in Korean.

  "It's all right! I know this man. We'll handle it."

  Scowling at the loss of face, the cops stared sullenly at Herman the German. Still, he was an American and Ernie and I had already grabbed him by the armpits and taken him into custody. The KNPs resecured their riot batons and turned back to face the crowd outside.

  "For Christ's sake, Herman," Ernie said. "What the hell are you doing here?"

  Herman's moist eyes scanned our faces. His face was splotched, with large, blubbery lips and a pug nose. The broad brown belt and the creased slacks and the pullover golf shirt he wore were strictly PX. No Paris fashions for Herman the German.

  Out front, the cops kept pushing back at the mob.

  Crimson rivulets streamed down Herman's ears. He rolled glistening blue eyes up at me and started to open his mouth, but instead of speaking he just gurgled and sputtered bubbles across wet lips.

  Ernie realized first that something was wrong. He reached for Herman. Before I could move, Herman crashed to the floor in front of us. He lay there, moaning and gripping the mountainous bulge of his stomach. That's when I noticed that the entire side of his skull was puffed into a nasty bruise.

  I knelt down, rolled him over, and lifted his head up. Ernie squatted and slapped his loose jowls.

  "Evening, Herman," Ernie said. "Nasty bump. You have to stop walking into walls."

  "It wasn't a wall," Herman moaned.

  "What was it?" I asked.

  Herman turned his sad blue eyes toward me. His throat convulsed and air rushed out in a croak. "Doduk-nom," he said.

  Herman had lived in Korea so long that certain words— the important ones—he remembered only in Korean, the English completely forgotten. Doduk-nom meant thieves.

  "Where, Herman?" I asked.

  "At my hooch."

  I started to rise. Herman clutched my forearm with an ironlike grip. "Wait. I'll go with you. Help me up."

  Ernie and I hoisted him to his feet. When he finally reached the standing position, Herman tottered like a round-bottomed clown. Ernie towered over him. So did I, being a couple of inches taller than Ernie.

  "I don't know," Ernie said, gauging Herman's steadiness. "A simple burglary. The Korean National Police can handle it. What'd the thieves take? All your black market shit?"

  "No." Herman was still woozy. Even when he was clearheaded, Herman the German wasn't the most articulate guy in town.

  "No?" Ernie asked.

  "No. They weren't those kind of thieves."

  Ernie's face darkened like the monsoon sky. He was suspicious now. Smelling a rat in the rice wine jar. "If they don't want stereo equipment and liquor and cigarettes, then what the hell kind of thieves are they?"

  "The kind who want people."

  "People?"

  I thought of Herman's wife. Slicky Girl Nam was one of the oldest hags who had ever worked the streets of Itaewon. Nobody wanted her. It was even doubtful that Herman wanted her.

  Ernie lost his patience. He shoved Herman's haunch of a shoulder. "What the hell did they steal, Herman?"

  Herman stood perfectly still, his thick arms hanging at his sides. Somewhere in the short gap between his chin and his shoulders, he swallowed.

  "Mi-ja," he said.

  Mi-ja. A name that in translation is simple and direct: Beautiful Child. The little Korean girl whom Herman's wife had adopted. The girl with the topknot tied by a pink ribbon and the sparkling smile and the bright eyes like black diamonds.

  Every day Mi-ja could be seen flitting to and from the Itaewon market. Snatching candy from the business girls, making them laugh. Bantering w
ith the playful GIs. Mi-ja was the mascot of Itaewon. The one fine thing that prompted everyone—no matter how debauched—to remember where they came from. Remember that they were once part of a loving family. Remember that they once had brothers and sisters and wives and parents and children.

  Taking in Mi-ja was the only good thing two lowlifes like Herman the German and Slicky Girl Nam had ever done.

  No one doubted that Mi-ja was adopted. Slicky Girl Nam had probably had venereal disease so many times that her reproductive tubes were nothing more than a burnt-out memory.

  "How old is Mi-ja?" I asked.

  "Nine," Herman answered.

  Ernie chomped on his gum. "Why would anyone want her?"

  Herman wasn't surprised by the question. In Korea, after the devastation of the Korean War, children were an economic burden, not a prize. Especially girls. Not something to be fought over. Even now, more than twenty years later, things hadn't changed much.

  Saliva bubbled on Herman's lips. "I don't know," he told Ernie. "But you've got to help me get her back."

  "It's a matter for the Korean National Police," Ernie said. "It happened off-post. A Korean was kidnapped so it falls under their jurisdiction. You're here now. Report it." Ernie glanced around at the shoving and hollering and screaming going on outside. "After things calm down a bit."

  "I can't," Herman insisted.

  "Why not?"

  "The guys who took her already told me. They'll kill her ifltelltheKNPs."

  Ernie scowled. "Don't worry about threats from a bunch of crooks. Kidnappers always say that kind of shit. Doesn't mean nothing."

  "No KNPs," Herman said. His round body was frozen like a rock. "This time they mean it."

  "How do you know?"

  "Because the kidnappers are not Koreans, they're foreigners. Some sort of brown guys, I don't know which kind. And they're after something. Something valuable."