Olympos Casino.
“Did the KNPs talk to him?” I asked.
The bartender crinkled his nose in disgust. “They no like.”
I was seeing a lot of crinkled noses today. Even a dedicated Korean cop is reluctant to talk to Americans. Especially drunk ones. They’re trouble. Either they start shouting and throwing their weight around or, if you arrest them, heat comes down from on high, asking why are you ruining the delicate interplay of Korean American relations. I could tell from the reek of the man’s breath that he’d probably been drunk since this morning and would’ve been considered an unreliable witness anyway.
Ernie and I glanced at one another, and he nodded and stepped forward. Using his left hand, Ernie held the back of the man’s head down on the cocktail table. With his right, he slipped a wrinkled wallet out of the drunk’s hip pocket. He handed it to me.
I rifled through the contents until I found a military ID.
“Retiree,” I said. “U.S. Navy Chief Petty Officer. Wallace, Hubert K.”
Ernie shook Hubert K. Wallace awake. The startled man stared up at us with red-rimmed eyes. Confused. The bartender handed me a glass of water; I handed it to Ernie. Instead of offering the man a drink, Ernie tossed the contents of the glass flush into the face of retired CPO Hubert K. Wallace.
The man sputtered and sat up, clawing moisture out of his eyes, fully awake now.
“What the . . .”
“Okay, Wally,” Ernie said. “Give. What’d you see this morning?”
“See?”
“When you came in for your hair of the dog shortly after eleven hundred hours. You must’ve seen something. Something unusual going on at the Olympos.”
“Oh, yeah,” Wallace replied. “You mean those two guys.”
Ernie and I tensed. Wallace rubbed more water out of his eye sockets and continued.
“In a hurry,” Wallace said, “both of them. A big bag under their arm.”
“Under whose arm? The light-skinned guy or the dark one?”
Wallace crinkled his forehead. “The dark one, I think.”
“Where’d they go?”
“The dark one ran north.”
“Toward the train station?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“And the light one?” Ernie asked.
“He came here.”
“Here?” I said. “To the Seaman’s Club?”
“Well, not inside. There was a cab parked outside. He jumped in the back, said something to the driver.”
“Did you hear what he said?”
“No. I was too far away.”
“Which way did the car go?”
“South.”
“Toward the Port of Inchon?”
“Yeah. Toward the port.”
We questioned Wallace a little longer, but that was all he knew. Still, we’d come up with a witness. I jotted down the particulars from his military ID and prodded him for his address and told him that we might need to question him later. He asked us to buy him a drink.
“Things are a little tight right now,” he explained.
Ernie complied, slapping a buck on the bar.
Outside in the jeep we talked it over.
“The dark guy must’ve taken the money and jumped on the train to Seoul,” I said. “Before the KNPs had time to react.”
During the day, commuter trains from Inchon to Seoul depart about every fifteen minutes.
“Smart move,” Ernie said. “A dark man alone would blend in with the Koreans easier.”
“And the other guy?”
“If he had taken that cab to Seoul, he would’ve never made it past the road blocks.”
“So he’s still here?”
“Maybe.”
“If you were a GI, hot, holed up in Inchon, where would you hide?”
“Some place where money talks,” Ernie said, “and some place where there are plenty of foreigners and where people don’t read the newspapers much.”
There was only one place in Inchon that met that description. We both thought of it at the same time: The Yellow House.
The Yellow House was not a house. It was an area near the main entrance to the Port of Inchon set aside specifically for the entertainment of foreign sailors. Jammed with brothels, the entire fifteen-or twenty-acre area
“Did the KNPs talk to him?” I asked.
The bartender crinkled his nose in disgust. “They no like.”
I was seeing a lot of crinkled noses today. Even a dedicated Korean cop is reluctant to talk to Americans. Especially drunk ones. They’re trouble. Either they start shouting and throwing their weight around or, if you arrest them, heat comes down from on high, asking why are you ruining the delicate interplay of Korean American relations. I could tell from the reek of the man’s breath that he’d probably been drunk since this morning and would’ve been considered an unreliable witness anyway.
Ernie and I glanced at one another, and he nodded and stepped forward. Using his left hand, Ernie held the back of the man’s head down on the cocktail table. With his right, he slipped a wrinkled wallet out of the drunk’s hip pocket. He handed it to me.
I rifled through the contents until I found a military ID.
“Retiree,” I said. “U.S. Navy Chief Petty Officer. Wallace, Hubert K.”
Ernie shook Hubert K. Wallace awake. The startled man stared up at us with red-rimmed eyes. Confused. The bartender handed me a glass of water; I handed it to Ernie. Instead of offering the man a drink, Ernie tossed the contents of the glass flush into the face of retired CPO Hubert K. Wallace.
The man sputtered and sat up, clawing moisture out of his eyes, fully awake now.
“What the . . .”
“Okay, Wally,” Ernie said. “Give. What’d you see this morning?”
“See?”
“When you came in for your hair of the dog shortly after eleven hundred hours. You must’ve seen something. Something unusual going on at the Olympos.”
“Oh, yeah,” Wallace replied. “You mean those two guys.”
Ernie and I tensed. Wallace rubbed more water out of his eye sockets and continued.
“In a hurry,” Wallace said, “both of them. A big bag under their arm.”
“Under whose arm? The light-skinned guy or the dark one?”
Wallace crinkled his forehead. “The dark one, I think.”
“Where’d they go?”
“The dark one ran north.”
“Toward the train station?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“And the light one?” Ernie asked.
“He came here.”
“Here?” I said. “To the Seaman’s Club?”
“Well, not inside. There was a cab parked outside. He jumped in the back, said something to the driver.”
“Did you hear what he said?”
“No. I was too far away.”
“Which way did the car go?”
“South.”
“Toward the Port of Inchon?”
“Yeah. Toward the port.”
We questioned Wallace a little longer, but that was all he knew. Still, we’d come up with a witness. I jotted down the particulars from his military ID and prodded him for his address and told him that we might need to question him later. He asked us to buy him a drink.
“Things are a little tight right now,” he explained.
Ernie complied, slapping a buck on the bar.
Outside in the jeep we talked it over.
“The dark guy must’ve taken the money and jumped on the train to Seoul,” I said. “Before the KNPs had time to react.”
During the day, commuter trains from Inchon to Seoul depart about every fifteen minutes.
“Smart move,” Ernie said. “A dark man alone would blend in with the Koreans easier.”
“And the other guy?”
“If he had taken that cab to Seoul, he would’ve never made it past the road blocks.”
“So he’s still here?”
“Maybe.”
“If you were a GI, hot, holed up in Inchon, where would you hide?”
“Some place where money talks,” Ernie said, “and some place where there are plenty of foreigners and where people don’t read the newspapers much.”
There was only one place in Inchon that met that description. We both thought of it at the same time: The Yellow House.
The Yellow House was not a house. It was an area near the main entrance to the Port of Inchon set aside specifically for the entertainment of foreign sailors. Jammed with brothels, the entire fifteen-or twenty-acre area
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