I’m not sure Ernie felt the same way.
The Grand Ole Opry Club was a country-western bar, and one of the less frequented haunts in Itaewon. Still, the building was impressive. Four stories. The lowest housed the nightclub. In the three stories above it were small cubicles occupied by business girls. At least they had previously been occupied by business girls. In recent months, because of the burgeoning population in Seoul and the resulting housing shortage, families had started to move into even these quarters. I saw them in the morning: fresh-faced children wearing their tattered school uniforms—the girls with hair bobbed short, the boys with dark caps pulled down low on their foreheads— hoisting their backpacks on the way to catch the bus to school. Luckily, at that hour, the business girls were fast asleep and the G.I.s had scurried back to compound for morning formation. But when the kids came home at night, after extracurricular activities that most of the hardworking Korean students participated in, they had to wend their way through groups of rowdy G.I.s playing grab-ass with the now wide awake business girls of Itaewon. I never felt good about that. I wondered, once they grew up, what memories these kids would have of Americans.
Desultory crooning drifted out of the front door of the Grand Ole Opry Club. I recognized the voice: Buck Owens, in stereo.
“How about the Grand Ole Opry Club owner?” I asked Two Bellies. “Did he know Mori Di?’
Two Bellies shook her head vehemently. “No. Woman own now. Her daddy long time ago own bar. Long time ago, he die. Now she run place.”
“How about the other owners of the other nightclubs?” Ernie said. “Did they know Mori Di?”
“Of course they know. They all know.”
The nightclub owners Ernie was referring to were stalwarts of the local community. Whenever they were seen inside their own nightclubs—which was seldom—they were close shaved, slickly coifed, and clad in a suit and tie. They had formed an important organization with much influence here in the southern Yongsan District of Seoul: the Itaewon Club Owners’ Association. And they had influence at 8th Army. More than once I’d seen one owner or another glad-handing with the brass at the 8th Army Officers’ Club or shooting a round of golf at the 8th Army golf course.
“Who was Snake?” I asked.
Two Bellies eyes widened. “How you know?”
“Never mind. Who was he?”
“I no talk.”
“Why? What are you afraid of?”
Two Bellies took a step backwards. Ernie positioned himself to grab her but I waved him off.
“How about Horsehead?” I asked. “Or Dragon’s Claw Number One?”
Two Bellies’s eyes glistened in the neon glow. She began stepping backward, stumbled, and then righted herself, waggling her forefinger at us.
“You no talk Two Bellies. You no tell nobody Two Bellies talk to you.”
As if realizing suddenly that she stood in a public alleyway, Two Bellies glanced at the wary eyes lining the road. None of the business girls made a move. Two Bellies hugged herself over her ample paunch, turned, and started click-clacking her way down the cobbled road.
I shouted a question. “What about the night Mori Di was murdered? Were you there?”
She kept walking, waving her hand in the air. “Two Bellies no know nothing.”
“Should I stop her?” Ernie asked.
I thought about it. We could stop her halfway down Hooker Hill. Embarrass her. Maybe get a little more information but we’d probably get even more information if we waited until we could catch her alone.
“No,” I said finally. “Let her go. She told me plenty.”
We turned and gazed up at the Grand Ole Opry Club.
“So what’s next?” Ernie asked. “We roust the Club Owners’ Association?”
Ernie was always in favor of direct action.
“Maybe. But not yet. First, let’s take a look inside the Grand Ole Opry.”
“You’ve seen it before.”
“Only the bar. I want to inspect the entire
The Grand Ole Opry Club was a country-western bar, and one of the less frequented haunts in Itaewon. Still, the building was impressive. Four stories. The lowest housed the nightclub. In the three stories above it were small cubicles occupied by business girls. At least they had previously been occupied by business girls. In recent months, because of the burgeoning population in Seoul and the resulting housing shortage, families had started to move into even these quarters. I saw them in the morning: fresh-faced children wearing their tattered school uniforms—the girls with hair bobbed short, the boys with dark caps pulled down low on their foreheads— hoisting their backpacks on the way to catch the bus to school. Luckily, at that hour, the business girls were fast asleep and the G.I.s had scurried back to compound for morning formation. But when the kids came home at night, after extracurricular activities that most of the hardworking Korean students participated in, they had to wend their way through groups of rowdy G.I.s playing grab-ass with the now wide awake business girls of Itaewon. I never felt good about that. I wondered, once they grew up, what memories these kids would have of Americans.
Desultory crooning drifted out of the front door of the Grand Ole Opry Club. I recognized the voice: Buck Owens, in stereo.
“How about the Grand Ole Opry Club owner?” I asked Two Bellies. “Did he know Mori Di?’
Two Bellies shook her head vehemently. “No. Woman own now. Her daddy long time ago own bar. Long time ago, he die. Now she run place.”
“How about the other owners of the other nightclubs?” Ernie said. “Did they know Mori Di?”
“Of course they know. They all know.”
The nightclub owners Ernie was referring to were stalwarts of the local community. Whenever they were seen inside their own nightclubs—which was seldom—they were close shaved, slickly coifed, and clad in a suit and tie. They had formed an important organization with much influence here in the southern Yongsan District of Seoul: the Itaewon Club Owners’ Association. And they had influence at 8th Army. More than once I’d seen one owner or another glad-handing with the brass at the 8th Army Officers’ Club or shooting a round of golf at the 8th Army golf course.
“Who was Snake?” I asked.
Two Bellies eyes widened. “How you know?”
“Never mind. Who was he?”
“I no talk.”
“Why? What are you afraid of?”
Two Bellies took a step backwards. Ernie positioned himself to grab her but I waved him off.
“How about Horsehead?” I asked. “Or Dragon’s Claw Number One?”
Two Bellies’s eyes glistened in the neon glow. She began stepping backward, stumbled, and then righted herself, waggling her forefinger at us.
“You no talk Two Bellies. You no tell nobody Two Bellies talk to you.”
As if realizing suddenly that she stood in a public alleyway, Two Bellies glanced at the wary eyes lining the road. None of the business girls made a move. Two Bellies hugged herself over her ample paunch, turned, and started click-clacking her way down the cobbled road.
I shouted a question. “What about the night Mori Di was murdered? Were you there?”
She kept walking, waving her hand in the air. “Two Bellies no know nothing.”
“Should I stop her?” Ernie asked.
I thought about it. We could stop her halfway down Hooker Hill. Embarrass her. Maybe get a little more information but we’d probably get even more information if we waited until we could catch her alone.
“No,” I said finally. “Let her go. She told me plenty.”
We turned and gazed up at the Grand Ole Opry Club.
“So what’s next?” Ernie asked. “We roust the Club Owners’ Association?”
Ernie was always in favor of direct action.
“Maybe. But not yet. First, let’s take a look inside the Grand Ole Opry.”
“You’ve seen it before.”
“Only the bar. I want to inspect the entire
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