building, from top to bottom.”
Ernie rolled his eyes. “All you’re going to find is business girls and booze.”
We climbed the cement steps of the Grand Ole Opry Club.
As I pulled open one of the double doors and turned to let Ernie enter first, one of the shadows across the street shifted suddenly. The shadow had been tall, like a G.I. I looked again. Three business girls who’d been standing there were now gone.
Many American G.I.s are ashamed to let people know that they frequent Hooker Hill, so they lurk in the back alleys, bashful about emerging into the neon-spangled light of the nightclub district. Sometimes they’re ashamed because they’re in a position of authority, officers or senior NCOs. Other times its because they’re married and have a photograph of their wife and children hanging in their wall locker or displayed prominently on their desk at work.
But this shadow had moved fast. Too fast.
I skipped down the cement steps and sprinted across the road.
A wooden gate started to swing shut. I shoved it open. A business girl fell backwards on her butt. I didn’t wait to ask her questions. I ran across the courtyard and sidled down a narrow slit between the hooch and a cement-block wall. For a moment I was blind. But finally, moonlight revealed that another gate, in the wall behind the hooch, was open. I went through it.
Behind me, footsteps pounded. Ernie. He almost plowed into me.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Movement,” I replied. “Too quick to be just somebody worried about being embarrassed.”
We stared down the dark cobbled lane. Liquid trickled through an open drain, reeking of ammonia. Ernie ran one way, I ran the other. More intersections, more narrow pathways. Lights peeped out from homes behind high walls. Pots and pans clanged; radios blared; children laughed. Charcoal smoke wafted out of underground flues, irritating me like smelling salts up the nose. Periodically, I stopped and listened. No sound. No footsteps.
Finally, I returned to the hooch across from the Grand Ole Opry. Ernie was waiting. Moonlight glistened off the perspiration on his forehead.
“Paco?” he asked.
“Maybe.”
The frightened business girls didn’t know the G.I.’s name but said he was dark, like me, except darker. We showed them the photo. Curled fingers rose to trembling lips. They were afraid they’d be in big trouble. I told them to relax.
Did they know where he was now?
They shook their heads negatively.
Did they know his name?
No.
Had they ever seen him before?
Again they shook their heads.
How long had he been watching us?
Since we’d arrived with Two Bellies.
Ernie and I weren’t new to Itaewon. We knew a lot of people and were aware of the obvious hiding places. G.I.s had tried to hide from us before and hadn’t been able to pull it off. Yet, after three hours of searching, we hadn’t found Paco Bernal. Most likely, someone was helping him. Someone who had the means and connections to keep him hidden from us and that someone, almost certainly, was a Korean.
Ernie and I returned to the Grand Ole Opry to check it out.
It was like most of the nightclubs in Itaewon except not quite so rowdy. Most of the customers were older G.I.s, career noncommissioned officers: lifers. When Ernie and I were sitting at the bar, I heard a lot of words dragged out in slow country drawls.
“This place is dead,” Ernie said. He swiveled on his barstool, stared at the half-empty ballroom in disgust, and tossed back some more suds from his brown beer bottle.
The business girls who occupied the rooms upstairs worked in the more lively nightclubs along the strip—the nightclubs that specialized in live bands and rock and roll and go-go girls. None of which could be found here at the Grand Ole Opry Club.
Surreptitiously, Ernie and I slipped into the back hallway, past the latrines, and climbed the cement stairs. Although we received some surprised looks from the occasional startled resident,
Ernie rolled his eyes. “All you’re going to find is business girls and booze.”
We climbed the cement steps of the Grand Ole Opry Club.
As I pulled open one of the double doors and turned to let Ernie enter first, one of the shadows across the street shifted suddenly. The shadow had been tall, like a G.I. I looked again. Three business girls who’d been standing there were now gone.
Many American G.I.s are ashamed to let people know that they frequent Hooker Hill, so they lurk in the back alleys, bashful about emerging into the neon-spangled light of the nightclub district. Sometimes they’re ashamed because they’re in a position of authority, officers or senior NCOs. Other times its because they’re married and have a photograph of their wife and children hanging in their wall locker or displayed prominently on their desk at work.
But this shadow had moved fast. Too fast.
I skipped down the cement steps and sprinted across the road.
A wooden gate started to swing shut. I shoved it open. A business girl fell backwards on her butt. I didn’t wait to ask her questions. I ran across the courtyard and sidled down a narrow slit between the hooch and a cement-block wall. For a moment I was blind. But finally, moonlight revealed that another gate, in the wall behind the hooch, was open. I went through it.
Behind me, footsteps pounded. Ernie. He almost plowed into me.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Movement,” I replied. “Too quick to be just somebody worried about being embarrassed.”
We stared down the dark cobbled lane. Liquid trickled through an open drain, reeking of ammonia. Ernie ran one way, I ran the other. More intersections, more narrow pathways. Lights peeped out from homes behind high walls. Pots and pans clanged; radios blared; children laughed. Charcoal smoke wafted out of underground flues, irritating me like smelling salts up the nose. Periodically, I stopped and listened. No sound. No footsteps.
Finally, I returned to the hooch across from the Grand Ole Opry. Ernie was waiting. Moonlight glistened off the perspiration on his forehead.
“Paco?” he asked.
“Maybe.”
The frightened business girls didn’t know the G.I.’s name but said he was dark, like me, except darker. We showed them the photo. Curled fingers rose to trembling lips. They were afraid they’d be in big trouble. I told them to relax.
Did they know where he was now?
They shook their heads negatively.
Did they know his name?
No.
Had they ever seen him before?
Again they shook their heads.
How long had he been watching us?
Since we’d arrived with Two Bellies.
Ernie and I weren’t new to Itaewon. We knew a lot of people and were aware of the obvious hiding places. G.I.s had tried to hide from us before and hadn’t been able to pull it off. Yet, after three hours of searching, we hadn’t found Paco Bernal. Most likely, someone was helping him. Someone who had the means and connections to keep him hidden from us and that someone, almost certainly, was a Korean.
Ernie and I returned to the Grand Ole Opry to check it out.
It was like most of the nightclubs in Itaewon except not quite so rowdy. Most of the customers were older G.I.s, career noncommissioned officers: lifers. When Ernie and I were sitting at the bar, I heard a lot of words dragged out in slow country drawls.
“This place is dead,” Ernie said. He swiveled on his barstool, stared at the half-empty ballroom in disgust, and tossed back some more suds from his brown beer bottle.
The business girls who occupied the rooms upstairs worked in the more lively nightclubs along the strip—the nightclubs that specialized in live bands and rock and roll and go-go girls. None of which could be found here at the Grand Ole Opry Club.
Surreptitiously, Ernie and I slipped into the back hallway, past the latrines, and climbed the cement stairs. Although we received some surprised looks from the occasional startled resident,
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