Ping-Pong Heart by Martin Limon

Author:Martin Limon
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Crime Fiction
Publisher: Soho Press
Published: 2016-04-19T17:08:06+00:00

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“Where the hell is this address, anyway?” Ernie asked.

We were in the Taehyon-dong district of Seoul, which was packed with bean curd eateries, bicycle repair shops and small stationery stores on the main road, and homes stacked one atop another like tile shingles leading up the sides of the steep hills.

“Slow down,” I said, “I can’t read the signs.”

Behind us, impatient kimchi cabs and three-wheeled trucks honked as they swerved around us. Pedestrian crossings were packed with men pushing carts and old women balancing impossibly huge bundles atop their heads.

“How do people live in this mess?” Ernie asked.

“Pretty well, sometimes,” I said. “Behind those brick walls, some of those hooches are pretty luxurious.”

“Some,” Ernie said. “Most not.”

We turned up a narrow lane. The first few yards were paved until, about halfway up the hill, blacktop gave way to mud. The jeep’s four-wheel drive churned upward. Now most of the homes were held up by walls not of brick, but of splintered wood.

“Miss Kim always looks so nice when she comes to work,” Ernie said.

“Yeah,” I replied.

We marveled at how she’d managed it, emerging like a goddess from a soiled cocoon. Finally, we neared the address we were looking for—117 bonji, 227 ho. Walkways too narrow for the jeep split off the main path.

“Stop here,” I said. “Let me hop out and look around.”

I walked down one pathway, reading the numbers painted on wood, but they were wrong, so I doubled back and tried the pathway on the opposite side of the road. About three hooches down, I found it. I ran back and waved to Ernie. He inched the jeep as close to the wall as he could, turned off the engine, padlocked the steering wheel, and joined me at the mouth of the alley.

“How we going to work this?” he asked.

I studied him. “My God, Ernie, you’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” he said. But his shoulders had risen, his stomach was pulled in and his eyes darted from side to side like a schoolboy at his first dance.

“Okay,” I said, slapping him on the shoulder. “You’re not nervous. I’ll do the talking.”

We marched through the muddy lane until we reached the gateway marked 117 bonji, 227 ho. The family name printed next to the number was Kim. Miss Kim’s family name, obviously, but that didn’t mean much. In Korea, roughly a third of the country is named Kim, from three or four ancient clans. Another third of the country is named Pak or Lee, and the final third shares about a hundred different names. Was this the right Kim? According to the five-by-eight card Staff Sergeant Riley had given me it was, but there was only one way to be sure. I pushed the buzzer. A few seconds later a woman spoke through the intercom. “Nugu seiyo?” Who is it?

I could tell from her voice that she wasn’t Miss Kim.

I leaned forward and spoke directly into the metal grate. “We’re from Eighth Army,” I said in Korean. “We’re looking for Miss Kim who works on the compound.

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