The Iron Sickle by Martin Limon Page A

establishment called
Yo Chonsa Gong
.”
    “What’s that mean?” Ernie asked.
    I answered. “The Palace of Angels.”
    “Very good,” Mr. Kill said, nodding. “We interviewed the man and his wife last night, so this will be our first visit to the Palace of Angels.”
    “Do you think he’s clean?”
    “Yes. He’s just a befuddled office worker who drank too much
soju
.”
    “His wife must be pissed,” Ernie said.
    “Very,” Mr. Kill answered. When the Korean National Police showed up at a respectable person’s home, everyone in the neighborhood learns about it. Much face is lost.
    Officer Oh wound her way through the heavy Seoul traffic. Near the district of Namyong-dong she pulled right off the main road into a narrow lane. She cruised slowly past bicycle repair shops and cheap eateries and open-fronted warehouses containing electrical parts and used hardware. At a small circle with a huge elm tree in the middle, she pulled the sedan over to the side of the road. Next to a store selling discs of puffed rice sat an establishment with green double doors shut tightly and windows barred with iron grates. A hand-painted sign above said
Yo Chonsa Gong
. The Palace of Angels.
    Mr. Kill motioned for Ernie not to try the front door. OfficerOh stayed with the sedan while we slipped down a crack between buildings that led to a filthy alleyway out back. Empty
soju
bottles in wooden crates leaned against dirty brick.
    Mr. Kill pounded on the back door. No answer. He pounded again. Finally, we heard a door slam and then a voice from within. “
Nomu iljiki!
” Too early! Apparently, they thought we were making a delivery.
    Mr. Kill leaned close to the door. “
Bali
!” he said. Hurry.
    The door creaked open. Mr. Kill slid his foot in and gently shoved the door open with his left hand. A woman wearing a cloth robe, grey-streaked hair sticking madly skyward, stared up at him open-mouthed. He flashed his badge at her.
    “
Kyongchal
,” he said. Police.
    We pushed through the door.
    The woman stumbled in front of us down a narrow hallway until we reached a carpeted lounge that reeked of spilled liquor and ancient layers of fossilized tobacco fumes.
    “
Bul kyo
,” Mr. Kill said. Turn on the light.
    The woman wandered over to a bar about six stools long, slid behind it, and switched on overhead neon. The light flickered and then shone red, softly but bright enough to see through gloom. The far wall was lined with vinyl-covered booths with small rectangular tables. Mr. Kill, his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, paced around the room. Finally, he turned to the woman and spoke in Korean. “How many hostesses work here?”
    “Three, most nights,” the woman replied, “more on the weekends.”
    “Does one of them have blonde hair?”
    The woman, still holding her robe shut tight in front of her, thought about this. “You mean now?”
    “I mean three nights ago. A Mr. Choi who works for Eighth Army was here. Apparently, he had contact with a woman with blonde hair.”
    “Mr. Choi. Yes, I know him.” The woman bowed slightly, whichmeant that Mr. Choi must be a good customer. As a clerk at 8th Army headquarters he wasn’t getting rich, so if he was spending freely at the Palace of Angels, that would go a long way toward explaining why his wife was so pissed.
    “Who served him?” Mr. Kill asked.
    “Na,” the woman replied.
    “She’s a blonde?”
    “Yes. She dyed her hair blonde a couple of weeks ago.”
    Mr. Kill glanced up the carpeted stairs. “Is she up there?”
    “Yes, but still asleep.”
    Mr. Kill glared at her. The Korean National Police have the power to make any bar owner’s life more than miserable. All they have to do is claim that their establishment is a threat to national morals and then they have the legal authority to shut them down. The hard lines on Mr. Kill’s face showed that he was in no mood to wait for Miss Na to get her beauty rest.
    The woman clutched her silk robe more closely.