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    Now that she was gone, and with no female replacement in sight, the ville patrol was back to the same old intrusive routine.
    So far, Ernie and I had been discreet. The ville patrol hadn’t noticed that we were following. Unprofessional of them but who can blame them? They were bored. They did this every night, and it figured that in the history of the 2nd Infantry Division the ville patrol had probably never been followed before. Not once. We wanted to see how they operated before questioning them. When it became clear that nothing untoward was going on and they were conducting themselves in a professional manner, Ernie and I stopped them outside the Montana Club.
    The American MP’s name was Staff Sergeant Weatherwax, Rufus Q., a thin black man with an aquiline nose and eyelids that seemed to be having trouble staying open, like a jazz musician maintaining his cool. We flashed him our CID badges and asked about Jill Matthewson. He knew her but had worked with her only a few nights due to the fact that the ville patrol was a rotating duty.
    “But Matthewson didn’t rotate,” I said. “She was on full time.”
    “Right. Because she was the only female MP.”
    “We heard she was friendly with some of the Korean women,” Ernie said. “Can you give us a hint on that?”
    “Can’t be sure.”
    “There must be something.”
    Then Weatherwax started conversing with the Korean cop and the ROK Army MP. I helped the conversation along by speaking Korean.
    They remembered. Down the road, through a narrow passageway known as “the crack,” an area of Tongduchon frequented mostly by black American soldiers, in a joint called the Black Cat Club, Jill had smiled and hugged the female bartender. And once or twice they’d seen her there, in civilian clothes, when she was off duty.
    I asked Weatherwax another one: “Did Corporal Matthewson have a boyfriend?”
    “Not that I know of.”
    “Why not?” Ernie asked.
    Weatherwax thought about it for a while. “I’m not sure exactly but it seemed she didn’t like GIs much.”
    “But a lot of them were hitting on her.”
    “ All of them were hitting on her.”
    “Including you?”
    He grinned. “Hey, I gave it a try once.” As he studied our faces, his grin turned to a frown. “When she didn’t go for it, I left it alone.”
    “That makes you a minority of one.”
    Weatherwax didn’t respond.
    Ernie inhaled sharply and took a step toward Weatherwax. “I remember you now,” Ernie said. “As soon as you smiled. You were in the hallway this morning. At the Provost Marshal’s Office.”
    Weatherwax stared at Ernie blankly.
    Ernie waved his forefinger at the hooked tip of Weatherwax’s nose.
    “Having a good time with your pals, eh Sarge? Hooting and howling about Eighth Army REMFs.”
    Weatherwax groaned and rotated his head as if his neck hurt. “If you can’t handle the heat up here in Division,” he said, “then run on back to the rear echelon.”
    I stepped between the two men. “Come on, Ernie. We have work to do.”
    Ernie allowed me to shove him backwards a few steps but he kept staring at Weatherwax. “We’ll talk, Sarge. Again.”
    Staff Sergeant Weatherwax placed his palm atop the hilt of his holstered .45. “Anytime,” he said. Then he turned and the other two cops fell in behind him and the ville patrol continued their rounds.

    “Ain’t no bag, man,” the bartender explained.
    She was Korean but wore dark makeup and her jet black hair was frizzed into a towering Afro. Her face was round and her lips full and the smooth features of her soft flesh were nicely accentuated by the hoop earrings she wore. Her body was something to write home about. Plenty of curves and, as she moved about, her red silk blouse caressed each and every contour.
    “Ain’t no bag,” had been her response when Ernie asked her if there were ever any problems when white GIs entered the Black Cat Club. She went on to explain that not many “T-shirts”