by Martin Limon
Bingo.
We were parked in what looked like a residential area but was actually nothing but small houses that were divided into individual rooms for field-grade officers—majors and above. We were at the bottom of a hill at the top of which sat Major General Bohler’s official residence, a rambling ranch-style home surrounded by an electrified chain-link fence and security guards. The narrow street was lined with sturdy green shrubbery and the naked bark of elm trees gutting out the winter.
The purpose of this exercise was to spot General Bohler on his morning jog. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe it’s just that when I put somebody under surveillance I like to start from the beginning, at his first rising in the morning, like the first page of a book.
We’d kept our drinking to a minimum the night before, and when we parted in Itaewon Ernie had promised to meet me at the motor pool so we could pick up his jeep at 0530. Miss Lim, the one with the husband in Cincinnati, had been a little surprised that I had stayed so sober and that we’d gone to the yoguan so early.
I’d asked the old woman who owned the place to wake me at five in the morning. It had been hard to leave Miss Lim. I promised I’d meet her at the American Club tonight, which maybe was a mistake, because I had no idea where this surveillance would lead.
Ernie exhaled vapor in the chill air. He said, “Why would a major general be involved with a floozy like Miss Pak Ok-suk?”
“For the same reason most old farts get involved with beautiful young women.”
“Altruism?”
“Right. And also they want to get a little nooky.”
“Why would he kill her?”
“Maybe that’s the way he gets his kicks, or maybe it was an accident, or maybe she had something on him and he wanted to keep it quiet, or maybe somebody else killed her and he wanted to cover it up to avoid scandal, or maybe …”
“All right, all right. I get the point. We don’t know.”
“Not yet.”
“How do we find out?”
“Follow him. See what he does. Then ask questions when it seems appropriate.”
“How do you put a tail on a major general?”
“The same way we normally do. Only it will probably be easier.”
“I guess you’re right. Everybody’ll just figure we’re extra security.”
“Yeah. Even he’ll probably figure that.”
“Big ego.”
“The biggest.”
Ernie had been in a good mood after that. We had a chance to nail a big shot. But the Nurse must have put him through the wringer last night. Sitting in our cramped little jeep, his mood was foul and evil.
I heard heavy breathing and rhythmic crunching on the snow before I could see him. An Airedale, a big prancing puppy, bounded out of the morning mist, Major General Clarence T. Bohler plodding after him. Determined. Grim.
The general ran past us down the hill and then turned left, heading for the South Post gymnasium, which had been forced to begin opening at 0600 ever since he took over as Eighth Army’s chief of staff.
“The son of a bitch didn’t even pay any attention to us.”
“Probably figures we’re waiting to escort one of these officers somewhere.”
Focusing his anger on the general seemed to make Ernie feel a little better. He sat up and started the jeep. We rolled down the hill a few feet and then he turned around and headed toward General Bohler’s residence. Ernie sped up the long driveway, past the half-asleep gate guard, and pulled up in front of the house.
The gate guard was up now, and walking toward us. Another khaki-clad Korean paced the far fence, staring at us curiously, an M-1 rifle slung over his shoulder.
A rock planter fronted the house, and the windows were large and very clean. It was a big place and the old guy must have had plenty of room in there to knock around by himself.
I grabbed my clipboard, hopped out of the jeep, and strode toward the approaching gate guard.
“Security inspection,” I said. I flashed my badge at him. “Why didn’t you stop and check us at the gate?”
“I tried to but …”
I scribbled something on the clipboard. “Never mind. Show us the rest of the grounds.”
A GI with a clipboard can do no wrong.
The guard walked us across the frozen lawn and explained how many guards were on duty at any one time and told us how the shift changes worked.
“Anyone in the house?”
“The housemaid. She always comes in early to help General Bohler with his jogging shoes.”
“Help him with his jogging shoes?”
“Yes. Tie them for him.”
Ernie’s eyebrows just about ripped themselves off the top of his head.
“Who else is on the staff?”
“The cook. He’ll be in first and later his assistant. And of course the housemaid’s assistant.”
We were behind the house now and had a good view of the Frontier Club, the skeet range, and far off in the misty distance the Chamsu Bridge stretching across the rolling Han River.
In the back were two oversized dollhouses. Plastic bowls sat in front of them.
“The dog?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Why are there two of them?”
“General Bohler, he had another dog, the brother of the one that he has now.”
“She’s a bitch?”
“What?”
“A girl. A girl dog?”
“Yes. But her brother, he disappeared, ran away. Almost two weeks ago.”
“Was this dog a cherry boy?”
The guard looked up at me and his eyebrows arched.
“A cherry boy,” I said. “He never caught a girl dog. Young dogs are very strong and if a man eats a young dog, then he will be very strong, too.”
The gate guard smiled.
“And whoever finds this strong young dog, this cherry boy, he will be able to sell him to one of the special places in Seoul and make a lot of money.”
The gate guard’s frown returned.
“Maybe a hundred thousand won. Maybe more.”
“I don’t know. I never do that. I never eat dog meat.”
“You ought to try it sometime,” Ernie said. “It makes your jamji hard.” He clenched his fist and held his forearm rigidly in front of his chest.
I stopped writing on my clipboard and I think the gate guard was starting to wonder if this was a real inspection.
“Who’s working tonight?”
“Mr. Jung. He will be the chief. Starting at eight o’clock.”
“Tell him we will be back to talk to him tonight.”
The gate guards huddled in the center of the lawn and mumbled among themselves as Ernie careened the jeep down the slippery incline.
“Yo, Sarge. How goes it?”
The crewcut NCO looked up at Ernie from his chipped beef on toast, a little startled at friendliness so early in the morning. He was a stocky man, with a little gray at the temples and the weathered skin that comes when your face has been scraped by a razor about a jillion times. A tiny American flag pinned his black tie to his neatly pressed poplin shirt.
“Okay, Bascom, okay. How are you?”
“Hanging in there.”
Ernie plopped his plate atop the plastic-coated tablecloth and sat down at the small table. So did I. One of the Korean waitresses, carrying a heavily loaded tray, shuffled over and offered us coffee, juice, or milk.
I took one of each.
The Eighth Army mess hall is huge and noisy but the food is cheap. Forty-five cents for breakfast. All you can eat.
“The old man treating you okay?”
The sarge snorted.
“Late hours?”
“Not so much that. He likes to be by himself at night. It’s the seven days a week. He always has something going.”
“From what I can see, the headquarters pretty much closes down on Saturdays and Sundays.”
“For everybody else. But that’s when he meets al
l these Korean businessmen. Plays golf with them. Goes to their houses.”
“Why doesn’t he just get their drivers to pick him up?”
“He likes his own sedan, I guess.”
“None of those Koreans has a Lincoln.”
“Only two in the country. Mine and the commanding general’s.”
There was pride and affection in the NCO’s voice. For the car. I didn’t detect any for Major General Bohler.
“What kind of guy is he?”
“General Bohler? He’s like most generals.”
“An asshole?”
“Got to be to get that much rank.”
“I heard he lost one of his dogs.”
“Is that why you’re talking to me?”
Ernie shrugged. “Somebody’s got to find it.”
“So the CID’s on the dogcatcher patrol.” The sarge took a sip of his coffee. “Yeah. The old man took it pretty hard. The gate guards told him the dog had run away. They’d tried to catch him but he’d been too fast for them. I think he believed them. I guess it never crossed his mind that anybody’d do anything to hurt one of his babies.”
“His babies?”
“Yeah. The old guy never has been married. What woman would have him? All he ever wants to do is work and chew people out and talk about how many Vietcong he killed riding around in his chopper. Sort of easy at two thousand feet. So he raises Airedales. He had to leave most of them back in the States, at his home in Virginia, when they sent him out here to be chief of staff but he brought these two puppies with him. You would have thought they were family the way he treated them. I’ve always liked a dog myself. A good working dog. One that will earn its keep and stand by you. But I’ve never been much for raising them for shows and stuff like that. What’s the point? And it was sort of weird seeing the way he always tells GIs to tough it out. When that dog disappeared, he blubbered like a baby. For two days. It was a vacation for me. I just stayed in my room and waited for him to call me. Finally he did. To take him over to the chapel for the wake.”
“The wake?”
“Yeah. He had that chaplain over there, what’s his name?”
“Sturdivant.”
“Yeah, Chaplain Sturdivant. He had him and his assistant perform a little ceremony for the dog. Since he figured he was dead and all.”
“Who attended this ceremony?”
“I waited in the car. So it was just the chaplain and his assistant and General Bohler and Bonnie.”
“Bonnie?”
“Yeah. The other dog.”
“Did she cry?”
“Not hardly.”
“Who do you think took the dog?”
“The gate guards. Who else? That sucker’s worth some money downtown.”
“Any proof?”
“Naw. You know they’re slick. You’ll never get anything on them.”
“When did you have this wake?”
“In the afternoon. Over a week ago. It had to be a Sunday. I remember because it was the first Saturday I got off since I’ve been in country. He was so tore up and all.”
“Did he go anywhere after the wake?”
“Yeah, he did. I let him off by himself. He said he just wanted to get out and walk a while. He told me to take the other dog back to his quarters, which I did. And then I went back to 21 T Car and parked the sedan.”
“He just wanted to be by himself and walk a little?”
“Yeah.”
“Was he in civilian clothes?”
“Sure. He’d attract too much attention with all those stars on his shoulder.”
“Did he often go out by himself?”
“Not that I know of. Never.”
“What’d he usually do at night?”
“Of course there are the official functions at the Officers’ Club or the American Embassy or something like that. But other than that, I haven’t got the slightest idea what he does at night. Stays home with his dogs, I guess.”
“Sunday night, after the wake, where did you let him off?”
“Where else would a person go when they’re feeling down?”
“Itaewon?”
“You got it.”
Investigator Burrows craned his long thin body over Miss Kim’s desk, trying to make her laugh with a glass rabbit filled with bubble bath he had bought in the PX. She ignored him. He stiffened and rose to his full height when he saw Ernie and me walk in.
“Where’s your partner?” I said.
“He had to go on sick call.”
“Got the clap again?”
“No. A skin condition.”
Burrows swiveled his crane-like body and ambled down the hallway toward the first sergeant’s office. I think he wanted to get there before us.
Riley said, “Yeah, okay,” and slammed the phone down. “The truth is that those wires Slabem was hooked up to got overheated and he was engaged in an intimate conversation with some suspect at the time and was unable to turn them off or get the hell out of there, and as a result he was burned and his entire porky body looks like it was toasted in a wrap-around waffle iron.”
“Sueño! Bascom!”
The first sergeant was bellowing from down the hall.
Burrows passed us on our way in, smirking.
“What’s this I hear about you two guys not being out at the commissary or PX doing your job on the black-market detail like I told you to do?”
“It ain’t true, Top,” Ernie said. “We been staking out the commissary steady since you told us we were off Lindbaugh.”
“Don’t be bullshitting me, Bascom.”
“No way, Top.”
“What about it, Sueño?”
“The commissary, Top. I don’t care what Burrows says.”
“How many arrests did you get?”
“Things have been a little slow out there. They should pick up on payday.”
“Don’t give me that shitl I don’t know what you two guys have been up to, but you better not be poking your noses into what don’t concern you, and you’d better get on the stick and get out there and get me some black-market arrests … or I’ll have your ass! You got that?”
Ernie and I nodded.
“Now get out of my office and get to work on the job that the Army’s paying you to do. And don’t let me hear about any more screwing off.”
Miss Kim had her head down as we left; Riley winked. Burrows had disappeared.
Ernie made the jeep’s engine roar. We were in just the right mood to see Strange.
“What’s he doing during his off-duty hours?” I asked.
“Bohler? That old tight ass? Gets some strange, I guess.”
“With who?”
Strange popped his bubble gum. “With whoever he can pick up. He’s got two stars. It shouldn’t be too difficult.”
“Does he ever hang out in the ville?”
“I haven’t seen him out there. But I’ve heard of a couple of guys who have.”
“They’ve seen him running the clubs?”
“No. Not running the clubs. He wouldn’t stoop so low. He sort of sneaks around, you know, with his escorts.”
“His escorts?”
“Yeah. Those Korean guys who want to take good care of him.”
“Like who?”
“Like that guy out there who runs one or two of the clubs.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know. He’s a smooth character, expensive.”
“How often does he go out there?”
“Very rarely.”
“Does he have any regular hangouts? Places where we might be able to spot him?”
“No way.”
“Well anyway, thanks, Strange. Thanks for the information.”
“The name’s Harvey.”
“Yeah. Sorry, Harvey. See ya.”
“Have you gotten any lately?”
“Not lately. I’ve been busy.”
“Pity.”
“Yeah.”
Tinkling glassware an
d the smell of freshly sliced lemon. If we hadn’t been in the Eighth Army Officers Club I would have been enjoying myself. It was your typical luncheon: honeyed ham with a pineapple ring and cherry on top, a baked potato wrapped in tinfoil, and succotash. We didn’t eat. Of course, we hadn’t been invited anyway. We stood off to the side, trying to stay out of the way of the waiters and the red-faced officers sliding over to the bar to belt down quick ones.
Someone clanged a spoon against a water glass. The room got quiet.
“We are here today to honor …” The speaker droned on. Finally, to a round of halfhearted applause, Major General Bohler was introduced. He was lean, like a gnawed sparerib, and the graying hair on the side of his head had been all but shaved away. The top of his pate glistened in the light, as if it had been oiled. He grinned. A wide toothy grin under square-lensed glasses.
His voice was raspy and thin. As if he were trying to soothe you before he cut your heart out.
The luncheon was in honor of the great improvements that had been made at the Korean Procurement Agency. Money had been saved. The taxpayers’ interests protected. And great new edifices had been built to the glory of the Eighth Imperial Army. A series of Korean gentlemen, employees of KPA, received plaques and certificates of appreciation, bowing and shaking General Bohler’s hand as they received their rewards. Bulbs flashed. And then Lindbaugh was on the stage, his chubby neck bulging out over his too-tight collar and tie. His moist-lipped grin revealed little gray teeth. Like a ferret. And then Mr. Kwok was on the stage. He was muscular and swarthy and seemed to take command of the room with his physical power. He didn’t bow to General Bohler but kept his face impassive and shook his hand and accepted the big burnished copper plaque, emblazoned with little metal flags of the United States and Korea. Engraved words recorded forever the great contributions he had made to mankind and the cause of peace in Northeast Asia.
I looked at the barrel-chested officers along the bar. Some of them chuckled quietly to one another. I longed for a belt. Instead I went into the latrine and spit.
We were in the jeep at the base of the hill below General Bohler’s quarters.
It was cold but there was no snow. There hadn’t been any precipitation for over a week, since the night Miss Pak died.
The snow that was left on the ground looked like lumps of stale icing on mass-produced pastry. A thin sprinkling of soot lay atop it.
The frozen snow and the evergreen trees and the naked elms began to disappear as the sun went down. Soon all we could see were a few pale yellow bulbs serving as porch lights.