by Martin Limon
“The guy wants money,” Ernie said.
“How much?” I asked.
“Twenty thousand won.” About forty dollars. “Just enough to cover his expenses while he sneaks out of town. He’s quitting anyway.”
“Can we trust him?”
“Shit, I don’t know. But it’s the best lead we have so far. A contract security guard. Pissed at the slicky boys. It’s our shot at catching one of them in the flesh.”
We were in my room. Ernie had stopped by and I sat on my bunk in my skivvies. We were both watching my blue jeans dry on the clanging radiator.
Ernie’s houseboy had gone on strike against him, too. The word was out, apparently promulgated by the slicky boys. No Korean workers on-compound were to help Ernie or me in any way. A not very subtle message: Leave us alone!
I had never realized how far the influence of the slicky boys reached, but we were starting to find out.
A trickle of smoke slithered its way into my nose.
“Shit! The jeans!”
I turned them over. They were singed by the radiator, Little black lines across the butt.
“Don’t sweat it,” Ernie said. “Nobody looks at your butt anyway.”
“Only your girlfriends.”
“Hey!”
“Okay,” I said. “Do you think we can write the twenty thousand won off our expense account?”
“Maybe Riley can find a way.”
“Yeah. He’s a genius at that sort of thing. What time is the meeting set up for?”
“Zero one hundred tonight. We pay the guy the money and he leads us to the slicky boy.”
“How does he know the slicky boy is going to strike tonight?”
“It’s set up. The medic who provides the medicine works on a rotating shift. He’s on duty tonight. He steals the shit out of the one-two-one Evac Hospital, leaves it at a prearranged place, the slicky boy climbs the fence and retrieves it, then climbs back out and turns it over to his fence. Sweet deal.”
“And this security guard is supposed to make sure that he’s looking the other way?”
“Right. They pay him later. But lately he figures he’s been getting stiffed.”
“Why?”
“Because the shit they’re bringing out is high-grade American primo pharmaceuticals. Products from all the big companies. Antibiotics that they don’t even make in Korea because the diseases just recently arrived. Germs carried in on jet planes by tourists with hard-ons and too much money to spend. People need the medicine in the ville. But after customs duties are paid, it’s just too expensive. And most of the time it’s not even available anyway.”
I whistled. “High profit margin.”
“You got that right. When a rich guy’s caught a case of the creeping crud, he’s willing to pay through the nose for the right kind of medicine.”
“So what’s this guard going to do?”
“He’s going back to his farm, he says, down in Cholla Province. He’s tired of all this corruption up here in Seoul.”
The people of Cholla had always been at odds with the people here in Kyongki Province. For the last few millennia anyway.
“Why doesn’t he just do his job,” I said, “and quit playing the game with the slicky boys?”
Ernie’s eyes widened. “Are you kidding? They’d fire him, if he was lucky. If they thought he was a turncoat, he’d end up in the Han River.”
“Next to us.”
“Not me,” he said. “They’re never taking Ernie Bascom down.”
I wished I felt as confident as Ernie did. I watched him. I think he was only faking his bravado, but I knew him well enough to realize that he’d never admit it.
“So we have about five hours to wait?”
“Yeah,” Ernie said. “Might as well have a brewski.”
“Capital idea.”
As he rose to walk down the hallway to the vending machine, someone pounded on the door.
“Who is it?” I yelled.
“CQ.” The Charge of Quarters. “Someone here to see you.”
Ernie and I looked at each other. Without saying anything, he grabbed the entrenching tool stashed with my field gear and padded over to the wall behind the door. When he was in place, he nodded.
I opened the door.
Two MP’s, black helmets glistening, filled my doorway, their fat thumbs hooked over webbed pistol belts.
“Sueño?” one of them asked.
“Yeah.”
“Your presence is requested over at the Provost Marshal’s office.”
“I’m off duty.”
“I don’t think it has anything to do with duty.”
“Then what’s it about?”
The MP tried to look bored. “Don’t know. All we know is that you have to come with us.”
Ernie stepped out from behind the door. “What the fuck’s going on?”
“Ah, Bascom,” the MP said. “How convenient. Your presence is requested also.”
“Me?” Without thinking, Ernie raised the entrenching tool. Both MP’s stepped back. Their hands reached for the butts of their .45’s.
“Drop it, Bascom,” one of them said.
Ernie looked puzzled at first but he swiveled his head and looked at the entrenching tool.
“Oh, this. Sorry.”
He started to lower it but suddenly reared back and threw it at them with all his might.
“Ernie!” I shouted.
Both MP’s dodged and the short shovel slammed against the far wall, gouging a chunk of cement block and kicking up a cloud of dust.
The MP’s rushed into the room. They were big and knew what they were doing, and soon they had wrestled Ernie to the ground and slapped the handcuffs on his wrists. I started tussling with one of them but my heart wasn’t in it because I knew it was absolutely the wrong thing to do. Instead I held the MP back a little, yelling at the other one to take it easy on Ernie.
When they had him secured, the MP’s stood up and one of them pointed at me.
“Put your clothes on!”
I walked over to the radiator and slipped on the still damp blue jeans. After I had thrown on my jacket and my sneakers, the MP told me to turn around. He snapped the cuffs on my wrists.
They marched us outside to a line of vehicles waiting, red lights swirling.
In the back of the jeep, Ernie leaned over.
“I didn’t actually mean to hit them with the entrenching tool,” he whispered to me. “I missed on purpose.”
“That was considerate of you.”
He sat back in his seat.
“I’m a considerate kind of guy.”
13
AN MP HELD OPEN THE DOOR AND THE FIRST SERGEANT walked into the holding cell. Top’s stubbled jowls sagged and he wiped his face with an open palm, as if trying to wake up from a bad dream.
“What’s this about you guys resisting arrest?”
“Not so,” Ernie said. “They never told us we were under arrest.”
“But they did say you had to come with them to the MP Station, didn’t they? And that’s a direct order, isn’t it?”
“Still not arrest,” Ernie said.
“Jesus, Bascom, why do you have to make everything so damn difficult?”
“If you wanted to talk to us, Top, why didn’t you just swing by yourself instead of sending the MP’s?”
“It’s not me who wants to talk to you. It’s the Provost Marshal.”
Somewhere down the hallway someone shouted, “Attention!”
“Carry on.”
Boots pounded down the long corridor. The First Sergeant held the door open while Colonel Stoneheart, the Provost Marshal of the 8th United States Army, strode into the cell.
“Good. You’re both here,” he said.
What the hell did he expect? He’d sent a convoy of armed men after us.
Colonel Stoneheart was a slim man who stayed that way through religious jogging. His hair was short and brown with a slash of gray at the temples. The fatig
ues he wore were freshly starched. Not a good sign. Apparently, he’d put on his uniform and interrupted his evening at home just to talk to us.
The First Sergeant unfolded a metal chair and the Provost Marshal sat down. We faced him from a hard wooden bench.
“Thank you for coming down,” the Provost Marshal said.
I nodded. “Our pleasure.”
“I was at the Officer’s Club tonight,” Stoneheart said, “and this tragic murder of Trooper Whitcomb is quite the topic of discussion.”
He looked at us. Neither one of us said anything. Ernie’s face was grim. Unreadable. I think we both knew what was coming.
“Well, a British Liaison Officer was there and one thing led to another and . . . Well, anyway, he told me that the Sergeant Major of the British Honor Guard claims that you two talked to Whitcomb, at their arms room, the day before his death.” He let that sit for a while, still studying our faces. “Is that true?”
Ernie didn’t flex a muscle. He stared at the Provost Marshal, not aggressively but without emotion, as if he were a stone-faced deity from Easter Island. Handling this issue would be my job. We both understood that. It made sense to have one spokesman. If each party involved were mouthing off, almost inevitably you’d trip each other up, even when you were telling the truth. But especially when you’re lying.
Maybe Ernie expected me to lie. Maybe I did too. Instead, the truth popped out of my mouth.
“We saw him,” I said.
The First Sergeant’s face pulled back slightly but he regained his composure quickly enough. The Provost Marshal let out a little sigh.
“Why?” he asked.
“We met a woman in Itaewon. Or I should say she met us. She gave us a note and asked us to deliver it to Cecil Whitcomb.”
“What did the note say?”
“Something about a rendezvous.”
“Where?”
“In Namdaemun.”
The First Sergeant and the Provost Marshal looked at one another with exaggerated surprise. It was clear that they were in the process of washing their hands of us, steering away from any dirt we might be involved in. After this little act, Colonel Stoneheart spoke again.
“Who was this woman?”
“She called herself Miss Ku.” I turned my palms face up. “Naturally, since Whitcomb was murdered, we’ve been searching for her. So far, no luck.”
“Why did she give you this note?”
“They were lovers who’d been quarreling. That’s what she claimed and, at the time, that’s what we believed.”
“So you just did her a favor?”
“Right.”
“And Whitcomb ends up dead that night, after you delivered the note to him?”
I nodded.
“Why didn’t you tell us this before?”
“Well, to be honest, sir, we were afraid you might take us off the case.”
“You’re damn right I would have.” For the first time his voice raised slightly. “To think I had to hear about this through gossip at the O Club.”
That was his main worry. That he’d been embarrassed and that it would reflect poorly on his annual efficiency report. Even the slightest bad mark can keep a full colonel from being promoted to general. For him, the stakes were high.
Ernie hadn’t moved. I don’t think he really gave a shit. Of course, neither did I. Not about the colonel’s promotion, anyway.
The Provost Marshal seemed distracted as he spoke. “What about that other issue, First Sergeant. What was it?”
“The SOFA charges, sir.”
“Yes.” Stoneheart looked at us sadly. “Charges made against you two under the Status of Forces Agreement.”
Ernie’s back stiffened a little. SOFA charges were bad news. Usually made by a Korean civilian against an American serviceman—for abuse or assault or theft—under the provisions of the SOFA treaty between the United States and the Republic of Korea.. Sometimes the GI would end up in a Korean court, but more often everything was settled by an ROK/U.S. mediation board. Either way, the GI usually shelled out a lot of money in compensation to the victim.
“What SOFA charges are those, sir?” I asked politely.
The First Sergeant handed the Provost Marshal some papers and he shuffled through them.
“Apparently you two had a busy day. There was a traffic accident in Pupyong-ni. A female truck driver charges you with reckless driving that resulted in injury to her.”
Finally, Ernie spoke. “That was the broad we busted for stealing the copper wire.”
“Not proven,” the Provost Marshal said.
“The wire was in the back of her truck.”
“But you can’t link it to her. The other workmen who disappeared, maybe, but not her.”
“Sure we can. She helped them load it.”
“Maybe. Sloppy work anyway. And another incident here in Itaewon.” The Provost Marshal looked up from the paperwork and stared at Ernie. “Some workmen claim you assaulted them after they delivered some household goods.”
“Sure, I did. Because they were stealing.”
“Stealing what?”
“An iron, a toaster, a blender, shit like that,” Ernie said.
“Have these items been checked into the evidence room?”
Ernie lowered his head. “They sort of got misplaced in the heat of the incident.”
“Yes. Misplaced. So there’s no evidence of any theft. But there is eyewitness testimony of an assault.”
“They’re all slicky boys,” Ernie said. “Their word doesn’t mean shit.”
“They’re what?”
“Slicky boys. The same guys who’ve been ripping off this compound for years.”
A chill crept into the cell. As if the entire force of the Korean winter had busted right through the cement walls. The Provost Marshal lowered his voice. “What do you mean, Agent Bascom?”
Ernie went on to explain about the cartel that began in the Korean War and had been pilfering exactly four percent of U.S. military supplies and equipment ever since. He told the Provost Marshal about their high degree of organization and about how they stuck together whenever somebody went up against them.
After he finished, there was a lengthy silence. Colonel Stoneheart’s mouth drew into a thin line. I’d never seen him look so grim. Even the First Sergeant became nervous and coughed and shuffled his feet. Finally, the Provost Marshal spoke.
“Do you have any proof of the existence of this cartel?”
Ernie rolled his shoulders. “Proof? Everybody knows about them.”
“No,” the Provost Marshal said, half rising from his chair. “I’m talking about proof. Not some wild-ass speculations. Proof, Agent Bascom. That’s what you’re supposed to provide. You’re a professional investigator, not some punk on the block who repeats every ridiculous rumor that comes down the pike.”
He stood completely upright and waggled his finger under Ernie’s nose.
“Until you get proof, real evidence that will stand up in court, I will not have you spreading wild rumors about some gang of ‘slicky boys.’ You understand that?”
Ernie was stunned. Finally he realized that Colonel Stoneheart was waiting for an answer. Slowly, he nodded.
The Provost Marshal quivered and his lips almost disappeared altogether. For a minute I thought he was going to punch Ernie. The First Sergeant’s brow crinkled, and he stood and stepped a little closer. Maybe he thought the same thing. Finally, the Provost Marshal swiveled and marched to the door.
“Come with me, First Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.”
The First Sergeant shot us a warning look which meant stay right where you are and followed the colonel down the hallway.
“What was that all about?” Ernie asked.
“The slicky boys,” I said. “A professional cartel of thieves operating with impunity right under the nose of the Provost Marshal. It’s his responsibility to stop them, but he can’t even touch them. Therefore, his only recourse is to
deny that they exist.”
“How can he do that? They’re everywhere.”
“Nobody realizes that at the Officer’s Club. What with servants and drivers and maids, they live a sheltered life. And as long as they’re in the dark, the Provost Marshal’s reputation stays intact. But if the existence of the slicky boys becomes common knowledge, the first question will be, why didn’t he do something about it?”
“And he’ll be slapped with a low efficiency rating,” Ernie said.
“Now you got it.”
“And he won’t make general.”
“Right.”
“And he’ll have a case of the big ass.”
“Right again,” I said.
“At us.”
“Correct.”
“So I should keep my mouth shut?”
“Correct again.”
About two minutes later the First Sergeant came back into the room and sat down across from us.
“Good news and bad news,” he said. We waited. “The good news is that you’re free to go.”
That made sense. There were no criminal charges that could be filed against us. And the Provost Marshal wouldn’t try to trump any up. It would make him look as bad as us.
“The bad news,” the First Sergeant said, “is that you’re off the case. Burrows and Slabem will be taking it over.”
“Those two dorks?” Ernie said. “Out in Itaewon, they couldn’t find their way to the latrine.”
“They’re good investigators,” the First Sergeant said.
“But the Koreans don’t trust them and won’t tell them shit.”
The First Sergeant raised his voice. “At ease, Bascom! The decision’s already been made.”
Ernie draped his elbows over his knees and shook his head. The First Sergeant continued.
“Until further notice, you two will be assigned to the black market detail. Unless, of course, Burrows and Slabem dig up something about this meeting you had with Whit-comb. You two want to tell me anything more about it?”
Neither one of us answered. The fact that we’d been paid fifty thousand won to deliver the note would never cross my lips.
“The Provost Marshal expects you to keep your noses out of the Whitcomb investigation,” the First Sergeant said. “Bascom, you still have that request for extension pending. Don’t forget about it. Not if you want to stay in Korea. And you, Sueño, you can still be sent back to the DMZ. If you have an aching need to walk the line again, staring across the wire at those North Korean Commies, it don’t cut no ice with us.”