Slicky Boys

by Martin Limon

  The Nurse brought in a black lacquered tray, inlaid with a white mother-of-pearl crane fluttering its wings. She unfolded the short legs and placed it in front of us. Soon the small table was piled with bowls of hot bean curd soup, a pot of steaming white rice, and plates of diced turnips in hot sauce, spiced bean sprouts, and a roast mackerel staring with blind eyes into eternity.

  Ernie rolled up his sleeves and dug in. So did I.

  In Korean fashion, we didn’t talk while eating. The theory is that it’s barbaric to ruin the enjoyment of a good meal by talking about things that might start vile juices rumbling in your stomach.

  As we packed away the grub, the Nurse hovered about us, not eating, herself, replenishing the various dishes when needed.

  Most of the business girls weren’t nearly as traditional as the Nurse. She was doing it to give Ernie good face. And she was doing it to show him that she’d make a good wife. A great wife.

  It was hard to believe they were the same couple I’d known a few months ago, when they were on the outs. Then the Nurse had barged into a nightclub in Itaewon sporting a warrior’s band around her forehead, brandishing a heavy cudgel, and caught Ernie flirting with another girl. She’d smashed glassware and almost cracked the table in two with the heavy blows from her club. It had taken three strong men to drag her off him.

  That wasn’t their only altercation, either. Love, between Ernie and the Nurse, was a many splintered thing.

  But lately they’d been more sedate. Maybe it was her threat to commit suicide if Ernie left her. Maybe it was that he’d finally come to his senses and was falling in love with a good woman.

  After we finished eating, the Nurse cleared the plates and Ernie and I resumed talking about the slicky boys. As

  she wiped off the last of the sticky grains of rice from the small table, she glanced up and interrupted us.

  “You want to talk to slicky boy?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I know slicky boy,” she said. “He retired now. Old man. Very famous in Itaewon. Everybody say before he number hana slicky boy.”

  Number one. The best. She pointed her thumb to the sky.

  “He’s retired?” Ernie said.

  “Yes. Sometimes can do.”

  Ernie and I glanced at one another.

  I leaned forward. “We want to see him.”

  “I show you then.” The Nurse rose and slipped on a heavy coat and a muffler.

  I downed the last of my beer, grabbed my jacket, and stepped out into the cold winter night. Ernie followed, but stopped at the outside byonso before we left.

  The Nurse led us past the Statue Lounge and Kim’s Tailor Shop and down a narrow lane that led into a valley filled with a maze of hovels.

  We passed a white sign: OFF LIMITS TO U.S. FORCES PERSONNEL. Being caught in an off-limits area was the least of our worries.

  After a few minutes, we arrived at a dilapidated wooden building. The Nurse bounced down a short flight of stone steps, stopped at what must’ve been the basement level, and pounded on a wooden door the color of soot.

  In less than a minute a man opened it.

  I guessed his age to be in the late forties or early fifties. The short-cropped hair above his square face was flecked with gray. He was a sturdy man, broad-shouldered but very short.

  “Kuang-sok Apa,” the Nurse said. Father of Kuang-sok. “These men wish to talk to you.”

  He looked slightly surprised.

  “They are good men,” the Nurse said. “The tall one speaks Korean. They only want to learn about your illustrious career.”

  The man bowed slightly, then motioned us inside.

  The Nurse smiled and waved at us and trotted off through the snow. Ernie ignored her. I don’t know why he didn’t treat her better. But it wasn’t my business. Not at the time, anyway.

  We followed the old man inside. He closed the door.

  I wondered why the Nurse had called him “Father of Kuang-sok,” and noticed that he walked with a slight limp.

  He was dressed in baggy black trousers and a soiled, heavy-knit sweater of gray and bright red. We took a couple of steps down to a cement-floored room illuminated by a naked bulb hanging from a bare rafter. When I exhaled, my breath billowed in the cold air. There was equipment here— wrenches, hammers, nails, old pipes—and I realized that this man must be the custodian for the building.

  He slipped off his shoes, stepped up on a narrow varnished wooden platform, and waved for us to follow. Behind the platform, light shone through a paper-paneled latticework door. A shadow stood, rising only halfway up the door. The panel shuddered and slid back.

  “Abboji. Nugu seiyo?” Father. Who is it?

  It was a boy.

  Kuang-sok, I thought. The boy had a narrow face, not square and sturdy like his father’s, and eyes that were heavily lidded, just slits in a smooth complexion.

  “Sonnim woyo,” the man said. “We have guests.”

  The man entered the room and Ernie and I slipped off our shoes and followed.

  The room we were in was not much bigger than the toolshed out front, but it was a lot more comfortable. The floor was covered with a soft vinyl padding and I felt warmth beneath my feet. The floor was heated by subterranean ducts flooded with charcoal gas. A six-foot-wide varnished wood armoire covered one of the walls and open cabinets took up most of the rest, stuffed with books and clothes and blankets and a few eating utensils. Cooking was conducted outside, on the cement charcoal pit I had seen on the way in. A tiny TV, imported from Japan, flickered in a corner, beaming out the songs of some Korean variety extravaganza filmed at one of the studios on the side of Namsan Mountain.

  The boy had the volume down low. More disciplined than most kids I knew.

  The man looked at us with his tired brown eyes and stuck out his hand.

  “I am Mr. Ma,” he said in English.

  We shook. The palms of his hands were as rough as the cement walls of his basement.

  Ernie and I sat down cross-legged on the floor. Mr. Ma poured us each a glass of barley tea. The boy sat next to us, his back to the TV, studying us intently. Ernie offered him a stick of gum. The boy glanced at his father, who nodded, and he grabbed the gum with his small fingers.

  Mr. Ma waited. I figured it was time to get to the point.

  “I’m looking for So Boncho-ga, the King of the Slicky Boys.”

  I said it in English but there was no comprehension in Mr. Ma’s eyes. I repeated it in Korean. He blinked and nodded.

  “Why?” was all he said.

  “There was a man killed. A soldier from England. I think the slicky boys who work Yongsan Compound will know something about it.”

  Mr. Ma looked at his son. “Go outside and fetch me a newspaper.”

  The boy rose to his feet and bowed. “Yes, Father.”

  After Kuang-sok scurried out of the room, Mr. Ma shook his head and sipped on his tea. He spoke once again in Korean.

  “If the slicky boys do know something about this man’s death, why should they tell you?”

  “Because this murder could cause much trouble on the compound. Much anger amongst the generals who are in charge. Now they sleep. If I give them reason to wake up, they will wake up very angry.”

  “And the business of the slicky boys will suffer?”

  “Exactly.”

  Mr. Ma nodded. “First, I must tell you that I am not a slicky boy. That was long ago, before God gave me Kuang-sok.”

  “God gave him to you?”

  “Yes. I used to be a slicky boy, on your compound, the Eighth American Army. I was a good slicky boy when I was young. The very best.”

  Mr. Ma gazed past the TV screen, seeing an image much more vivid than the black-and-white electronic flickering-

  “It was winter. Cold, much colder than tonight, with a blizzard screaming through the streets of the city. The perfect night for me. The perfect night for any slicky boy. The guards who patrol the compound would be less vigilant on their rou
nds, more anxious to return to the warmth of their guard shacks. An hour after curfew, I left my hooch.”

  He waved his hand.

  “I had a much bigger room than this one. I was rich in those days. When I reached the remotest part of the Wall, I waited in hiding until the sentry had passed and then I made my run on the wall. Before I got there, I noticed something small, something in a box, and it moved. I knelt down and saw that it was bundled up. I brushed away the snow from the box, unwrapped the covers, and when the cold hit the soft flesh, the child began to wail.”

  Mr. Ma smiled at the fond memory.

  “Of course, my night’s work was foremost on my mind. In the howling wind the guard would not have heard the child’s cry. I could be over the fence in a few moments, steal what I needed, and be gone. But when I was halfway up the fence, the child began to wail again. It was a forlorn wail. The wail of the lost. The cry of those who will never be found.

  “It was up there, while the jagged wire dug into my fingers, that I suddenly knew what I had to do. It didn’t take long to think about it. It flooded my mind like a ray of light. I knew I had to stop being a slicky boy and start taking care of the child lying below me.

  “A shot rang out. One of the guards had been more diligent than I thought. I dropped to the ground, breaking my ankle, and just barely managed to pick up the box and shuffle across the street into the alleys before the guard reached the fence and fired again.”

  Mr. Ma looked down at his foot. “And now I have two souvenirs of that night. This bad leg, and the strength of my soul: my son, Kuang-sok.”

  “You never went back to the compound after that?” I asked.

  “No. It’s been ten years and I never have.”

  It was an interesting enough story, I had to admit that, but he’d been out of touch too long. The Nurse had thought she was doing us a great favor by bringing us here. But this guy was just a lonely old man who wanted an audience to listen to him rave about past glories. Still, it was a touching little family, and so poor. I knew how that was.

  Ernie swirled the brown barley tea in his glass. It was just a matter of time until he grew antsy and did something stupid.

  Mr. Ma didn’t notice our discomfort. After cleansing his throat with more of the barley tea, he continued his dissertation.

  “Slicky boys have been taking money from you Americans for many years.”

  He smiled at the thought.

  “Of course you have plenty. More than you need, and during the war we were starving. Sometimes I think you Americans knew that. That’s why your security was never as good as it could have been. Or as good as it had been on the army compounds when the Japanese were here. The Japanese ruled with an iron hand. In those days, to be a slicky boy you had to be very brave because if you were caught you would be either shot on the spot or executed a few days later.

  “Now we go to prison. Not such a terrible fate if you’re starving to death anyway.”

  We had to get out of here. Otherwise, this guy was going to chew our ears off all night. But before I could make a move, he was talking again.

  “When the war ended there were independent slicky boys outside all the hundreds of U.S. compounds around our country. Many of these compounds you closed up, turned over to the Korean Army, and gradually you consolidated into the fifty or sixty big bases you have now. The slicky boys started squabbling over territory. Many men were killed. This disarray lasted for some months until we had an iron hand again.”

  I looked at him and waited.

  “So Boncho-ga,” he said.

  I spoke in English. “Herbalist So."’

  “What’s that?”

  I switched back to Korean. “I’ve heard of him,” I said.

  His eyes widened. “Then you are also a very diligent guard. Not many foreigners have.”

  “Is he still alive?”

  “Oh, yes. Very much alive. Some say he might live forever.” Mr. Ma picked up his tea and his eyes smiled over the rim of the cup. “All those herbs, you know.”

  “The herbs keep him alive?”

  “Yes.”

  I didn’t know about that but I did know that the Koreans spend fortunes on hanyak—Chinese medicine— and the exotic herbs and potions that go with it.

  “How can I meet this Herbalist So?”

  Mr. Ma shook his head. “You can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “You are a foreigner.”

  “Why should that make a difference?”

  “It makes all the difference. No foreigner has ever set eyes on So Boncho-ga. No foreigner ever will. That is how he survived so long.” Mr. Ma raised his forefinger. “Caution.”

  “I can appreciate caution,” I said. “Maybe there is someone who can tell him of my concerns.”

  “None that I know of.”

  “Maybe you.”

  Mr. Ma laughed. “I am long retired,” he said. “And nothing more than a poor custodian and a collector of bottles and cans. Such an important man as Herbalist So would never listen to the likes of me.”

  “Then where can I find someone who he will listen to?”

  “That I cannot answer.”

  The paper-paneled door slid back. Kuang-sok stepped into the room and sat down next to his father. He hadn’t brought the newspaper, I noticed, but that wasn’t my problem. Disciplining children was beyond the purview of the Criminal Investigation Division.

  I downed the last of my barley tea. Ernie did the same. A waste of time, I thought. Another waste.

  I thanked Mr. Ma and stood up. He rose and slipped on his shoes and followed Ernie and me to the door:

  When I looked back, the last thing I saw was Kuang-sok peering at us with great relief, his arms clutched tightly around his father’s waist.

  Outside, stars glimmered. The moon was rising slowly above peaked tile roofs.

  We turned down an alley. In it, two men stood with their backs to us. As we approached, they swiveled. In the growing moonlight, I could see they were young, hair long, disheveled. Both wore brightly colored workout outfits. The emblem of a martial arts training dojang was emblazoned on the chest.

  They stared at us.

  Had I been alone, I would’ve ignored their hard looks. Routine survival procedure in East L.A. But I was with Ernie. I knew he would never ignore them. I was right.

  He jerked his thumb in their direction. “What do these dorks want?”

  “I don-'t know, Ernie. Don’t pay any attention to them. They’ll go away.”

  Ernie’s walk took on more bounce and he thrust out his chest. What a study he would make for some scientist. Dominant male in a pack of baboons.

  Something landed heavily behind us. I looked back. More men. Dropping from a tiled roof. Three of them. Four. Five. In front of us, six more figures appeared.

  Slicky boys. At long last. Somehow I wasn’t filled with joy.

  They closed in on us. Clubs appeared from coats.

  I stood loose. Trying to make it seem as if I were ready for them.

  Ernie backed up against a wall, found a large stone, and knocked it against cement to check its firmness.

  “Time for some ass-kicking,” he said happily.

  “Who’s going to be doing the kicking?”

  “We are!” He tossed the rock at the first guy coming in and charged. Errol Flynn couldn’t have done it better.

  No time to think now. I did the same, leaping forward with a solid side-kick, catching a slicky boy in the ribs. Swinging fists crunched skull and jaw.

  All in all, I’d say Ernie and I made a pretty good account of ourselves. I remember two, maybe three guys going down. I dodged a couple of bat swings and most of their karate kicks slid off of me like bullets ricocheting off armor. But it didn’t last long. The flesh is weak. Especially when you’re outnumbered six to one.

  Somewhere along the line, I plowed headfirst into the snow. Before I could rise, hands grabbed my arms and punches and kicks rained down on my legs and my spine.


  I struggled upward beneath the thudding onslaught, making progress, until something clunked on my head. I felt myself falling. As the world faded into blackness, I wondered what had hit me.

  Looking back now, I think it was a brick.

  16

  ROUGH WOODEN SLATS JOLTED ME SKYWARD. FOR A moment I hung suspended in air until slowly, gravity tightened its grip, jerked me earthward, and slammed me back onto the hard splintered boards.

  Churning wheels rolled me forward, gliding over a smooth surface until they hit another eruption of stone or brick. My body was jarred once again.

  Musty canvas enveloped my face. I couldn’t move. The air was hot and close and laced with dirt and the cadavers of dead fleas.

  I started to kick and thrash but when I did the thick shroud around me only tightened its unholy grip. I willed myself to relax. Remain still. Ease my breathing. That helped a little. Not much. I wanted to get that thing off my face.

  My palms were numb, pinned beneath my body. Tingling spears of agony shot up my spine.

  Someone mumbled above. Men cursed, laughed. Koreans.

  We came to a halt for a moment. Whispered conversation. Some sort of go-ahead was given: We rolled forward.

  Now the quaking started in earnest.

  We were on jagged steps and as we progressed into the bowels of the earth, my spine slapped against the hard wooden boards again and again.

  I was in some kind of cart. A wooden cart on wheels. Someone was pushing me, someone else was ahead guiding the cart, and other voices hovered around, fading in and out. Escorts of some kind.

  Just another parcel being wheeled through Itaewon. Not anything anyone would notice.

  I wasn’t sure, but I thought there was another cart behind us. Ernie.

  I was wrapped so tightly in canvas I couldn’t sit up. If I shouted, I not only wouldn’t be heard but I’d waste what precious oxygen was left to me. Already I felt light-headed. I fought back waves of nausea.

  What to do now? I tried to remember what I’d learned in training classes out of the CID manual. Mentally, I thumbed through the table of contents. What had the authors advised if you’re wrapped in canvas and being transported in a wooden cart through an ancient Oriental city? Nothing came to mind. I must’ve skipped that chapter.