Slicky Boys

by Martin Limon

  Ernie was right below me, glancing back at the rapidly approaching cart. “Push it open!”

  “Too heavy!” I yelled.

  “Here,” he said. “Brace your feet on that rock.”

  I did as I was told, lifting myself off the ladder. Bolted into the stone wall, it was old and rusted. Using his legs for leverage, Ernie gripped the ladder and pulled. The ancient bolts groaned but didn’t budge.

  The cart was only yards away now. It was all over.

  Then, without warning, the bolts gave and the metal ladder popped free. Ernie shoved it up to me and stabbed his finger at an outcropping of granite.

  “Use that as a lever.”

  I did. With one end of the ladder braced against the trapdoor, the stone as a fulcrum, and Ernie pulling down on the other end of the ladder with all his weight, the trapdoor started to creak open.

  Ernie hung from the far end of the ladder like a monkey after coconuts.

  “Push, goddamn it!” he yelled. “Push!”

  I shoved up on the trapdoor with all my strength. Lumber scraped on lumber, filth fell into my eyes and mouth, and suddenly the trapdoor popped free.

  The cart was a moving shadow now, only yards away from us.

  I scrambled up, reached back in, grabbed Ernie’s outstretched hands, and tugged.

  The rumbling was like the approach of death itself. I jerked backward with all my strength, and Ernie’s head popped through the opening. His butt and his feet cleared the ground seconds before we were both knocked back by a tremendous crash.

  We lay on a dirty wood floor, dazed and winded, peering down into the darkness and the billowing dust. Beneath us, as if its lethal mission had been accomplished, the big cart started to roll back the way it came.

  Apparently, someone had been inside it, because four dark figures hopped out onto the tracks.

  They were quick and we were exhausted and not thinking fast enough. By the time I pulled myself together they were climbing up the wall.

  I shoved the trapdoor. It clapped shut, but that wouldn’t be enough to keep them away. Frantically, I searched the space we were in.

  Dust, crates, grimy windows. We were inside a warehouse.

  Against one wall sat an enormous crate. I forced myself to my feet and stumbled toward it. Stenciling. In English. Pittsburgh, PA. Some sort of machinery. A lathe, I think.

  “Ernie! Help me with this.”

  Together we tried to shove the crate atop the trapdoor. It wouldn’t budge. I wedged myself between the crate and the wall, set my sneakers against a wooden beam, my back against the box, and pushed. Ernie and I strained with all our might. The crate started to slide.

  I heard the trapdoor creak open.

  Ernie told me later that fingers crept over the edges of the opening like tarantulas crawling out of a hole.

  The crate scraped forward, slid over the top of the trapdoor, and slammed it shut.

  When we staggered back to the Nurse’s hooch, she slid back the paper-paneled door, opened her mouth when she saw us, and screamed.

  We both crashed face-first onto the warm vinyl floor. Ernie waved his paw, like a canine begging for mercy.

  “We’re okay,” he said. “We’re okay.”

  Ajjima from next door rushed over, and soon she and the Nurse had us out of our filthy clothes. They washed our faces with hand towels and poured barley tea down our throats.

  Gradually, the warmth and the hot water and the soap brought us back to our senses.

  “What happened?” the Nurse asked.

  “The slicky boys,” I said. “They kidnapped us.”

  The Nurse’s face shifted from worry to panic.

  “They were going to ask for a ransom,” Ernie said, “but it finally dawned on them that nobody was going to pay.”

  For some reason we both found that uproariously funny and we howled with laughter.

  Our hysteria seemed to make ajjima nervous. She loaded up a metal pan with the towels and the barley tea she had brought over. The Nurse escorted her out and bowed politely, thanking her for her help. Ajjima returned to her hooch on the other side of the courtyard.

  The Nurse rummaged through her cabinet, pulled out a crystalline bottle of soju, and poured us each a shot in small cups. We tossed them down.

  After we had calmed down a little, I started to explain.

  I told the Nurse about the twelve guys who had jumped us and being wrapped in canvas and the beautiful Chinese woman and Herbalist So and the escape through the tunnel and the trapdoor in the warehouse on the 8th Army compound.

  She was astonished. “On the compound?”

  “Yes. An old warehouse. GI’s never go in there. Koreans do all the manual labor on the compound. Besides, it’s very well hidden. Nobody ever would’ve found it unless they were looking for it. And the slicky boys haven’t used it for years. Probably figured it was too risky.”

  The warehouse was on Yongsan’s south post, in an old storage area of brick buildings built by the Japanese Imperial Army. When we left it and walked up behind one of the security guards, we damn near gave him a heart attack. Once he regained control of himself, however, he knew better than to ask questions.

  The Nurse was curious about Herbalist So. She’d heard rumors about him, but no one in Itaewon was sure if he really existed. I told her what I had observed and then told her about the calluses he had mentioned on Miss Ku’s hands.

  The Nurse rubbed the tips of her fingers. “The kayagum,” she said, nodding. “Very bad for woman’s hands.”

  “We have to talk to Miss Ku,” I said. “She could be the key to this entire investigation. And at least now we know how to find her.”

  “How?”

  “There must be places where women study the kayagum, where they play it for fun, or to make money entertaining.”

  The Nurse nodded gravely. “Yes. Many places.”

  I raised my palms in the air, resting my case. “Then all we’ve got to do is hit a few spots in Seoul, places where kayagum players hang out, and we’ll find Miss Ku.”

  “You must be out of your gourd,” Ernie said. “There’s probably a jillion joints like that.”

  “We can do it.”

  The Nurse nodded agreement. “I can help.”

  “See?” I told Ernie. “We even have our own native guide.”

  Ernie groaned and poured himself another shot of soju.

  The Nurse squeezed my hand and smiled. I knew why. She was thanking me for including her in our investigation. She’d be happy to spend more time with Ernie, no matter what the reason.

  Still, I was worried about including her. The slicky boys had a serious grudge against us. We had not only disrupted their operations, but we now knew the general whereabouts of their king and their headquarters. Maybe I should’ve kept her out of it.

  She smiled again and her face took on a deep, satisfied glow.

  I sighed. Too late now.

  19

  THE NEXT MORNING WE MADE AN APPEARANCE AT THE CID office but slipped away as soon as we could. For two bottles of Johnnie Walker Black, Ernie’s jeep had been repaired and looked as good as it did before we crashed into the trash truck. It purred through the evergreen trees of Yongsan Compound’s south post toward the redbrick warehouse area.

  One of the Korean supply honchos escorted us into the building. He may not have known all the particulars, but he knew this had something to do with the slicky boy operations. His hands shook as he twisted the key on the padlock.

  Ernie elbowed me and nodded toward one of the windows. It was the one we had broken last night when we escaped from the warehouse. New glass. Already.

  But that was nothing compared to what we found at the spot where the trapdoor had been. The heavy crate had been pushed out of the way and new flooring laid down. The trapdoor no longer existed.

  The Korean manager ran his finger beneath his collar, sweating.

  Ernie hollered for a crowbar and one of the warehousemen came running. It too
k us about twenty minutes to rip up the new wooden planks. Ernie climbed down into the crawl space and knelt. He came back up with a claylike substance smudged on his finger.

  “Mortar,” he said. “The tunnel’s closed. Bricked up.”

  We could’ve had the new brick broken in, but something told me that all we’d find would be caved-in rock.

  I turned to the Korean manager. His entire body quivered.

  “When will you talk to Herbalist So?”

  He looked at me, stupefied, his throat so dry he croaked.

  “Never mind,” I said. “When you see him, tell him that his secret is safe with us.”

  I didn’t know if it would do any good but it was worth a try. Let the slicky boys know that our objective was to catch the killer of Cecil Whitcomb, not to expose their operation.

  Of course, if Herbalist So had been lying to us and he actually was the one who’d ordered Whitcomb murdered, they wouldn’t stop trying for us until they succeeded.

  The manager didn’t nod. He just gaped at me, beads of perspiration clinging to his forehead.

  Ernie tossed the crowbar back to the workman. We climbed into the jeep and roared off.

  Ernie pounded on the steering wheel. “Can you believe those guys? They somehow managed to move supplies and a work crew in here in the middle of the night and close up that damn tunnel.”

  “I can believe it.”

  “Jesus H. Christ. Is there anything the slicky boys can’t do on this compound?”

  “A few things,” I said.

  “Like what?”

  “Like gain access to classified information.”

  “Classified information?” Ernie looked at me. A two-and-a-half-ton truck barreled toward us. We slid past it by inches. “What’s classified information got to do with the price of kimchi in Itaewon?”

  “I’m not sure, but it’s something maybe we should check out. Just in case Herbalist So really wasn’t involved in Cecil Whitcomb’s murder.”

  “I thought we decided that Whitcomb couldn’t be a spy?”

  “We did. But maybe we cut off that avenue of investigation too early. We ought to check it out.”

  “Okay,” Ernie said. “We check it out. What with the slicky boys after our butts and the First Sergeant thinking we might’ve had something to do with the murder and us no longer assigned to the case, no problem!”

  I ignored his bellyaching. “Let’s go see Strange.”

  “That pervert? He turns my stomach.”

  “You always tell him dirty stories.”

  “The only language he understands.”

  “No matter how objectionable his personal habits might be,” I said, “every classified document at Eighth Army Headquarters passes through his hands.”

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Ernie said. “That figures.”

  The flagpole loomed above us, fluttering listlessly. Moist snowflakes plopped into the mud.

  When we checked at the classified documents center, the civilian clerk told us that Strange was attending monthly training with all the other NCO’s assigned to 8th Imperial Army. We found out where the training was being conducted and walked past the parade field and trudged up the hill through some supply huts to the leveled-off training area.

  A twenty-man tent had been set up amongst the trees. When someone ducked out through a canvas flap, a smudge of tear gas wafted through the pine-scented grove.

  “They’re nothing but a bunch of clerks and jerks,” Ernie said. “What do they need CBR training for?”

  CBR: Chemical, Biological, and Radiological. Three of the army’s favorite subjects.

  “In case they have to use tear gas to put down a riot or something.”

  “Strange? Put down a riot? I’d like to see that.”

  We found him off by himself, under the tree line, smoking a tambei. He wore fatigues that were too tight around the butt and too baggy at the shoulders. It wasn’t so much the cut of the uniform but the cut of his body. His jump boots were as unscratched as if they’d come out of the shoe box that morning. The highly spit-shined tips pointed to either side at a wide angle. He looked like a web-footed paratrooper with a weight problem. When we came close he peered at us through his tinted glasses and grabbed the cigarette holder in his mouth, tapping it with his pinky, dropping ash onto the ground in front of him.

  “Hmmm,” he said. “Had any strange lately?”

  I could’ve told him about Eun-hi and Suk-ja and wrestling with their naked bodies, but I didn’t want to get him all worked up.

  “No, Harvey,” I said. “No strange lately. We’re here for some information.”

  His real name was Harvey and he didn’t like to be called by his nickname, which was Strange. Primarily, I supposed, because people who really are strange don’t like to be reminded of it.

  “Information, eh? That’s a valuable commodity.”

  Ernie stepped forward. “Have you ever met Annie and Miss Inchon?”

  His eyes widened behind the dark glasses. “Who?”

  “They work in Itaewon. Let me tell you about them.”

  While Ernie went on with his made-up story, I surveyed the training site. Men were lined up, white scorecards clutched in their hands. As they took their turns going into the tent they handed their card to one of the cadre NCO’s. Before stepping inside, they slipped their black protective masks over their heads, blew out and cleared them, and made sure all the seals were tight. Once inside they stayed for only a few seconds. They had to take off their masks and recite their Social Security numbers or the first lines of the Gettysburg Address or something inane like that. Most of them didn’t finish even the most simple dissertation before they burst madly out of the tent flap, coughing and hacking.

  The idea was to get you used to being uncomfortable. Sometimes I figured that was the sole purpose of the entire U.S. Army training program.

  When I turned back, Ernie had finished his lies, and Strange’s eyeballs were glazed over.

  “Harvey,” I said.

  He didn’t answer. I tapped him on the cheek. The flesh quivered like refrigerated lard.

  “Harvey!”

  “What?”

  “Tell me about Captain Burlingame.”

  “Hard-ass,” he said.

  “What else?”

  “Sloppy with his classified documents.”

  “Sloppy?”

  “Thinks his people are above making mistakes. Doesn’t like it when we come down to inspect his security arrangements. Thinks he’s getting back at us by not signing and dating all the log-in sheets.”

  “How many classified documents do Burlingame’s people handle?”

  “Loads. Were you in his office?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you were sitting right on top of the J-two vault. Access downstairs.”

  Cecil Whitcomb was into stealing things that he could immediately resell on the black market. He was a petty thief, not very skilled. If he’d been an expert we might not’ve even noticed his little crime wave. So would he have risked going after classified documents? Probably not. He wasn’t stupid. Missing typewriters can be ignored. Missing classified documents can’t. Besides, where would he find an outlet for military secrets? They’re not easy to sell. Even though there are plenty of spies in Korea, contacting them is not easy. They don’t advertise in newspapers.

  “Has J-two had any problems? Missing documents? Stuff like that?”

  “Nah. They’ve been lucky. But if they keep up with sloppy procedures they’ll get burned eventually. Then they better not come crying to me.”

  So that wasn’t it. The fact that classified documents were nearby when Cecil stole a typewriter was just a coincidence. Anyway, where could he steal something in 8th Army Headquarters and not be near classified documents? The whole place was crawling with them.

  Strange pulled on his cigarette. I watched his thin lips crinkle around the tobacco-stained holder. It wasn’t a pleasant sight.

  “Have there been
any other security problems lately?” I asked. “Anything unusual?”

  “There’s always something unusual in security.”

  “Here on Yongsan Compound?”

  “No. Not here. Other places. Only rumors though.”

  A gruff voice bellowed beside the tent. “Second squad! Fall in.”

  Strange plucked his cigarette stub out of the holder and dropped it to the mud.

  “Gotta go.”

  “Harvey,” I said. “Check with the other security NCO’s. Especially here on compound. Find out if they’ve run into any problems.”

  I didn’t think there had been any, but since Cecil Whitcomb had broken into at least one office that housed classified documents it had to be checked out.

  “I will,” he said. “But if you get any strange …”

  “Yeah. Don’t worry. I’ll tell you about it.”

  We watched him waddle off. When he was out of earshot, I leaned toward Ernie.

  “It’s good to know,” I said, “that he and others like him are maintaining a constant state of readiness.”

  “Yeah,” Ernie said. “But ready for what?”

  I didn’t know the answer to that one.

  We walked down the hill, away from the burning gas that floated in the gray sky. Broad steps between whitewashed brick led down to an open iron grating, behind which sat a counter and a giant reading a comic book. Palinki, unit armorer for the CID Detachment. He looked up from the magazine.

  “What’s up, brotha? Gotta shoot somebody again?”

  Ernie offered the big Samoan some gum and he accepted it in his thick fingers without saying a word.

  “I need a pistol, Palinki,” I said.

  “That’s my line of work,” he said. “Hold on.”

  He rummaged amongst the rows of oiled metal until he found something, returned to the counter, and plopped it down in front of me. A .45.

  “Got anything smaller?”

  “Sure.” He looked slightly disappointed. “You’re not planning on blowing anybody away?”

  “Not today. I want something that won’t be conspicuous.”

  “What?”

  “Something that I can hide.”

  “Sure, brotha. Can do.”