Slicky Boys

by Martin Limon

  “I’m right behind you.”

  I made my way through the machines to the front. Some of the workers walked over to block my way. I swerved away but when one shuffled in front of me, I held him gently and said “Mianhamnida,” I’m sorry, as loudly as I could. Ernie slipped by me and we were moving down the alley. The crowd slowly flowed toward us, still undecided as to whether or not to attack. I turned and smiled and said I was sorry and bowed repeatedly, like a big overgrown pigeon. When we reached the end of the alley, we started to run.

  We strode through the busy nighttime streets of Seoul, avoiding pedestrians, stepping over soot-speckled piles of slush.

  Ernie reached in his pocket and pulled out a small plastic card. It was beige on the bottom with a brown stripe on top and a red-and-white cloverleaf in the upper left. The emblem of the 8th United States Army.

  I took it in my fingers and studied it front and back. A perfect facsimile of a U.S. Forces Korea ration control plate. Blank. Suitable for embossing with whatever name and serial number you chose to put on it.

  The RCP is used by all GI’s in Korea when they purchase anything out of military PX’s or commissaries. The idea is to limit what they buy so they won’t violate customs law and sell American-made goods in the Korean villages.

  I pulled out my own RCP and compared them. The forgery was a fine piece of work. The only difference was that the plastic on the authentic one was a little more pliable. I nestled them both back into the folds of my worn leather wallet.

  “Nice work,” Ernie said. “Get a phony ID to go with that and you can black-market your ass off and clear a couple of grand a month. Easy.”

  “So now we know why Mr. Chong can afford to spend time with the expensive ladies at the Tiger Lady’s kisaeng house. He creates and sells bogus documents. And we know that the guy who talked Miss Ku into doing a number on us the other day is into some serious black-marketing.”

  “Yeah,” Ernie said, “but that still doesn’t explain why he of fed Cecil Whitcomb.”

  No. Ernie was right. It sure as shit didn’t.

  Our most promising lead so far had ended in a dead end.

  The guy was an American. He had disappeared. The print shop owner said he didn’t know who or where he was and I believed him. A serious black marketeer wasn’t exactly likely to leave a forwarding address. Especially when he owed money to the people he’d done business with.

  We wound back toward Mukyo-dong. I spotted a taxi stand and started toward it. Curfew was close, less than an hour away. Already the taxi line was long. In a few more minutes it would be hell trying to catch a cab and it was a four-mile walk back to Yongsan Compound.

  When I queued up at the end of the line, Ernie grabbed my elbow.

  “You go ahead,” he said. “I’ll stay down here.”

  I looked at him blankly. “Why?”

  “The interrogation of Miss Ku,” he said. “Got to finish it.”

  I remembered her flushed face and her labored breath.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I guess you do.”

  He shoved his hands deep in his pockets, turned, and waded into the crowd.

  It took me twenty minutes to catch a cab, and when I finally found one it was crowded with other customers heading toward the south of Seoul. The cramped sedan reeked of rice wine, fermented cabbage, and cheap tobacco. The driver refused to take me all the way to 8th Army Compound. There were only a few minutes left until the midnight curfew and he had to take his other customers to their destinations. Instead, he dropped me off in Itaewon.

  I could’ve hoofed it back to the main gate—in fact I started to—but when I walked past the alley that led to the main nightclub district, the sparkling neon and the laughter and the rock and roll were more than I could resist.

  I stopped in the 7 Club and ordered a drink. There wasn’t much time to get drunk before curfew, but I did the best I could.

  It was morning. Charcoal glowed inside a small metal stove. The tattered wallpaper and the cold, vinyl-covered floor told me where I was: the hooch of an Itaewon business girl.

  I searched frantically for the .38. It hung in its holster on a nail in the wall. I put on my shirt and strapped the leather around my chest.

  Other than the stove, the only piece of furniture in the room was a Western-style bed. When you’re in business, no matter how low your capital, you must invest in equipment.

  Vaguely, I remembered something about two sisters. The younger sister lay under a thin blanket, curled up next to the stove. The elder had exercised her prerogative and snuggled comfortably in the big luxurious bed.

  In Korea, the dictates of Confucius still live: Elders come first.

  What had I done?

  I couldn’t remember so I shook it off. No sense even thinking about it.

  As I stepped into my trousers, both girls woke up. After they rubbed their eyes and slipped on their robes, I reached deep into my pocket and checked my money. All there. I gave them some of it. I’m not sure what service they had performed for me the previous night, but they’d let me sleep here. Besides, they were both skinny and looked as if they could use a few bucks.

  Outside the hooch, I slipped on my shoes and pushed through the front gate.

  It was still dark. The road that led back to the compound was deserted, all the shops still shuttered, and the dirty blacktop had been sheathed overnight by a smooth new layer of snow. Only a few curved tracks marred its beauty.

  I spotted the sedan about ten yards down the road. A blue-and-white police car. Engine running. Windows steamed.

  As I came closer I read the license plate. Namdaemun District, it said. The back window rolled down.

  “Geogie.”

  It was a strong male voice. A voice that I recognized.

  “Get in,” he said.

  The car door opened. A man wearing a brown trench coat slid over on the back seat to make room for me. Lieutenant Pak. He was up early.

  I climbed in and slammed the door shut.

  The car was warmer than outside but clogged with the smoke of pungent Korean cigarettes. Suddenly I knew I should’ve stayed outside and talked through the window. Now I was in KNP territory.

  Up front, a uniformed driver and another officer stared straight ahead.

  Lieutenant Pak reached deep into his coat pocket, pulled something out, and nudged it into my ribs. I glanced down.

  The gleaming blade of a wickedly curved knife.

  23

  MOST SUMMERS THE COUNTY OF LOS ANGELES DECIDED it would be okay for me to stay with my Tía Esmeralda. I think it was because I wasn’t attending school and therefore a strict enforcer of responsibility wasn’t so important in my life.

  It was during those summers that I felt most completely alive.

  My aunt enjoyed my visits, too. She worked in a textile factory on Wilshire Boulevard and although her oldest son, Flaco, had two years on me, she put her trust in me to keep an eye on the younger kids while she was at work.

  During those long summer afternoons, when we were unsupervised by anyone, my cousin Flaco took it upon himself to teach me the skills of survival in East L.A.

  Flaco was good with a knife. With one backhand flip he could send it twanging into the bark of the old avocado tree out back. And he could swing it loosely in his fingers and slice unripe apricots from crooked branches without nicking a leaf.

  He also taught me how to fight with it. Keep it in close, not so far away that someone can grab your arm or kick it out of your hand. And jab with it to keep them at bay, pulling it back quickly when they move forward. But contrary to popular belief, he told me, you wouldn’t catch them with a long lunge, you’d catch them when they came to you. Once they did, grab them by the collar, jerk them forward, and, with a short brutal thrust, ram the knife onto the soft flesh above the belly or slash it across the unprotected throat.

  Flaco talked viciously, but he wasn’t really cruel. It was the world that swirled around my cousin that caused him to react wi
th a snarling savagery. Later, when he started taking heroin, he always claimed it had been forced on him.

  I believed him.

  The gangs in the barrio wanted converts. If they had to hold you down and shoot you up to convince you of the spiritual benefits of the fruit of the poppy, so be it. And then you were theirs. A junkie. A source of income for the rest of your life.

  Now he was in prison. For burglary. Arts he had learned after I stopped seeing much of him. After I dropped out of high school and joined the army.

  Now, as I gazed at the long, curved blade in Lieutenant Pak’s hand, I thought of Flaco. And how, in his own twisted way, my cousin had always looked out for me. I mourned for his wasted life.

  “This knife killed Whitcomb,” Lieutenant Pak said.

  I studied it. “A Gurkha knife,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  Gurkhas are the Nepalese auxiliaries to the British Army, soldiers known for their savagery and skill in combat.

  The long metal blade in Pak’s hand was sharp and curved upward at its fat tip. Perfect for slicing into flesh. And prying upward until it popped into the pulsating balloon of the human heart.

  Lieutenant Pak reached in his other pocket, then tossed something to me. It was a thin leather belt with a small buckle in front and a sliding pouch attached to the rear.

  “This Whitcomb wear,” he said.

  Twisting the blade downward he slid it deftly into the pouch. Perfect fit.

  “We found the knife in gutter, maybe one hundred meters from body.”

  Gutters in Korea were stone-lined trenches with vented covers on top, perfect for hiding just about anything.

  “Whitcomb’s unit was last assigned to Hong Kong,” 1 said. “He probably bought the Gurkha knife there.”

  Lieutenant Pak nodded.

  “Any blood?” 1 asked.

  “Yes. Already been to laboratory. Same type as Whit-comb.”

  He pronounced the name Way-tuh-comb. Koreans have to break down harsh consonant endings into separate syllables.

  I said, “Way-tuh-comb met someone who was very tough.”

  “Yes,” Lieutenant Pak agreed. “Maybe Tae Kwon Do.”

  The Korean form of karate. A lot of kicks used.

  Lance Corporal Cecil Whitcomb, although not a big man, had been a trained soldier. Whoever met him in that dark alley and took his knife away from him must’ve been a skilled street fighter indeed. I started to form a picture in my mind. A picture that corresponded with the cuts I’d seen on Whitcomb’s hands and arms. Whoever had attacked him, once they had his knife, performed a deadly dance with him first. Sliced him lightly on the arms and wrists and hadn’t moved in immediately for the fatal blow. Maybe taunting him for fun? Or trying to obtain information from someone who, at the moment, must’ve been a terrified man.

  I knew martial arts experts who claimed they could take a knife away from a grown man. I’d never seen it done, except in movies, which are all bullshit. In training we used wooden knives and the instructor went through the moves of snatching a blade from an armed man step by step. But I never believed it would work. One jab in the calf or the forearm and all the lessons in the world would bleed right out of you.

  Whoever had taken this knife from Whitcomb had to be not only highly skilled but also as fast as an enraged cougar. And he had planned it carefully. Isolated spot, an open level area, about the size of a prizefighting ring. The killer had looked forward to this. And enjoyed it.

  And when he tired of playing with his living ball of yarn, he had killed Whitcomb as easily as biting into the neck of a helpless kitten.

  But why had Whitcomb decided to carry his Gurkha knife that night?

  Supposedly, he’d been on his way to see an old girlfriend. Not a meeting that usually requires being armed.

  But now I knew that Whitcomb didn’t even know Miss Ku. I closed my eyes and tried to picture the note she’d paid us to deliver to Whitcomb. I’d only glanced at it briefly but I remembered a few of the words. One of them was “secrets.”

  Whitcomb had gone out to Namdaemun, armed, probably for some reason having to do with these “secrets.”

  So the killer knew that Whitcomb would be on guard.

  Without any visible signal from Lieutenant Pak, the driver shifted the car into gear and we rolled forward. We drove down the Main Supply Route, past all the shuttered shops and chop houses and past the Itaewon Police Station. At the main drag of the nightclub district the driver turned right and the engine churned steadily up the hill. All the hot joints sat quiet and dead, shrouded in fresh snow. At the top of the hill, we made a slow U-turn. Tonight these alleys would be staffed by dozens of half-naked business girls.

  “You never call me,” Lieutenant Pak said.

  I didn’t answer.

  “So we come Itaewon, look for you.”

  Lieutenant Pak laid the knife down on the seat, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and offered me one. Kobuk-son. Turtle boat brand. I turned it down. Nicotine is one of the few bad habits I never acquired.

  He lit the cigarette with a wooden match and snuffed that out with a fierce wave. The harsh aroma invaded my nostrils. I tried not to snort.

  “You like tea, I think,” Pak said.

  I gazed out the window, letting him get to the point in his own good time. Like the killer of Cecil Whitcomb, he was toying with me. I wasn’t going to play along.

  “You and your partner,” he said, “you went to the Kayagum Teahouse. Owner there was very frightened by two big-nose foreigners give her hard time. She say you break all her teacups, frighten her nephew. Keep ask about someone named Miss Ku. Owner went to Itaewon Police Station. Cry very much. They call me.”

  That was sweet of him. He already had feelers out here in Itaewon in case Ernie or I drew any attention to ourselves.

  “The lady, she frightened but she have very strong mind.” He pointed to his temple. “She remember another name you mentioned. Eun-hi. In the U.N. Club.”

  I turned slowly to look at him, trying to keep my face composed. Pak would know about how we roughed up Eun-hi and her girlfriend, Suk-ja.

  “Eun-hi is a very big woman,” Pak said. “Big jeejee.” He cupped his hands in front of his chest. “Big kundingi.” He patted his rump. “Like an American woman. I think that’s why GI’s like her and that’s why she work in U.N. Club.”

  I didn’t comment on his social observations. Eun-hi worked in the U.N. Club because of poverty more than anything else, but he already knew that.

  “I have long talk with Eun-hi. And her girlfriend called Suk-ja.” He shook his head. “Oh, she don’t like you very much.”

  He peered at me curiously. “Geogie, you shouldn’t punch woman.”

  “I didn’t punch anybody,” I said.

  “Okay. Maybe your friend did.”

  “What’d Eun-hi tell you?” I asked.

  “She said that woman paid her to give you message. To meet her at Kayagum Teahouse.”

  “Happens all the time.”

  “And this woman must be Miss Ku who you asked Kayagum Teahouse owner about.”

  “That might be her name. I forget.”

  “What’d Miss Ku want from you?”

  “The usual.”

  His eyes widened in mock curiosity.

  “She wanted us to black-market,” I said.

  “Yes. Good money. What did you say?”

  “We said no. Forget it.”

  “Then why you go back and bother Eun-hi day after Whitcomb was killed?”

  “Look, Lieutenant Pak. Are we supposed to be cooperating on this case, or are you investigating me and Ernie?”

  He pulled deeply on his cigarette, held the smoke for a long time, and let it out. Sometimes I swear Korean cops must study old gangster movies as part of their training.

  The driver had slowly cruised back down the Main Supply Route. The barbed wire atop the walls of Yongsan Compound loomed ahead.

  “One more thing, Geogie.”

 
; “What’s that?”

  “Your interrogation technique, not too good.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Eun-hi. She told us something that she did not tell you.

  “Like what?”

  “Like in U.N. Club that night there was a strange man.

  I snapped my head and stared into his face. “What strange man?”

  “The night she gave you a message. An American was there. Someone Eun-hi never see before.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “Nothing. Just watching. And after you left, he left, too.”

  Maybe he was the same foreigner who had paid Miss Ku to deliver the message to us. “Has she seen him since then?”

  “No. Never.”

  “What did he look like?”

  He shrugged. “Like GI. Big nose.”

  “Brown hair? White hair? Black hair?”

  “Maybe light color. GI haircut. Tall, like you. Strong. Not fat. Blue jeans, shirt, jacket.” He shrugged. “Like all GI’s.”

  “Did she talk to him?”

  “No. Another girl served him. She don’t remember anything either.”

  “You believe her?”

  “Yes. Just another customer. He did nothing unusual.”

  “Then why did Eun-hi remember him?”

  “Because he stared at you. When you left, he leave full beer. Follow.”

  She’d remember a full beer. Your typical Cheap Charley GI would never walk off and leave a virgin bottle of suds.

  The police sedan pulled up to the front of the main gate of Yongsan Compound. I opened the door and started to climb out.

  “Remember, Geogie.”

  I looked back.

  “You off case now. But maybe this man, maybe he don’t know that.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Maybe he doesn’t.”

  I grabbed the handle and slammed the door.

  The guy in the U.N. Club whom Eun-hi had seen could’ve been just your regular lookey-loo. Ernie and I attract a lot of attention everywhere we go. Most people don’t have their own life; they like to stare at ours. I’m dark, tall, big, Mexican, and used to being stared at. Ernie is always doing something weird. And girls like him. Why, I’ve never been quite sure. But when women look at him, guys will be jealous and stare.