The Nine-Tailed Fox

by Martin Limon

  “Did you erase it?”

  “Of course.” Ernie folded his arms and leaned back. “We’re up on our spycraft. Wouldn’t want to leave anything for those Commie agents to pick up on.”

  “They’re everywhere,” Strange said.

  “Okay, Strange,” I said. “What the hell is this all about?”

  “The name’s Harvey.”

  “Yeah, sorry. Harvey.”

  He sat upright and straightened his khaki shirt. “Can’t a guy get a cup of hot chocolate around here?”

  That did it. Ernie leaned in, grabbed hold of Strange’s shirt, and pulled him forward.

  “Nobody has time for your bullshit, Strange. And no, I’m not going to buy you a cup of freaking hot chocolate. Now you better tell me what the hell you were doing in ASCOM City last night, or I’m going to drag you outside and beat about fifty pounds of lard off you. You got that?”

  Strange’s cigarette holder waggled, and his eyes seemed to squint behind the dark shades. “Got it,” he said.

  Ernie let him go.

  Strange sat back and straightened his shirt. “Except I’ve been losing weight lately.” We stared at him. He blanched and continued. “As I was about to say, and as I would’ve said earlier in a more civilized environment . . .” He glanced toward me for support, but didn’t get any. “I went to Bupyong last night because I was hoping to make progress on a certain missing persons investigation that has apparently stalled.”

  “Cut the bullshit,” Ernie said, his voice low and threatening.

  Strange turned slightly away from him, angling toward me. “There’ve been reports,” he said, “from the MPs up in the Second Infantry Division. They caught wind from the business girls about a gummy whore prowling the barrooms outside Camp Kyle.”

  “What’s a gummy whore?” Ernie asked, feigning ignorance.

  Strange shrugged. “Some sort of witch,” he said, “or supernatural being. A nine-tailed fox from Korean lore. She preys on young men, forces them to have sex with her. Frantically. Using them, tossing them around, and—”

  “Get to the point,” Ernie said.

  Strange straightened his collar. “When she’s done with them, she tosses them aside like used-up rag dolls. Some people say she eats their liver and leaves the corpse to rot. She then goes back on the prowl and finds her next victim.”

  “Why didn’t we get these reports?” I asked.

  “The Second ID was embarrassed by them,” Strange said. “Somebody slapped a Top Secret cover sheet on it, and since you guys didn’t know about them, you didn’t present a need-to-know request for the documents, and you didn’t get them.”

  “They were buried intentionally,” I said.

  “Sure. Wouldn’t you do the same thing? Talking about some horny old broad with magical powers and a hankering for internal organs isn’t exactly beneficial to your military career.”

  And the welfare of their military career was what most soldiers put first.

  “Okay,” Ernie said. “I get how you found out about all this, but what were you doing in ASCOM City?”

  Strange looked slightly offended. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “No,” Ernie snapped, losing patience. “It isn’t.”

  “I was looking for the gummy whore.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Don’t you know there’s no such thing as a gummy whore?”

  “That’s a matter of opinion.”

  “Suppose there was such a creature,” Ernie said. “Once you found her, what did you plan to do with her?”

  Strange’s cigarette holder stood up.

  “I was going to punish her.” We waited. “Give it to her real good. You know, really plow a new row and . . .”

  He started to raise his hands as if to explain further with gestures, and Ernie reached out and slapped his arm. “Don’t explain,” he said.

  “And once this happened,” I asked, “what exactly did you hope to accomplish?”

  “I’d have had the best lay of my life, and she’d tell me where the missing GIs are.”

  I realized then that I pitied Strange. He was a senior NCO, a single man with nothing to spend his money on, nothing to do with his spare time except chase delusions of a woman who, if she did exist, was certainly no legendary creature. He wasn’t authorized to check out a vehicle, so he must’ve spent at least thirty dollars on a cab to follow us to Bupyong.

  “So you’d be covered in glory.”

  “I’d be covered in a lot of things.”

  “This document, who was it from again?”

  “The Second Division MPs.”

  “And did they have any leads on the whereabouts of this ‘gummy whore’?”

  “No. But I knew you two had already gone up to Camp Kyle and had returned from Pusan. I figured Bupyong would be the next place you’d go, since that’s where the last missing GI was from.”

  “And you wanted to help us out?”

  “Yep. You’d need somebody who can hit the gummy whore hard, give her what she really needs. If you know what I mean.”

  Ernie stared at Strange for a long time, not quite believing what he’d just heard. “Sergeant First Class Harvey,” he said, “you actually believe that this gummy whore exists?”

  “Of course she does. She took those three GIs, didn’t she?”

  Ernie shook his head slowly. Then he pointed at Strange’s nose. “If I find you in Bupyong, ASCOM City, or any other place we might go during this investigation, I will personally drag you into some dark alley and kick your butt until you’re talking through your asshole. You got that, Sarge?”

  Strange swallowed. “You need my help.”

  “No, we don’t.” Ernie stared him down.

  “Yes, you do,” Strange replied. “I didn’t just read the 2nd ID MP reports. They match certain SOFA records.” The Status of Forces Agreement, which covers all disputes, criminal and civil, between the American military and Korean citizens, amongst other things. Both ROK and US officials appoint members to the SOFA committee, which meets periodically to peruse SOFA complaints and adjudicate the less serious disputes and refer the bigger cases to either military court-martial or Korean civil court. “Those three GIs,” Strange continued, “the ones who are missing, they all had SOFA charges brought against them.” Which meant a Korean civilian had accused them of wrongdoing.

  I’d known about Shirkey’s attack on Soon-hui in Pusan, but the other two were new to me. I sat back, trying to hide my surprise. As calmly as I could, I said, “There was nothing about that in their personnel files.”

  “That’s because all three charges were dropped,” Strange replied.

  “And you think that has something to do with their disappearance?”

  “Of course it does. Somebody was pissed and sicced the gummy whore on them.”

  “Okay,” Ernie said. “We’ll check that out. But no more following us during this investigation. You got that?”

  “Okay,” Strange said. “No more gummy whore.” He stood up. “But you owe me one cup of hot chocolate.” And then he held up two fingers. “With two marshmallows.”

  Maintaining as much dignity as he could, Strange sauntered toward the exit.

  -11-

  “They’re for official use only,” Riley said. “You don’t just go thumbing through the file of old SOFA cases. Not without authorization.”

  There was that word again.

  “You can do it,” Ernie said, grabbing Riley’s copy of the Pacific Stars & Stripes and thumbing through it until he hit the sports page. “Nobody has contacts throughout this headquarters like you do.”

  The flattery worked.

  “Fine. I’ll call Smitty,” Riley said, “over at Personnel. Make sure it’s true that if the SOFA charge is dropped, it doesn’t show up in the soldier’s permanent record.”


  “Makes sense,” I said.

  “Yeah, I guess it does.”

  “And find out what they were charged with,” I continued. “As much detail as you can. Names, dates, everything.”

  Riley jotted down something in the notebook in front of him. “You don’t ask for much, do you, Sueño?”

  “Whatever you can get.”

  “After all,” Ernie said, “we took that refrigerator back for you.”

  “Not for me. For the Colonel.”

  “There’s a difference?”

  Riley glared at him, deciding whether or not he should be offended.

  “And our expense account,” I said. “We’ve already run through our monthly fifty bucks each, what with the traveling and all.”

  “Fifty dollars is more than enough. You don’t need to be wasting government money.”

  “We could drop by the Chief of Staff’s office,” I said. “See if he’ll authorize more.”

  Riley made another note on the pad in front of him. “I’ll run it by the Colonel.”

  “Good. We’ll be off, then.”

  “Where you going?” Riley asked.

  “To find a couple of missing GIs,” Ernie replied.

  “What about your reports?” Riley asked, turning to me. “You haven’t turned in even one.”

  “I guess I’ll have to consolidate them when we get back.”

  “No, not later. Now.” Riley pointed to the blotter in front of him. “Colonel Brace said he wanted a report turned in to this office, on this desk, every morning at zero eight hundred hours.”

  “Okay,” I said. “You’ll have one tomorrow at zero eight hundred hours.”

  I nodded toward Miss Kim, who stopped typing and waved toward me with her palm down, the Korean signal for “come here.” I did. She reached into her handbag, pulled out a small book, and handed it to me. “For you,” she said.

  The title was written in hangul and translated to Korean Folk Tales. I thumbed through the contents page. There was a chapter on the gumiho. “Thank you,” I said, sliding the book into my jacket pocket. “This will be helpful.”

  She nodded back at me, and I ran outside and jumped into the jeep.

  “Where to?” asked Ernie.

  “The banks of the Yellow Sea,” I replied.

  “What’s out there?” he asked.

  “China ’crost the Bay,” I told him.

  The United Seaman’s Service is an international organization that provides home-away-from-home facilities for lonely merchant sailors. There was one here at the Port of Inchon, another at the Port of Pusan, and so I’d been told, many more scattered throughout the world. Their modest and generally quiet bar and restaurant operation was our designated meeting spot.

  When we entered, Mr. Kill was waiting for us, sitting at a corner table draped in a red-and-white checkered cloth. Ernie and I sat down.

  “I see you’re dressed for action,” Mr. Kill said.

  As he’d ordered, we were in our running-the-ville outfits, including the nylon jackets with embroidered fire-breathing dragons. He wore a businessman’s coat and tie.

  Ernie patted his breast pocket. “I feel naked,” he said.

  “You won’t need a weapon,” Kill said. “The Chinese triads here know better than to use violence against American servicemen. That would bring down the wrath of Park Chung-hee.”

  “I wish somebody would’ve told that to the boys in ASCOM City,” Ernie said.

  “I’m sure that was a mistake,” Kill replied, smiling beatifically.

  “Good,” Ernie replied. “I’d hate to think it was intentional.”

  I leaned across the table. “You think this Chinese triad is involved with the disappearances of the three GIs?”

  “Maybe,” Mr. Kill told us. “Either involved, or they know something. Either way, they overreacted terribly to your sojourn yesterday into the . . .” He turned to me. “What is the place called again?”

  “The Wild Lady Nightclub.”

  “Yes. The Wild Lady Nightclub. Something made them very nervous.”

  “Maybe it’s that they killed one of our GIs,” I said, “and dumped his body into the Yellow Sea. Their ‘nervousness’ almost ended with us facedown in a cabbage patch with our heads bashed in.”

  “Yes. Not the way they usually do business.”

  “And what way is that?”

  “Silver bullets.”

  “Payoffs?” I said.

  He shrugged. “It works everywhere. But especially here in our poor country.”

  Mr. Kill was about to continue when a matronly Korean waitress approached. She brought us three menus and greeted Mr. Kill in Korean.

  “Would you like to eat?” Mr. Kill asked us.

  “You buying?” Ernie asked.

  He nodded.

  “Great,” Ernie replied. He handed the menu back to the waitress. “I’ll take the New York. Medium rare.”

  All three of us ordered steak. Which actually made us less conspicuous. Since the Cheap Charley—mostly Greek and Filipino merchant marines—seldom spent money at the United Seaman’s Service Club, the only way the restaurant and bar operation stayed afloat was by selling “guest memberships” to local Korean businessmen. These gentlemen loved nothing more than ordering steaks and imported scotch without having to pay the high customs duties they’d be charged at a Korean-run establishment. Besides, the quality of the food and drink was assured. The United Seaman’s Service had an agreement with the US Army that allowed them to purchase their supplies from the military commissaries and PX.

  Our salads were made of shredded cabbage. Iceberg lettuce was always in short supply at the commissary. I poured some dressing on mine and asked, “Where’s Officer Oh?”

  “On special assignment,” Kill answered. Then he responded to our unspoken question. “You’ll find out what that is tonight,” he said.

  When we finished our meal, we ordered coffee, and after the waitress left, Mr. Kill reached into his pocket and said, “Here’s what we found.”

  He slapped his open palm onto the center of the table. His hand retreated, revealing a single dog tag threaded onto a small chain. Ernie and I both knew what it was. In basic training, every American soldier is issued a pair of dog tags, one of which is worn on a long chain that hangs around the neck. The other tag is attached to a shorter chain, which is in turn looped through the long chain. The idea is that if you’re killed, the long chain and dog tag stay with your corpse. The short chain and second dog tag are taken by your commander, your buddy, or whoever is around to report your death. They turn the tag in up the chain of command. If everyone in your platoon is killed and there’s no one left to turn in the small chains, then someday, hopefully, the Graves Registration unit will find you, uncover the dog tag, and officially report your death.

  I picked up the evidence and examined it:

  shirkey, albert m.

  blood type: o positive

  religion: catholic

  Shirkey was the missing soldier who’d worked at the cold storage unit at Hialeah Compound in Pusan. The GI who’d allegedly beaten the recently drowned Soon-hui, his ex-girlfriend at the Sea Dragon Club on Texas Street. And, according to Auntie Suh, had left with a “respectable woman” on the night of his disappearance.

  “Where’d you find this?” I asked.

  “Near Suwon, less than one kilometer from the Seoul-Pusan Highway. In a wooded area that many travelers use instead of the approved rest stops.”

  In the States, we’re used to exits with fast food jungles and gas stations. But this is a new concept in Korea. When the government constructed the Seoul-Pusan Highway, they built rest stops with public restrooms and gas stations and noodle shops and souvenir shops spaced evenly along the way. For some reason, not everyone likes them. Perhaps the noodles are too expens
ive, the traveler is carrying contraband and wants to keep a low profile, or the car happens to have a kidnapped GI tied up in the trunk. As such, a few isolated spots near the highway have developed where people can do their business without government surveillance.

  “You searched the area thoroughly?” I asked.

  “Yes. We even used dogs. No corpse.”

  “That means he’s alive,” Ernie said.

  “Yes. We hope so. They would’ve had no reason to take him out there if he were dead. They probably allowed him to urinate, and while he was doing so, he managed to toss this dog tag under a bush.”

  “And the local KNPs found it when they searched the area?”

  “Yes.”

  The amount of effort the KNPs were putting into this search impressed me. They were more worried about the lives of these two remaining GIs than 8th Army was, no doubt because the deaths of three American soldiers could severely damage the Republic of Korea’s relationship with the United States, especially with the culprit unidentified and at large. So far, the untimely death of Sergeant Werkowski had been kept out of the press, but there were AP, UPI, and Reuters stringers operating here in Korea. A single GI turning up dead was one thing. If all three GIs were killed, they’d definitely catch wind of the story.

  I studied the dog tag and handed it back to Mr. Kill.

  “The men who attacked you are part of the Sea Dragon Triad,” Mr. Kill told us.

  “Sea Dragon?” I asked. “We were just at a bar in Texas Street called that. Do they own it?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Kill said. “They operate down there, too. And across the Yellow Sea.”

  “In Communist China?” I asked, surprised. “How do they manage that?”

  “The same way they manage it here,” Mr. Kill said. “Payoffs. The Communist apparatchiks are hypocrites. All their professed dedication to the revolution and the thoughts of Chairman Mao is nonsense. They take bribes like anybody else.”

  This simple explanation reminded me of how well-educated Mr. Kill was, having attended the best schools in both of our countries. I knew what “hypocrite” meant; it came in real handy at 8th Army. But “apparatchik,” I would have to look up. I glanced at Ernie. His face betrayed no confusion, though I suspected that was an act. GIs never admit there’s anything they don’t know.