by Martin Limon
“So these guys,” Ernie asked, “the Sea Dragons. What’s their main racket?”
“Smuggling,” Mr. Kill told us. “Mostly Japanese electronics. Televisions, cameras, shortwave radios, stereo equipment. They ship it here to Korea, put it on a fishing boat or other small craft, and ferry the goods across the Yellow Sea to China. On this side they run nightclubs, bars, and high-end prostitution rings. I’m told that virtually every Chinese restaurant in the country pays them a stipend every month.”
That was thousands of restaurants—a potential fortune. “For protection?”
“Yes, from the Korean gangs.”
“Do they ever fight?”
“Occasionally. But the division of territory, as you might say, was set long ago.”
“And ASCOM City belongs to the Chinese?”
“Yes. When the US army cleared a few acres of rice paddies and built the supply depot, the Sea Dragon Triad, which was nearby in Inchon, set up bars and brothels outside the main gate at virtually the same time.”
“And they’ve managed to protect it from the Korean gangs?”
“Yes.”
“Not just with muscle,” Ernie said, “but also the cooperation of the local KNPs.”
Mr. Kill sipped his coffee. “My country still has problems,” he said.
Neither one of us wanted to press the issue. We just wanted to make sure we knew where we stood. Reliance on the local cops was not in the cards.
“Okay,” I said, leaning forward. “What is it you want us to do?”
Mr. Kill had finished his coffee and ordered another. When the waitress finished pouring his, she offered more to Ernie and me, then flicked crumbs off the edge of the tablecloth and returned to the kitchen. Mr. Kill began to talk. He kept the plan as simple as possible. The only reason it had any embellishments at all was because the thugs of the Sea Dragon Triad kept a low profile. We had to draw them out. All without involving the local KNPs.
Our goal was to arrest one of the thugs of the Sea Dragon Triad. Straightforward enough when explained by Mr. Kill, but sure to be more difficult in execution.
“You, Sergeant Sueño,” Mr. Kill said, pointing at me, “will play the most important role.”
I sat alone in a Greek bar, a place called—appropriately enough—the Eros. I’d chosen it because it was the one place along the waterfront where I could have a couple of drinks without worrying about being spied upon by the Sea Dragon Triad. And I needed a drink or two.
The bar was about half full of drunken merchant marines—almost all Greek, with a smattering of Filipinos. The Greeks were notorious for settling their disputes with knives instead of fisticuffs. They all carried them, at least here in the port city of Inchon.
Korean business girls swirled about. A couple of them had already approached me, bleary-eyed—probably from sedatives—and greeted me by saying ti kaneis, the Greek phrase for hello. I replied with what I was told was the appropriate response, kala. After another exchange or two, the business girl would realize I wasn’t Greek, and since most of the ladies here didn’t speak much English, she’d move on. I also believed they walked away because if I wasn’t Greek, I was imposing myself on what these sailors considered to be their exclusive territory, and trouble wouldn’t be far behind. But I had no desire to get into a knife fight with a Greek sailor. I just needed a respite before the night’s operation.
When the next business girl approached, I told her in Korean that I was sorry, but I had to leave. I rose from my seat and made my way through the smoke-filled room to the front door.
Outside, I breathed gratefully of the fresh night air. Heading north, my hands in my jacket pockets, I slouched beneath the flashing neon of the quiet Inchon waterfront.
Mr. Kill had laid out a map of Inchon and shown us the location of the Yellow Sea Teahouse, a known Sea Dragon hangout. No tea was sold in the Yellow Sea Teahouse. It was a “salon-bar,” as Koreans called them—drinking establishments with small booths enclosed in curtains. Groups of businessmen could sit in relative privacy and be entertained by attractive young hostesses. The services the hostesses provided were more than just dropping ice cubes into glass tumblers, pouring scotch, and lighting cigarettes. They also smiled and giggled while their guests felt them up. One girl I’d interviewed on a previous case had actually cut a slit into either side of her blouse so her customers wouldn’t fumble and rip the material.
“Less trouble this way,” she’d told me.
What I already knew, and Mr. Kill did, too, was that generally, unless escorted by a pack of high-spending Korean businessmen, Americans aren’t allowed into these places. Not if they’re alone, and certainly not if they’re dressed like a Cheap Charley GI, which I was.
My job was to isolate a Sea Dragon gangster for arrest, which wouldn’t be as easy as it sounded. According to Mr. Kill, the Sea Dragons mostly let their Korean underlings handle the day-to-day operations of their nightclubs, like tending bar or kicking out unruly customers. The Sea Dragons only showed themselves for cases their employees couldn’t handle.
“They’re cautious,” he told us. “It’s part of why they’ve been able to stay in business so long.”
Just where the map said it would be, I found a tastefully understated neon sign that read yellow sea teahouse. I took a deep breath, braced myself, and passed through the open door into a small, dimly lit foyer. Predictably, the young man at the entrance rose from his stool and started wagging his forefinger at me, motioning toward the waterfront bar district and saying, “You go. You go.”
I grabbed his wrist and shoved him out of the way. “I’ll go where I want,” I said, and stepped into the Yellow Sea Teahouse.
The long hallway was lined with flimsy curtains. Behind them sat Korean and Chinese men, laughing and smoking with the young girls next to them, smiling as their paws wrestled their way toward their goal. One of the girls emerged from behind a curtain, glanced my way, widened her eyes in surprise, and hurried toward a short bar in the back that was suffused with reddish light. I headed toward it.
The plan was for me to make a scene—one serious enough that a member of the Sea Dragon Triad would be forced to step in and handle the situation. Ernie, of course, would have been perfect for this job. But it seemed Mr. Kill didn’t believe in typecasting.
We only had one shot before my cover was blown, but he didn’t want me taking unnecessary chances. And I didn’t think I was in any serious danger, with Ernie following in the shadows and, according to Mr. Kill, a planted operative somewhere in the Yellow Sea Teahouse. That operative would remain undercover unless an emergency arose.
“What type of emergency?” Ernie asked.
“The type of emergency where your partner is about to be killed.”
“Oh, that type,” Ernie said. “No sweat. I’m sure he can handle it.”
“Thanks for that,” I said.
I sat at the back bar of the Yellow Sea Teahouse and ordered a double shot of bourbon. The bartender stared at me warily, but could tell that I wouldn’t hesitate to reach across and grab him by the shirt collar if he didn’t comply. Reluctantly, he reached for a glass and poured from a bottle filled with something the color of watered-down cola. I tasted it, grimaced, and threw it back at him. The glass shattered against the back bar.
“Bourbon!” I shouted. “Not this crap.”
He stood back, offended—and still afraid—and before I could stop him, he took three quick steps and ducked through the low door at the end of the bar. Alone, I glanced around and saw no one. I hoisted myself up and sat on the bar, then swiveled my feet over and hopped down onto the planks. Kneeling, I perused the line of labeled spirits for a bottle that was watered down less than the others. Old Grand Dad—more commonly known by its Japanese nickname of “OG-san.” I held onto it as I climbed back over the bar. I realized I’d forgotten to grab myself a glass, but instead o
f climbing back over to retrieve one, I simply twisted the cap off the bottle of straight Kentucky bourbon and began to slug down as much as I could. My nostrils burned, and I wiped my mouth and set the bottle down.
This was more fun than I’d had in a while. I could see the attraction of being a total miscreant. I began to feel a little more empathy for some of the GIs I’d handcuffed over the years. Maybe they weren’t such bad guys, after all.
By now, some of the women down the hall had peeked out from behind the curtains. Even a couple of the Korean businessmen stuck their heads out to stare. I discovered another adrenaline rush: I was famous.
Ernie and Mr. Kill were concealed in the shadows outside. At least, they’d told me they would be. So when I heard a heavy back door creak open and the clatter of footsteps coming toward me, accompanied by urgent whispers, I was supremely confident of my own safety. I sipped on more of the increasingly tasty liquor provided by the venerable OG-san.
There were six of them.
None of them were armed, I noted with relief. Apparently, they thought manhandling a drunk wouldn’t require such extreme methods. But my size did give them pause, and they furtively whispered to one another. I couldn’t quite make out their words, but they definitely weren’t speaking Korean. Would Ernie have realized that these were the Chinese gangsters we were looking for? Probably not, which explained why Mr. Kill had picked me.
The six men approached slowly.
The first one, grinning, launched a snap kick toward my groin. Apparently, he thought it would be a surprise. I sidestepped it and backhanded him in the head. He went down. Startled, the other five backed off, but only briefly. They reached into the folds of their clothing and came up with weapons. Clubs, brass knuckles, even a set of nunchucks.
I couldn’t wait for them to regroup. I grabbed a barstool and jabbed it at them, then launched the bottle of OG-san at the lead thug. It twirled through the air and smashed him in the side of the head. The others came at me reactively. The barstool was kicked out of my grasp, but one of the fallen gangsters had left a gap just wide enough for me to squeeze through, which I did. Once I was past them, I headed for the back door. Of course, I didn’t know the layout of the Yellow Sea Teahouse, so I went in the direction I thought might lead to an exit.
-12-
I ran down a long row of multicolored curtains, half-clothed business girls screaming and curling up to hide themselves and Korean businessmen puffing on flaming cigarettes and staring at me wide-eyed. Some were enraged, and drunk enough that they would’ve tried to beat the crap out of me if four other men weren’t already barreling down the hall to do so.
I saw a white cement-block wall at the end of the row. My choice was right or left, and the thugs were so close that they’d be on me in a second, overpowering me with their numbers and their practiced attacks. As it turned out, I didn’t have to decide, because an aluminum cart rolled out in front of me from the right. I dodged left, and the cart pulled back just enough for me to scrape past it.
Behind me, someone’s yell was followed by a huge crash, and glassware and ice buckets went careening to the ground as the women nearby screamed. At the wall, I slowed and looked back. To my relief, behind the overturned cart was a jumble of thugs, sneakers, and wheels, all splayed out among the broken glass. A woman in a tight skirt and dark nylons was trying to help the thugs up, but kept slipping and making the situation worse—for them, not for me.
Something about her was familiar, but I had no time to think about it.
To my right, there was another wall, so I darted left, then turned right at a hallway with a double door at the end, a caged lightbulb glowing. I was hoping this led to a storage area, which might have a back exit or loading dock. Thankfully, I was right on both counts. I passed stacks of cardboard boxes sitting in the darkness, shoved open the door, and stepped out into the fresh salt air of the Port of Inchon. I hopped off the loading dock and hit gravel with a loud crunch before realizing the thugs weren’t behind me.
Worried that they’d lost me completely, I stopped and looked back. The moment I did, four of them exploded out of the same double door and sprinted straight toward me—bruised, bloodied, and furious. I turned and ran downhill toward the waterfront, with a good twenty-yard lead on them.
I still had a half mile to go when I stumbled over a crouching stone heitei, a lionlike creature out of Korean mythology. I sprawled headlong down a cement walkway, my arm bleeding, and was so panicked that I used the downhill momentum of my slide to pull myself up and keep running. I glanced back; my lead had been halved. Ahead was a main street with potential witnesses to my murder, but where in the hell were Ernie and Mr. Kill?
By the time I reached the street, I was moving so fast that I was forced to veer left in a large swerving turn and was easily overtaken by one of my more nimble pursuers, who sliced across the arc to intercept me. He was only ten yards away, with nunchuks in his hand, and he was heading right at me. I had no choice but to stop and fight.
Frantically, I looked around for a makeshift weapon.
The only nearby object was a collapsed produce box of wood slat and wire. I reached down to grab it, then swung as hard as I could at the guy. Shocked by the blow, he raised his weapon, and I dropped the box, lunged, and popped him in the cheek with a straight left jab. He went limp, like one of the pieces of wilted cabbage stuck to the produce box. Dropping the chained sticks, he fell to the ground.
But the other thugs were still en route, about twenty yards back. Only two of them now. The other must’ve tripped over an obstacle in the darkness, as I had.
Headlights switched on behind me, an engine roared, and a blue-and-white KNP Hyundai sedan headed straight toward the thugs. They dodged in either direction, and I used the diversion to escape. I ran to the next intersection, turned the corner, and headed back uphill toward a massive Chinese arch—wooden stanchions painted bright red and tiled with green and gold on top, with a silver mosaic of a phoenix frolicking above the clouds. The sedan sailed along parallel to me, and as we passed beneath the archway, it slowed. Through the open window, I spotted Mr. Kill in the driver’s seat. The back door popped open, and without hesitation, I leapt in.
Ernie sat in the passenger seat in front of me. “You hurt?” he asked.
“Not much. What about the triad? We have to arrest one of them.”
“We already have one in custody,” Mr. Kill said.
He made a left uphill from the arch and looped around back to where I’d stumbled over the ceremonial heitei. The same woman I’d seen pushing the aluminum cart inside the Yellow Sea Teahouse knelt next to a man who lay facedown on the pavement, his wrists handcuffed securely behind him.
Mr. Kill slammed on the brakes. Then he and Ernie hopped out, and in seconds they were dragging the man toward the car. They tossed him on top of me in the back seat. The woman in the tight skirt and nylons climbed in after him, and I scooted over to the far side of the car and pushed the handcuffed man upright into the middle seat.
I noticed through the rear window that two of the Chinese thugs had returned and were now running toward us, both of them waving short but lethal-looking bats. They must’ve realized we had one of their men.
Mr. Kill started the engine, made a quick turn at the corner, and sped back onto a paved road. In minutes, we’d driven away from the bar district and were on a nearly empty street that ran along the waterfront. Shadowy metal hulls loomed above us.
I glanced at the nearly comatose man sitting next to me. He was drooling from open lips, eyelids fluttering. He couldn’t have been more than nineteen years old. The woman in the back seat opposite me peered around the man and said to me, “Anyonghaseiyo?” Are you at peace?
It was only when I heard her voice that I finally realized who she was. Dressed up in an elaborate hairdo—probably a wig—heavy makeup, a silk blouse, a tight skirt, and nylons was an unrecognizable Offi
cer Oh, Mr. Kill’s assistant. In my haste to escape the Yellow Sea Teahouse, I’d completely forgotten that Mr. Kill had mentioned an undercover agent.
“Nei,” I replied. “Anyonghaseiyo?” Yes. Are you also at peace?
She nodded.
Once I was assured that everyone was at peace, I leaned back and let out a sigh. Then I shoved open the door, leaned out, and barfed up about a pint and a half of Kentucky straight bourbon whiskey.
“Gross,” Ernie said when we climbed out of the car at KNP headquarters in Seoul. “Some of that splattered back inside. You gonna leave it in there or what?”
“You have something I can clean it with?”
“A soldier is always prepared.”
“Now you sound like Riley.”
“You don’t have to insult me,” Ernie said.
He walked briskly inside to the men’s room and returned with a huge handful of paper towels, some dry and others soaked in water. After fetching a few more, we wiped down the back seat of the sedan well enough that all it needed was a good airing.
“What a setback for Korean-American relations,” Ernie told me.
I considered giving him the finger, but glanced at the nearby KNP guards and figured I’d been obnoxious enough for one night.
In a small seating area in the basement, Ernie and I made ourselves as comfortable as we could on two wooden benches. Exhausted, I dozed off for a while, but was jarred awake by a scream. I sat up, disoriented, looking around for its source.
“Go back to sleep,” Ernie said.
“What was that?”
“Mr. Bam,” Ernie replied. The lead KNP interrogator. “Doing what he does best.”
“Think this is really necessary?”
Ernie shrugged, closed his eyes, and fell back asleep.
I started to doze off again, trying my best to ignore the screams that followed.