by Martin Limon
I dropped Ernie off at the barracks and kept the jeep, taking a drive through the dark 8th Army compound. A moonlit smattering of snow guided my way. The CID office was abandoned this time of night, with only a yellow firelight glowing over the front door. I used my key to let myself in and walked down the long hallway to the admin office. Inside, I switched on a green lamp over the wooden field table I usually used to write my reports, but this time I set the typewriter aside. From my inner pocket, I pulled out the poem Mr. Kill had given to me. It was the complete text, in both Korean and English, of a poem done in the three-line lyric sijo style by Hwang Ji-ni, one of the most famous kisaeng of the sixteenth century. A fragment of the poem had been found in the sleeve of the murdered kisaeng up in Sonyu-ri.
I will break the back of this long, midwinter night,
Folding it double, cold beneath my spring quilt,
That I may draw out the night, should my love return.
Had the woman in the red chima-jeogori been forced to write this, or had she done so for personal reasons and kept it a secret? Had the killer forced her to write this, or had he written it himself? I wasn’t sure. The poem expressed loneliness, certainly, and longing and desire. And the hope that, by the sheer force of emotion, a person could change the inexorable flow of time.
Miss Hwang hadn’t been able to break the back of time; she’d met the inevitable end of her night in the frozen flow of the Sonyu River. I kept making notes, pondering the poem’s beauty, recalling what it had been like when that garlic truck barreled toward me—how frightened I’d been.
The phone rang.
Startled, I went to grab it. It was the one on Miss Kim’s desk.
“Hello?” I said, forgetting for a moment the proper way to answer a military phone.
“George.”
It was Captain Prevault.
“How’d you find me?” I asked.
“I called the barracks, Ernie told me you weren’t there. What are you doing?”
I glanced at the ancient poem. “Would you believe me if I said I was reading poetry?”
“You,” she said, “I’d believe.”
“Is it safe to come over?”
“It’s never safe. But come over anyway.”
-10-
The next morning, after leaving Captain Prevault’s quarters before dawn, I returned to the barracks to catch a little more shut-eye and ended up arriving at the CID office a few minutes late. Lieutenant Mendelson left us an urgent message saying that she wanted to talk to us before the Threets court-martial tomorrow. We figured that she mostly wanted to make sure we hadn’t come up with anything new, which we hadn’t, so we didn’t bother calling her back. Staff Sergeant Riley wanted to know where we were off to, but we figured the less the honchos knew, the better.
We drove the jeep over to the 21 T Car motor pool and gassed up. Then we backed it into the garage and Ernie convinced a Korean mechanic to check the lube order. While we waited, we entered the operations office, Ernie flashed the high sign at the dispatcher’s desk, and we continued on back to the windowed cubicle of the warrant officer-in-charge, Chief Milton, who was on the phone, as was his wont.
“Okay, Colonel,” he said. “Got it. Eagles plus six.” He jotted something in a leather notebook in front of him and set down the phone and looked up at us.
“George,” he said. “Ernie. What can I do for you?”
Chief Warrant Officer Milton ran not only the operational arm of the 21st Transportation Car Company, but also the most exclusive bookmaking operation in 8th Army. His clients included some of the highest-ranking officers in the command, and it was even rumored that the US ambassador occasionally put down a bet. Making book here in the motor pool was convenient because Milton could pay drivers to pick up cash from the losers and deliver fat envelopes to winners. We didn’t bother to bust him because it wouldn’t do any good. He had too many connections with the highest muckety-mucks in 8th Army. Besides, betting on football was something all red-blooded American males did. It wasn’t seen as a crime. As a matter of fact, if a soldier didn’t take an interest in pro football, he’d be written off as either effeminate or, worse yet, downright unpatriotic. Personally, I found the spectacle of a bunch of overpaid brutes banging into one another less than interesting. As a child, I’d played football and greatly enjoyed it. But in high school, when the adults got involved and tried to turn it into a religion, for me, it lost its charm.
We sat in chairs opposite the chief’s desk. He stared at us quizzically, perhaps sensing that we weren’t our usual calm, collected selves.
“I heard about the shit somebody tried to pull over in Samgakji,” he said. He stared at the bandage on my head. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. We need information.”
He toyed with a pencil. “How can I help you?”
“The poker game at the Far East District Compound,” Ernie said. “Ever been there?”
“Nice operation. Very professional. A lot of big-shot Koreans happy to get away from the KNPs.”
“Afraid they’ll get busted?” I asked.
“No. Those arrests you see on TV are only for show. Usually, the KNPs are paid off and nobody’s the wiser. People only get busted when they don’t pay up. On compound, a high roller only has to worry about the four-percent rake. Life is easy.”
“Do you join the game often?”
“No. Poker’s not my thing.”
“You’re not much of a gambler, are you, Chief?”
“I work too hard for my money.”
Running a book wasn’t gambling. The odds were set by how much money was coming in on either side of a bet. Regardless of which team won or lost, the smart bookmaker always made his vig, the cut, which amounted to about 10 percent.
“The Far East game’s closed down,” I said.
He lifted an eyebrow. “It is?”
“Yes. We were there last night.”
“Why’d they close it?”
“We’re not sure yet. But we believe somebody’s nervous about something more than gambling.”
“Who runs the game?” Ernie asked.
The chief shrugged. “I don’t want to mention any names, but for years it’s been like an institution. A way for the civilians running the compound to socialize with the movers and shakers who get things done. Contractors, financiers, people like that. They like to relax like anyone else.”
“But somebody’s making a lot of money.”
The chief shrugged again, doing his best to distance himself from whatever was happening at the Far East District Compound. “The money’s parceled out,” he said, “to the Korean help, to the GIs who look the other way, even for landscaping to make the compound look more beautiful. Some of it even goes to an orphanage.”
“Sounds like a charity.”
“For years it’s been harmless.”
“How about the women brought in as hostesses?”
“There used to be a couple of gals to serve the drinks and the food. Nice-looking gals.”
“Did they provide other services?”
“Not that I knew of. People were there to gamble. If they wanted to get laid, they’d go to a whorehouse.”
“So you hadn’t heard anything about the game coming under new management?”
“No.”
The phone rang. The chief raised his finger and lifted the receiver. “Motor pool,” he said. After listening to a muffled voice on the other end, he covered the receiver and said, “I have to take this.”
Ernie and I rose, thanked the chief, and left.
Outside, in front of the maintenance garage, Ernie asked, “Should we arrest Campione? Sweat him?”
“He’s sweating now,” I replied. “Besides, something tells me he might not know much. Just because he or some of his pals were taking a cut from a poker game, that doesn�
�t mean he knows about the sale of a kisaeng.”
“It went on right beneath his nose.”
“Right. But maybe he didn’t want to know. And even if he does know, he won’t say anything. Not right away.”
“Like only if it’s part of a plea bargain, which could take a long time to set up.”
“Right. We need information now.”
The confrontation at the NAF had proven that we were on the right track, but we would lose the trail if we didn’t act quickly.
“So what’s our next move?”
“There’s one guy out there who wanted to give us information. The Ville Rat.”
“Great idea. But how in the hell are we going to find him?”
“We need a lead.”
“There’s a keen observation.”
“And when it comes to information on a black marketer, there’s one guy who can give it to us.”
Ernie thought for a moment. Then he turned to me. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
When the jeep was ready, we showed our dispatch at the 21 T Car main gate and hung a right on the MSR. At the Coulter Statue intersection, Ernie took another right and headed for Itaewon.
Haggler Lee was the most notorious black marketer in Itaewon. As huge as his warehouse was, it was hidden from view amongst the maze of two- and three-story hooches and apartment buildings in the teeming neighborhood that surrounded the main drag of nightclubs and bars in Seoul’s red-light district of Itaewon. The winding pedestrian lanes were so narrow and convoluted that if you didn’t know where you were going, you could easily get lost. But we knew where the warehouse was because we’d been there before. Many times. At the huge wooden double door, Ernie grabbed the heavy metal knocker and banged on teak.
It took five minutes, but a small rectangular entranceway in the much larger door creaked open. A wrinkled face peeked out.
“We’re here to see Haggler Lee,” Ernie said.
The old woman opened the trapdoor wider and we ducked through into a poorly lit, dungeon-like warehouse. After barring the door with a metal rod, the old woman led the way, plastic shoes scraping on cement. We passed dusty bins filled with various pieces of military clothing and then neat rows of stacked C rations. Finally, we reached a somewhat tidier area with refrigerators still in plastic sheeting and air conditioners and fans in colorful boxes emblazoned with both English and Japanese lettering. Atop a raised wooden kang, Haggler Lee sat in the lotus position on a flat cushion. In front of him, incense burning, the fat belly of Kumbokju, the Korean god of plenty, glowed. We kicked off our shoes and stepped up on the varnished wooden surface.
Haggler Lee’s eyes popped open.
“George! Ernie! So good to see you.”
He was a youngish man with a soft, baby-like face and dark hair combed straight over a round skull. Beneath his nose, a black mustache quivered. I figured him to be about forty, but he dressed like what GIs would call a papa-san. He wore the traditional white pantaloons and embroidered silk vest of a man who’d long since passed retirement. Looking older was something many Koreans strived for; they thought it gave them gravitas and respect in society, so unlike in the States, where old age was rated one step below a communicable disease.
“Sit, please,” he said, motioning toward two cushions opposite him. Then he clapped his hands and a few seconds later a young woman in a flowing chima-jeogori appeared, carrying a stainless-steel tray. She served us tea in porcelain cups with no handles. Haggler Lee lifted his with two hands and saluted us. We all drank. “Now,” he said, setting down his cup. “What can I help you with?”
“Maeul ui jwi,” I said.
His eyes stared at me blankly.
“Maeul ui jwi,” I repeated.
“Oh,” he said, “you’re speaking Korean. Sorry. I was expecting English.”
Haggler Lee’s English was excellent, although sprinkled with GI slang. His language skills had been honed by running the largest black-market operation in Itaewon. GIs, but more often their Korean wives, brought him literally tons of imported goods and foodstuffs. In return, he paid them double what they cost in the military PXs and commissaries, a boon to financially strapped military families. Then Haggler Lee took those goods and provided them wholesale to Korean retailers. As a result, he had extensive contacts amongst the purveyors of illicit items at the Korean open-air markets at both the South Gate and the East Gate in Seoul.
He said the phrase again. “Maeul ui jwi. The Ville Rat.”
“Right,” I said. “Do you know him?”
“Not personally.”
“But you’ve heard of him?” Ernie said.
“Oh, yes. Our paths have never crossed, but certainly I’ve heard of him.”
“What’s his angle?” Ernie asked.
Silk rustled as Haggler Lee shrugged. “Special order,” he said.
“Such as?”
“Apparently some black GIs like certain refreshments that aren’t so popular with white GIs.”
“Like malt liquor?”
“Precisely,” Haggler Lee replied. Then he pursed his lips, as if sucking on a lemon. “Awful stuff,” he said.
“You tried it?”
“Once. Of course, I might not be the best judge. I don’t even like beer.”
“You sell enough of it.”
“That’s business.”
Ernie and I had never bothered to bust Haggler Lee for black marketeering. In order to have jurisdiction, we’d have to catch him in the act of purchasing something from an American soldier or an American dependent. Even if we did, since he’s a Korean citizen, we’d have to turn his prosecution over to the KNPs. They would hold him for maybe an hour or two, fine him a few thousand won, and then let him go; all of which would be a futile exercise. Instead of alienating him with such a pointless charade, we used him instead for the information he could provide in more important cases. His vast business connections made him a great resource—but a resource we didn’t bother to tell 8th Army or the provost marshal about.
“Our knowledge is,” I said, “that the Ville Rat specializes in Colt 45 malt liquor and imported cognac, selling them to the black nightclubs since they’re popular with the black GIs.”
Haggler Lee nodded.
“What is he,” Ernie asked, “a GI or a civilian?”
“I believe,” Haggler Lee replied, “he was once a GI. His current status, I wouldn’t know.”
“Do you know where he was stationed?”
Haggler Lee shook his head sadly, as if bitterly disappointed that he couldn’t help us. Ernie asked him something that fell more into his area of expertise.
“Where does he get his merchandise, this Colt 45?”
Haggler Lee shrugged again, more elaborately this time. “I’ve wondered that myself. But I don’t know. They don’t sell Colt 45 in the Class Six. Cognac, yes, but not malt liquor.”
“He has to import it somehow,” I said.
“Yes. Maybe he has a contact at the Port of Inchon or the Port of Pusan.”
“Some customs official who looks the other way?”
“Maybe. And he’d need a merchant ship to haul the stuff in.”
“Expensive,” I said.
“Very.
“But he sells the Colt 45 for a thousand won a can.”
“Not possible,” Lee said, “if he’s smuggling it in.”
“So he has another source,” I said.
Lee nodded. “He has to.”
“Any ideas?”
Haggler Lee sipped on his tea, then set it down again. Then he raised his head and stared first into my eyes, then into Ernie’s. “Look to yourselves,” he said.
“Ourselves?”
“Yes. You Americans are the only ones who can bring things into Korea for free.”
By free, he meant all transportatio
n costs paid by the US government, not by an individual. And no customs duties paid to the ROKs. That speculation left us pretty much where we started. The Central Locker Fund didn’t import Colt 45, so who else would? I tried a different angle.
“How can we find the Ville Rat?”
“Be there when he makes deliveries.”
“We tried that in Samgakji.”
“Someone must have known you were coming. Did you advertise?”
“We were there the day prior, asking questions.”
“That would do it. When you barge in asking questions about black-market items, it’s reported up the line. Didn’t you know that?”
We did, but we hadn’t realized exactly how steadfast these reporting requirements were.
“You must be more careful.” Haggler Lee polished off his tea. “Better if you know his movements in advance.” We waited. He placed his laced fingers on his flat stomach and leaned back contentedly. For the information he was about to impart, we’d have to pay. “There’s a shipment,” he said, “of Seven Dragon wall clocks. Handmade in Red China, then shipped to Hong Kong, where a new manufacturing label is slapped on.”
“So they’re legal for the US military to purchase.”
“Precisely.” He smiled, seemingly at the beauty of it all. Fighting godless Communism was one thing, making a buck was another.
“Seven dragons,” Ernie said. “That’s good luck, isn’t it?”
“Very. They go on sale in your main PX on Tuesday. They’ll be rationed, one per customer. By the end of the day, the entire shipment will be sold out.”
“And the Korean wives who buy them will bring them out here to you.”
“Not all,” Haggler Lee said, smiling, “but most.”
“You’ll pay double for them?” I asked.
“Triple. Top dollar.”
“And you’ll sell them for more than that.”
“Handmade in China, seven dragons, long life and good fortune. What self-respecting household can afford to be without one?”