by Martin Limon
“What do you want in return?” I asked.
“Can you make sure none of my customers will be busted for black marketing on that day?”
Ernie and I were usually on the black-market detail. We were the only CID agents who had the nerve to follow black marketers into the back alleys of Itaewon and bust them in the act of actually exchanging cash for merchandise. If we didn’t bust them, nobody else would.
“Depends on what we get in return,” Ernie said.
“What you get,” Haggler Lee said, “is the Ville Rat.” He smiled more broadly. “How would you like to find him tonight?”
Ernie and I both held our breath. Finally, I ventured, “Where would that be?”
“It’s Wednesday. He always makes his deliveries in Songtan-up on Wednesdays.”
“You know this, how?”
Haggler Lee looked slightly offended. “What kind of businessman would I be,” he said, “if I didn’t keep track of the competition?”
The young woman in the silk dress breezed into the room and swept up the teapot and the cups. Ernie told Haggler Lee that if the information panned out, he had a deal.
“Pan out?” he asked.
“If the information is good,” Ernie replied.
“Oh, it’s good.”
Then he told us which clubs the Ville Rat would deliver to first.
Songtan-up was known to the GIs as “Chico Village” for some unfathomable reason. Maybe they thought Chico Village sounded cool, but to me, songtan was a much more evocative name. It literally means pinewood charcoal, which was perhaps one of the main products the area produced in days gone by; up is merely the geographical designation meaning town.
Songtan-up presses against the main gate of Osan Air Force Base, the largest US air base in Korea. In addition to the two or three thousand airmen stationed at Osan, Songtan sees a large influx of US Marines from Okinawa who are given rest-and-recreation leave and hop on military C-130 transports that fly them from their little island in the South China Sea to the exotic vacation spot of Osan Air Force Base on the Korean peninsula. Most of the marines stay in the extensive transient barracks on base, which only sets them back about five bucks a day. The marines bring a lot of tourist dollars into the Songtan bar district—but also a lot of strife.
Our first stop was the Blue Diamond Club. It was walking distance from the front gate of Osan Air Force Base. The pedestrian exit was narrow, one GI at a time with identification and, if necessary, pass or leave orders had to be shown to the Air Force Security Police before a GI was buzzed out into the wonderful world of Songtan. From there he was greeted by vendors pushing carts, old women acting as pimps for much younger girls, and, at night, a sea of flashing neon: the Zoomies Club, the Dragon Lady Bar, the Suzy Wong Nightclub, the Airman’s Hideaway, and about three dozen others at various walking distances from the big arch over the two-lane road welcoming the world to Osan Air Force Base.
Officially, the United States Air Force didn’t condone segregation, certainly not on base. But off base, their control was limited. One of the first things every GI new to Songtan learned was that when you walked out the front gate, if you were black, you turned right, into the crowded neighborhood that housed most of the bars and eateries that catered to black airmen. If you were white, you continued straight down the main drag to the larger and much more numerous bars and nightclubs. In between sat the shopping district, with its sporting goods stores, tailor shops, and brassware emporiums, as well as the central open-air Songtan Market. This middle ground was frequented by everyone, but when it came to the bars and eateries, the racial division was strict. Even the visiting marines picked up on it somehow: the black marines turned right and the white marines continued straight on.
After showing our dispatch to the security patrol, Ernie and I parked the jeep just inside the main gate. Then we walked back out the pedestrian exit, flashed our IDs and, once outside, took a right down a narrow lane. About twenty yards farther on, a small neon sign read the blue diamond club. It was a narrow room with a long bar on the right, a few tables on the left, and an excellent sound system. If the customer kept walking through the bar, he’d reach the far door of the club that led out into the next street over, which made the Blue Diamond a shortcut from one block to the next. The light was dim and there were no customers in the place when we walked in. A lone barmaid sat on a stool, reading a comic book and listening to a romantic Korean ballad on the sound system. It was not yet four in the afternoon, and she seemed surprised when she looked up and saw us. Maybe because we were early; more likely because we were white.
“I’m thirsty,” Ernie told her. “But I want something strong. What kind of beer do you have?”
She listed off the usual suspects: OB, Crown, and a couple of canned beers purchased illegally off the compound: Falstaff and Carling Black Label.
“How about malt liquor?” Ernie asked.
The girl stared at him blankly.
“Colt 45,” he said.
She nodded and shuffled to the next cooler over. She had to find her keys and click open the padlock and rummage around inside, but finally she came up with a sixteen-ounce can of Colt 45.
“Don’t open it,” Ernie said. “How many cans do you have?”
Again she stared at him blankly. Apparently, her English wasn’t too good. I said, “Kuangtong meit-kei isso?”
She leaned into the cooler, stood back up, and held up three fingers. Three more cans.
Ernie slid the can back to her and said, “Ahn mogo.” I don’t want it.
Puzzled, the girl placed the unopened can back into the cooler and watched as we walked out the far side of the bar. We checked three more joints, all at the recommendation of Haggler Lee. Two were completely out of Colt 45 but promised to have more in the evening. One had six cans left and said they hadn’t been selling well lately. I asked if most of their customers were black or white. The barmaid told me that lately most of their customers had been white, which would explain the lack of Colt 45 sales—and hopefully portend well for racial integration, but I wasn’t holding my breath.
Ernie and I sat at a table in a chophouse that straddled the wedge on the main road that divided the black and the white districts of Songtan. We sat next to the front plate-glass window so we could keep an eye on the entrance to the Blue Diamond Club. I ordered kuksu noodles with small clams drowned on the bottom. Ernie ordered the same.
“So when do you figure the Ville Rat will show up?” Ernie asked.
“I’m not sure. But as soon as we see that one of the clubs has a new supply of Colt 45, we’ll know he’s in the area.”
“What if he doesn’t make the deliveries himself?”
“I believe he does. Remember what the old lady up in Sonyu-ri said, the one who owns the Black Star Nightclub. She said the Ville Rat was popular with the black GIs.”
“But somehow he found out that we were looking for him in Samgakji and he tried to have us killed.”
“Maybe it wasn’t him.”
“Then who would it be?”
“I don’t know. But from what we’ve learned so far, it seems the Ville Rat is just a former GI who’s making a living here . . .”
“An illegal living.”
“Yeah. An illegal living, but he’s not pulling down a ton of money. Is that enough to have somebody murdered?”
“You never know,” Ernie said, toying with his chopsticks. “Some GIs hate the CID.”
“But somebody not only paid those two guys to steal the garlic truck; they also knew how to contact professional killers, all on short notice.”
“We don’t know that they were professional.”
“No, but they probably were. So everything points to the hit being ordered by somebody making big bucks, somebody with connections to the Korean underworld.”
“They also sent Campione and
the Far East District GIs after us.”
“No, those guys were amateurs. They weren’t out to kill anyone—they were out to frighten us, to protect their turf.”
“So you think somebody bigger than the Ville Rat is watching us?”
“They’re trying to. Which means that the stakes here are more than just a few cases of Colt 45.”
“Like what?” Ernie asked.
“Remember what Haggler Lee said. ‘Look to yourselves.’ He believes that the Colt 45 is being shipped in via the US military procurement process.”
“But Burrows and Slabem just audited their books.” Then he went quiet, staring at the noodles hanging off the polished wooden chopsticks in his hand.
“They’re brownnosers,” I said. “They wouldn’t have reported anything wrong if it stared them in the face.”
“They received a reward for that audit. It took them over a month.”
“What does Eighth Army reward people for?” I asked.
“For not making waves.” He dropped his chopsticks into his bowl and leaned toward me. “You think Burrows and Slabem purposely covered something up?”
“No. I don’t believe that at all. What I believe is that they didn’t look too hard. They took whatever horseshit the Non-Appropriated Fund honchos handed to them and treated it as if it were a set of commandments from on high.”
“So,” Ernie paused, letting it sink in, “what’s really happening is that somebody is ordering stuff off the books and selling it on the black market.”
“Yes. Think about it. The US taxpayer covers the cost of shipping the merchandise from the US or Japan or Europe or wherever it comes from. It’s brought into Korea with no customs duties or taxes, and then you sell it to the locals at whatever markup you can get away with.”
“But they don’t steal the merchandise from the government.”
“No, that would be too obvious. They pay for it, then sell it for double or triple what they pay for it.” I paused, too excited to eat. “And the Colt 45 might be just crumbs falling from the table.”
“Crumbs the Ville Rat licks up and uses to make a living.”
“Yeah.”
“But why him? Why would anyone risk the integrity of a larger operation just to allow some lowlife like the Ville Rat to make a few bucks?”
“He’s out of the army now, but where did he work when he was on active duty?”
“You think maybe he’s got something on somebody and he used that to force them to cut him in on the action?”
“Maybe.”
“But if we find evidence, the whole thing will fall apart. Which is why they sent the garlic truck after us.”
“And what about him? If we’re in danger, wouldn’t he be too?”
“Maybe whoever’s running this operation never saw the need to use violence before. But now they see the Ville Rat as a loose cannon. If they’re willing to murder a CID agent, they’d certainly be willing to snuff out a nobody like the Ville Rat.”
“Do you think he knows that?”
“He should, if he’s smart. He must’ve heard about Samgakji. Gossip spreads through the GI villages faster than smallpox.”
Ernie shoved his bowl away.
“Let’s get out there and find him.”
I slurped down the last of my noodles, stood up, and followed Ernie out the door.
We checked the Blue Diamond and all the other bars we’d visited before, but even though the night shift had come on and GI customers were starting to filter in, none of them had yet increased their inventory of Colt 45. One of the barmaids admitted to us that the guy who usually brought it was supposed to have come in earlier but hadn’t shown. I asked her to describe him to us, claiming we wanted to buy a whole case from him, and she relented. Skinny white guy, always wore loud shirts, reddish hair, teased and puffed out so he looked like a soul brother.
Ernie and I stood in the shadows beneath the awning of Kim’s Sporting Goods, enjoying the cool evening breeze, watching both white and black GIs stream out of the front gate of Osan Air Force Base. Down both lanes, off to the right and straight on, neon flashed an inviting promise: fun, drinks, women.
“Maybe he’s dead,” Ernie said. “Maybe we’re too late. Maybe after they burned the garlic truck, the two assassins went after him.”
“Maybe.”
“So then what do we do?”
I sighed. “We write it all down, everything we’ve learned, and then we ask permission from the provost marshal to reopen the NAF audit.”
“Are you nuts? They’d have to admit that they gave awards to the wrong guys.”
“So maybe we should do the inventory on our own.”
“If we knew what we were looking for, that would make sense. But there must be a mountain of documents at the Comptroller’s Office, and other places. It would take us weeks of checking and rechecking and comparing purchase orders to inventories to shipping documents and delivery invoices.”
“Maybe.”
“What do you mean maybe?”
“Maybe we could figure out a way to do it faster than that.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. I have to think about it.”
At the front gate, some of the GIs were carrying out cases of beer or soda or large bags of commissary or PX purchases. They were probably going to their hooch or their yobo’s place, and they didn’t want to walk. For them, a line of Hyundai cabs had queued up at a taxi stand. But the number of GIs willing to pop for the fare were few and far between. Most of them walked. One of the cabs pulled away without a customer, which was unusual after waiting so long. Maybe he was tired of this shit and decided to go home. But the night was young . . . All these thoughts drifted idly through my mind as I thought about how a scam to import Colt 45 without it showing up in the regular inventory would work. How many people would be involved? Who would have to be paid off? How high would it go? It was certainly not worth the few bucks the Ville Rat was pulling down.
And then the cab’s engine roared and its headlights blinked on and the blinding light was speeding straight for us. Ernie shouted, “Hey!” and shoved my shoulder, and just before the speeding cab reached us, something dark flew out of the night. Whatever it was, it was heavy and compact; it twirled and then slammed into the speeding windshield of the cab. On impact, the cab jogged to the right just enough so I had time to dive blindly to my left, landing headfirst in a bin of soccer balls. Tires screeched and the wall behind me shuddered and the car’s glass exploded into a thousand shards. I covered my head.
-11-
After the near miss with the garlic truck, Ernie visited Staff Sergeant Palinki, the military police armorer, and demanded more ammo for his .45.
“How about you, buddy?” Palinki asked me. “You need a weapon too?”
I declined. I figured one gun was enough for what we needed to do.
Palinki was a huge man—Samoan, from Hawaii. He’d told me he hadn’t originally wanted to join the army, but he’d been drafted. He admitted freely that his entire extended family accompanied him to the induction center and they’d all cried like babies when he’d been taken away. His family thought they’d never see him again, and they almost hadn’t. He’d been trained in infantry tactics and sent to Vietnam, but emerged with only minor shrapnel wounds. When he returned to Hawaii, much of his extended family had moved on. The young ones were going off to college; others were landing tourist hotel or government jobs and moving into tract homes around the island.
“I had money in my pocket and stripes on my arm,” Palinki said. “I was somebody, but if I get out of the army, I go back to being nobody again.”
So he re-upped for six. Now, after more than eight years in the army, he was heavily invested. “Twelve more years,” he said smiling, “and I’m walking. Back to the big island with a monthly retirement check and full m
edical.” Then he smiled even more broadly, showing a gold-capped tooth. “And full dental.”
Palinki was a lifer, like me. We were loyal to the army, for the most part, and patriotic, true-blue Americans, but the first rule when you’re a lifer is to watch out for your brisket. If you piss off the wrong people, the army will screw you over and not even look back. Sometimes, like in Vietnam, they can even get you killed. Usually, though, they don’t, at least not on the streets of Chico Village.
This time, though, they almost had.
Before I could shove the soccer balls out of the way and sit back up, I heard Ernie cursing and firing his weapon—one shot, two—into the Songtan night.
Then he ran after the cab. Down the road, tires screeched, an engine roared, and hoarse GIs shouted and cursed. Ernie fired again. By now I was out of the bin and standing unsteadily, surrounded by broken metal tubing and splintered wood. I took a step forward, and something heavy banged against my foot. I reached down and spotted a cylindrical object. I lifted it and turned it toward the light. Colt 45. A full can, warm to the touch, unopened. I heard the gunfire again, and then it stopped. I dropped the can, grabbed my throbbing head, and staggered toward the sound.
Like the sudden emersion of trapdoor spiders, Korean business girls in hot pants and miniskirts poured out of the bars and nightclubs lining the main drag. Everyone’s attention was turned toward flashing blue and green and yellow lights rotating down the road. A KNP roadblock. I surged forward with the crowd and spotted Ernie, standing next to three KNPs and what looked like the same taxicab that had tried to kill me. It was parked at an angle in front of two blue KNP sedans, and two Korean men were on their knees next to the cab with their hands shackled behind their backs. One of the KNPs had his fist on the back of the head of one of the kneeling men; he was leaning over, talking at him, and the suspect kept his head bowed, nodding occasionally.
Ernie stood next to a man I recognized: Mr. Kill. He saw me and his gaze filled with concern.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.