Ping-Pong Heart

by Martin Limon

  “Don’t know,” Riley replied, “but I wouldn’t be surprised. He’s not happy that you almost killed his right-hand man.”

  “His right-hand man almost killed us,” Ernie corrected him.

  “What a loss that would’ve been,” Riley said.

  Miss Kim grabbed a tissue and walked quickly out of the office.

  ■ ■ ■

  Leah Prevault and I sat on a wooden bench in the small garden behind the 121st Recovery Ward.

  “Nobody believes you,” she said.

  “Nothing we haven’t been through before,” I told her.

  She placed her soft hand on mine. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. About your commitment to your son, and how important it is to provide a stable family for him.”

  She pulled her hand away and continued.

  “I admire that. It’s a wonderful thing. Nobody knows how it will be resolved at this point. We need to give it some time.”

  “You mean you want to stop seeing me?”

  She took a deep breath. “Yes. For now.”

  “How much time?” I asked, too abruptly, regretting my harsh tone.

  She sat still for a moment. “I’m not sure,” she said finally.

  I stood, angry. So angry, because what she was saying made sense. My relationship with Yong In-ja had to be resolved; go or no-go, for better or for worse, one way or the other. But even trying to find her risked exposing her to the Pak Chung-hee regime, which would stand her up against a wall and fire away the moment they located her.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let me take care of this.”

  “Don’t do anything rash.”

  “You mean like turn her over to the Korean government, so they can torture and murder her without anyone knowing about it?”

  Tears came to Captain Prevault’s eyes.

  I stared at her a while, clenching and unclenching my fists. I sighed and said, “I’m sorry,” then walked away.

  “There must be a way,” I told Ernie.

  “To do what?”

  We sat in the 8th Army Snack Bar, for once without Strange. In the serving line, I’d ordered a BLT with coffee, which still sat untouched in front of me as Ernie wolfed down his scrambled eggs and home fries.

  “To climb out of this rut we’re in. To find out who murdered Schultz.”

  “Most of the world thinks they know it’s Miss Jo.”

  “Okay, but we know better.”

  “Do we?” Ernie asked. “We’re still missing a little thing called evidence.”

  “And we have to get off the dime with this Five Oh First case,” I continued, undaunted. “Arenas is an innocent man, rotting in prison. And it’s possible that Captain Blood is on the take from—” I lowered my voice. “—North Korean agents.”

  “You don’t think they’d let us investigate that, do you? Even if it were true, the Eighth Army honchos wouldn’t want to hear about it. Not until their tour is over and they’re safely back in the States. They don’t want to be anywhere in the area when that blows up.”

  “Fine, you’re right.” I took the first bite of my sandwich and chomped on it for a while, thinking. With my mouth full, I said, “We can’t just stay in limbo like this.”

  “You think the Five Oh Worst will take another shot at us?”

  “Not yet. Blood has convinced Eighth Army not to investigate, so we’re neutralized for the moment.”

  “But when things die down, he’ll come after us.”

  “Probably. We’re a threat to him.”

  “And if we swing back into action right away?”

  “He’ll come after us right away. He can’t afford for anyone to find evidence that will force Eighth Army’s hand.”

  Ernie thought about that. “They killed my jeep.”

  “Almost killed us.”

  “And tried to force Miss Kim into spying for them.”

  “And sent Arenas to Leavenworth, plus who knows how many other innocent men.”

  “Okay,” Ernie said, shoveling the last morsel of potato into his mouth. “You’ve convinced me. By the way, how’s it going with you and Captain Prevault?”

  “Don’t ask,” I said.

  “That good, huh?”

  We finished our grub and went to visit our favorite armorer.

  “You gotta keep it well oiled,” Palinki told us. “Not too much oil. Just enough so it’s smooth, like a baby’s skin. But not slippery.”

  Staff Sergeant Palinki was a huge man. Over six feet tall and maybe three hundred pounds, most of it muscle. He was Samoan from Hawaii and loved the Army almost as much as he loved armaments. He handed the .45 to me with both hands, the weapon looking toy-like in his calloused palms.

  “Thanks for cleaning it, Palinki,” I said.

  We were underground in a reinforced cement bunker, behind the bars of the 8th Army Military Police Weapons Room.

  “No problem, bro. Keeps me busy. After I finish reading all the comic books, nothing else to do.”

  “You oughta volunteer for regular MP duty,” I told him.

  “No.” He shook his head negatively. “Doc says no.”

  “Bad back?” I asked.

  “No. Not that kinda problem.” He pointed his forefinger and his huge square skull. “This kinda problem.”

  “Mental?”

  “Yeah. I get mad, then nobody know what I’m gonna do. Not even me.”

  Over a year ago, Palinki had almost murdered three GIs he’d caught attacking a Korean schoolgirl in Itaewon. I, however, saw that as a good thing, not a mental problem.

  “You wanna get back on the street?” Ernie asked.

  “Sure. Better than this place.” He waved his open palms at the dungeon surrounding him.

  “My friend Sueño here knows a shrink.”

  I groaned inwardly.

  Palinki’s eyes lit up. “Yeah. Maybe you talk to him. Get Palinki a good eval.”

  “Not him,” I said. “Her.”

  “Even better. Pretty lady all love Palinki.”

  He broke into a gold-capped smile.

  I slipped the .45 into my shoulder holster. “I’ll see what I can do,” I told him.

  On the way out, he shouted after us, “You don’t forget Palinki now, you hear?”

  “What’d you do that for?” I asked Ernie once we got outside.

  “He’s a good man. You have a connection.”

  “I used to have a connection.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  I didn’t answer. We climbed in the new jeep Ernie’d been issued at 21 T Car. He started it up, cursing all the while. “Hear that?” he asked. “Carburetor problems. Why’d they give me this piece of shit?”

  The engine sounded fine to me. But the upholstery was standard Army-issue canvas, not the black leather tuck-and-roll that Ernie had paid to have installed in his old jeep.

  “I guess we’ll just have to make do,” I told him.

  “I guess we will. But if they don’t give me something better than this, I’m taking my Johnny Walker back.”

  ■ ■ ■

  Technically, Ernie and I were still assigned to the Schultz murder case. But where it stood officially was that the perpetrator was Miss Jo Kyong-ja, whose whereabouts were still unknown. The Provost Marshal didn’t want us running all over Korea searching for her—that was the KNPs’ job—so he’d put us back on black market detail, our default assignment. This kept us from conducting unwanted interviews, and any arrests we made would look good at the Chief of Staff daily briefing. All of this was to give the impression that we were really going after what the honchos saw as the primary crime problem in the Command: the illegal resale of duty-free goods by NCO wives. Violent capital crime was of little consequence when compared to the goal of keeping the PX and Commissary swept clean
of yobos, even though they had official dependent ID cards and were authorized to shop there. Go figure. That’s the military mindset. But Ernie and I had different goals.

  Blood had taken one shot at us and if we did nothing, he’d bide his time and try again, possibly with success. It was undeclared war: Ernie and me versus the 501st MI Battalion. The Provost Marshal and his right-hand man, Staff Sergeant Riley, were trying to pretend that nothing was wrong. But to us, the danger was real. I usually chose not to carry a weapon. But after our visit with Palinki, I felt better with the heft of the .45 hanging in a shoulder holster beneath my jacket.

  -28-

  We drove to the Korean National Police Headquarters in downtown Seoul. Within minutes, Officer Oh ushered us into Inspector Kill’s presence. He noticed the bulge of the .45.

  “You’re ready,” he said.

  I nodded.

  “We found Nam,” he said.

  Ernie and I were led downstairs to the below-ground interrogation rooms. Through a two-way mirror, I saw that Mr. Nam wasn’t looking so spiffy now. His collar was open, his tie askew, and his hair a mess. The worst part was the way that his expensive suit was wrinkled and twisted around his body, as if he’d recently spent a lot of time in odd positions. His eyes had lost their luster. Instead of the easygoing confidence I’d previously seen, they now had the wary jitteriness of a hunted rabbit.

  “What’d you do?” Ernie asked.

  Inspector Kill gave Ernie a slightly offended look. “We questioned him.”

  “What was the charge?”

  Kill shrugged. “Possible involvement in a crime.”

  Ernie already knew all this. Under the rules of procedure set up by the Pak Chung-hee government, the Korean National Police didn’t need probable cause to bring someone in. They only had to feel the need to question him. I think Ernie was just smarting from the loss of his jeep.

  “How long have you had him in custody?” I asked.

  “This is the second day. I was waiting for you two to show up so we could search Nam’s office together. If what he’s telling me is accurate, Eighth Army personnel are deeply involved.”

  “Involved in what?” Ernie asked.

  “North Korean espionage.”

  Mr. Kill slipped on his jacket and led us upstairs. In front of KNP headquarters, Officer Oh was already standing next to the blue government-issue sedan. She held the door open as Mr. Kill climbed in front. Ernie and I squeezed into the back. As we pulled away, two cops saluted and Officer Oh switched on her flashing red light. We made excellent time through Seoul traffic, entire phalanxes of kimchi cabs pulling out of our way. Even up north, at the 2nd Infantry Division checkpoints, we swerved around the waiting line and were waved through with no delay.

  “Finally getting the respect we’re due,” Ernie told me.

  “I‘m pretty sure it’s not us,” I replied.

  “Maybe not,” Ernie said, chomping on his ginseng gum.

  ■ ■ ■

  It was a nondescript bokdok-bang in a back street of Tongduchon. Bokdok-bang means real estate office, of which there are tons in any Korean city. They’re used not only for purchasing real estate, but often for something as simple as renting a hooch. Their activities are typically highly localized; an agent can easily walk a client to see the properties he has listed because they’re all within a few blocks.

  Using the keys she’d confiscated from Nam, Officer Oh popped open the padlock that secured the folding metal awning and rolled it upward until her arms were stretched high above her head. Ernie’s eyes never wavered from her figure. I stepped in front of him, hoping he wouldn’t embarrass us. Or, more accurately, wouldn’t embarrass me. I don’t think Ernie Bascom was capable of being embarrassed.

  The front of the bokdok-bang was a sliding wooden door with small glass panels. Mr. Kill slid it open and stepped into the office without taking his shoes off. The floor was cement and therefore considered a public space, not a home where immaculate cleanliness always had to be maintained.

  The filing cabinets were made of wood, a type I’d seen so often before that they were presumably mass-produced in Korea. Mr. Kill and Officer Oh took the lead in opening the drawers and riffling through the paper files. We let them handle it because everything was written in hangul. Ernie and I sat on the short couch opposite the small desk. A coffee table held two huge glass ashtrays with the OB logo on them and an octagonal cardboard box containing tightly packed wooden matches. The ashtrays were full, and after a few seconds of smelling the stale odor of burnt tobacco, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I took them outside and emptied them in the gutter.

  When I returned, Mr. Kill pulled up a straight-backed chair and placed a thick folder on the coffee table. Officer Oh continued to search the files.

  “It’s in code,” he said, thumbing through sheets of loose pulp. “Or more exactly, in abbreviated form.”

  “Shorthand,” I said.

  “Yes.” He pointed. “Initials. Some of them in English.”

  “Those are the Americans involved,” Ernie said.

  Kill nodded. “Maybe. And the locations, all of them the names of the nearby Korean villages. Not the names of the American military compounds.” Kill read them off. “Unchon-ni, Tuam-dong, Yonpung.”

  “Unchon-ni is Camp Kaiser,” Ernie said, “and Tuam-dong is way the hell up north.”

  “Camp Arrow,” Mr. Kill said.

  “I’ve never heard of that one,” I told him.

  “It was small, very remote. Probably closed before you even arrived in the country.”

  “So what does this mean?” Ernie asked.

  Kill explained. It was, at its heart, a real estate deal.

  When the Vietnam War had really begun to ramp up in the mid-Sixties, the US Army was steadily drawing down in Korea. The First Cav had been pulled out and sent to Southeast Asia, next was the 7th Infantry Division, and now the only remaining US division was the 2nd Infantry. They’d inherited the mission of protecting the two corridors leading to Seoul, and the ROK Army had taken the rest, defending the DMZ from the Yellow Sea in the west to the Eastern Sea on the far side of the peninsula. (What Koreans patriotically call the Eastern Sea is known to the rest of the world as the Sea of Japan.)

  Because of their drastically reduced mission and forces, many US Army compounds dotting the countryside were abandoned. Probably the largest was Camp Kaiser in Unchon-ni, which had been closed less than two years ago. But there were others. These camps featured some unbelievable luxuries for rural Korea, like a modern electrical grid, hot and cold running water, fuel storage facilities, central heating, and a communications network that ran all the way back to Seoul. Most of these bases were handed over to the ROK Army. But because of the disposition of forces vis-a-vis the North Korean Army on the opposite side of the DMZ, some of the base camps—or parts of them—were no longer needed. That’s where Nam came in. He was fundamentally a real estate hustler. Once the Korean government had possession of the former American bases, it was theoretically auctioning them off to the highest bidder. But in reality, the fix was in. Money changed hands with government officials. That was Nam’s area of expertise. He had contacts everywhere: in government, the ROK Army, private business, and even the US Army. Somewhere along the line, Nam had run into one of the 501st operatives and was reported up the line. Captain Blood immediately saw Nam’s usefulness to his counterintelligence operations; Blood and Nam became buddies.

  Blood provided Nam with introductions to the senior officers who decided what to salvage and what to leave behind at the defunct camps, thus determining their overall value. Nam contacted buyers—Korean businessmen and government officials—and made money as the go-between. Did money change hands under the table? Yes, in some cases hard currency was handed to American officers, most of whom had returned to the States by now. In other cases, favors were traded, like a night with
an attractive hostess—maybe even Mr. Nam’s girlfriend, Miss Lee Suk-myong. According to Nam, Blood wasn’t interested in the women, but he did want a share of the money—for 501st operations, he claimed. Building a slush fund to hunt down more North Korean spies.

  All of this was interesting, but corruption wasn’t unheard of in either army. And could the fear of exposure really have led to Major Schultz’s death? As for the crimes themselves, these allegations would be difficult to prove, especially if the money had been transferred in small, untraceable bills. And the offerings of sexual favors, of course, left no record at all. So Captain Blood might have been nervous about Major Schultz’s inspection report, but he’d have plausible deniability. Blood was ambitious, and such a report could negatively impact his promotion potential, but it still seemed that murder—for such a clearly intelligent man—would be an extreme miscalculation. Smarter, if he did get busted, just to hire a good attorney.

  “Jo join pei kopunei-yo,” Mr. Kill said, slapping his knees. I’m hungry. “Let’s go to a noodle shop.”

  That sounded good to Ernie and me. We all stood. Officer Oh begged off. She bowed to Inspector Kill and apologized, but said she wanted to continue searching the files. He told her to come find us if she got hungry, and she said she would.

  Outside, it didn’t take long to find a chophouse. It was late afternoon and the dinner hour hadn’t started, so we were the only customers. Kill ordered tea. He hadn’t really been hungry; he’d just wanted to talk to us away from Officer Oh.

  “I don’t want her involved in this if it’s not necessary,” he told us.

  Ernie and I ordered tea as well, and once it was served, Mr. Kill told us the rest of the story. The real estate scam had been going on for some months, a prime operation with clandestine contacts between the upper echelons of the US military and top levels of the South Korean government. It didn’t take long for someone to realize that this could be used for something more than just abandoned bases.

  “That’s where a highly skilled spy known as Commander Ku came in,” Kill told us.