Ping-Pong Heart

by Martin Limon

  “Who’s he?” I asked.

  “A North Korean agent, we presume. He or one of his operatives approached Nam and offered a significant sum of money for the use of his best offices to gather information. No one told Nam the nature of this information, but somehow they had caught wind that the Five Oh First was one of his real estate co-conspirators. Commander Ku wanted a one-on-one meeting with Captain Blood.”

  “About what?”

  “We’re not sure. Nam suspects it has to do with Camp Arrow.”

  “The compound closest to North Korea?”

  “Yes. Tomorrow night, we’re setting up a sting operation in Mukyo-dong.” The pricy nightclub district in downtown Seoul, too expensive for the average GI but hugely popular with the monied Korean elite. “Nam is contacting both Captain Blood and this Commander Ku. We expect to learn much more. We want you there.”

  We both nodded. This could be huge. Anything involving North Korean espionage could be dangerous, even fatal. Who was a spy, who was a counter-spy, who was a double agent . . . All of this was often left unclear, and keeping Officer Oh as far from it as possible was probably a good idea; she was young and had a bright future ahead of her. We finished our tea and returned to the bokdok-bang. Just a few blocks away, we heard a woman’s scream.

  Without hesitation, Kill took off running.

  I turned to Ernie. “Officer Oh.”

  “Yeah,” he replied. He pulled his .45.

  “Put that thing away,” I told him, but we were sprinting now, watching Mr. Kill round a corner ahead of us.

  -29-

  Smoke billowed from the bokdok-bang. The double-door was slid open and inside Officer Oh flailed away with her blue coat, trying to bat out the fire. Two men were trying to stop her until they spotted Mr. Kill barreling toward them. They were young, barely out of their teenage years, but both were husky and towered over Mr. Kill. They took martial arts stances. Kill plowed into the biggest one head-first. The thug let out a woof of air. Somehow, Kill maintained his balance, swiveled, and kicked the other punk in the groin. Then, with his right fist, he popped a jab into the first one’s nose. Blood spattered through the smoke. Within half a minute, both of them rolled to the ground, holding their faces and trying to protect their stomachs.

  Ernie and I ran up to help, but it was too late. Both thugs had been reduced to pulsating puddles of goo. All we could do now was cuff them, just in case.

  “Remind me not to mess with Mr. Kill,” Ernie told me out of the side of his mouth.

  Now that the attackers were down, two neighbors appeared: one with a fire extinguisher, the other with a pail of water. Soon we were dousing the flames that had originated in the filing cabinets. Mr. Kill pulled Officer Oh outside and was speaking to her calmingly.

  Apparently, while she was concentrating on reading the files, she’d been surprised by the two men. One of them punched her and she was dazed for a moment. When she regained control of her senses, the flames were already consuming the file cabinets. She then did her best to put them out.

  By now, the local KNPs had arrived. Mr. Kill showed them his identification, and the uniformed men bowed. He asked them if they knew the two young men, and they did; they were a pair of local strong-arm thieves. One was in good enough condition to be slapped alert, and in a groggy voice, whining like a child, he explained to his KNP interrogator that Nam had paid him and his cousin to keep an eye on his office. And if anyone besides Nam tried to gain access to his files, they were instructed to burn them.

  One of the cops asked him why they’d hit a female police officer and he replied, “She’s smaller than us.”

  The KNP laughed, and then frowned, and leaned over and slapped him on the side of the head. The young thug whined again, the only mode of self-protection he’d have available to him for quite some time.

  ■ ■ ■

  Officer Oh was checked out at a local clinic with a clean bill of health. Though she protested, Chief Inspector Gil Kwon-up insisted on driving and she sat in the front passenger seat, which is the seat of honor in Korean custom. We didn’t talk much on the way back to Seoul, except to tell her how well she’d done. Thanks to her efforts, most of the records had been salvaged. Still, she was embarrassed by the fact that she’d been overcome by such obvious idiots.

  Back at the KNP headquarters in Seoul, Ernie and I promised Mr. Kill that we’d meet him in Mukyo-dong tomorrow night. We marched off in search of the jeep. The old lady of the pindeidok stand was still watching it, but she complained that the thousand won Ernie had paid her wasn’t enough after parking all day. He handed her another bill and she smiled and bowed.

  What we’d learned today was significant, terrifying. If we could just make the Provost Marshal believe that Nam was telling the truth, we’d get the go-ahead to audit the 501st financial records. But I didn’t believe that the word of a slippery Korean street hustler would be enough to make Colonel Brace doubt the integrity of a fellow officer. He wouldn’t stick his neck out on such flimsy evidence; we needed corroboration.

  Mr. Kill’s sting operation in Mukyo-dong was one way to provide one channel to that corroboration, but that would have to wait until tomorrow night. I told Ernie about another way. He listened and nodded. “Worth a try,” he said.

  He started the jeep’s engine and we wound through the heavy Seoul traffic back to Yongsan Compound.

  -30-

  The long hallways of the 121 Evacuation Hospital were dim, lit only by an occasional yellow bulb. We entered not through the big front door of the 121st, but the emergency room entrance around the back. The medics there had seen us often enough and knew we were in law enforcement, so they hardly noticed as we pushed through double swinging doors into the main precincts of the huge military hospital.

  “Which room is he in?” Ernie asked. I told him.

  “It’s down here,” he said pointing. We followed the signs. Eventually we reached Ward 17, Room B. The door was open and we entered, pushing past gauzy beige curtains in search of bed number three.

  Specialist Four Wilfred R. Fenton, known to Ernie as “the twerp,” was snoring.

  “Hate to wake him,” Ernie said.

  But he reached out and pinched his big toe. Hard. Fenton’s eyes popped open. “What the . . . ?”

  Ernie tipped an imaginary hat. “Top of the mornin’ to ya.”

  Fenton stared up at him, apparently trying to decide if he was really awake.

  According to the doctors at the 121st, Fenton’s prognosis was good. Some parts of his internal plumbing, the Latin names of which I couldn’t pronounce, had been bruised, but bleeding had been minimal, and since he’d received medical attention quickly, all he needed now was rest and monitoring to make sure no infection developed. Two or three more days of bedrest was the word we were given. At that time, the Provost Marshal would decide whether or not to charge him, but it wasn’t looking like the decision would go our way. Road conditions in Korea are atrocious, and GIs are seldom charged with reckless driving or other roadway violations—even when a Korean civilian is hurt or killed. Prosecution for doing their jobs—driving through ice and snow and mud—is seen by the 8th Army honchos as a sure way to kill morale.

  And besides, the Provost Marshal believed the 501st’s cover story. Fenton claimed to have been on his way up north to participate in a counterintelligence operation involving an espionage suspect, the details of which were classified. It was Ernie and me who’d blundered into the middle of things and messed up their plans. If the accident was anyone’s fault, it was ours.

  Of course, Ernie and I knew it was a blatant assassination attempt that had happened to end with Fenton in a hospital bed and us standing over him. This was perhaps why Ernie pinched Fenton’s toe so viciously, though I also suspected it was for Miss Kim.

  Full consciousness lit up his eyes. He pushed himself upright, frightened. “What do you guys want
?”

  “Don’t scream,” I told him. “We’re not gonna hurt you.”

  “Not like you tried to hurt us,” Ernie added, smiling.

  Fenton repeated himself. “What do you want?”

  “We want information,” I said.

  Reflexively, Fenton said, “I don’t know nothing.”

  I ignored the statement, pulled up a chair, and started to talk in a low monotone. When Fenton tried to edge away, Ernie slapped him on the side of the head and pushed him back. Intimidated, Fenton sat like a schoolboy, giving me his full attention.

  I explained what Nam had told us about working with Blood on the disposition of closed military bases. When I finished, I paused and allowed Fenton time to respond. He was still terrified. Ernie loomed over him, glaring, mumbling incoherently, as if the hatred he felt couldn’t be formulated into words. Fenton was probably afraid that Ernie would rip out one of the needles in his arm or, worse yet, punch him in the stomach and reopen his internal wounds.

  Fenton glanced at Ernie nervously, then back at me. “So what? That don’t mean nothing.”

  Some agent. He’d just confirmed what Nam had told us. Blood and Nam were indeed associates.

  “I guess beating up a business girl in Itaewon doesn’t mean anything, either,” I said.

  Fenton glared at me distrustfully, wondering what I was getting at.

  “Major Schultz had a problem,” I continued. “A business girl in Itaewon ripped him off and was lying to everyone about his sexual prowess.”

  “Or lack thereof,” Ernie added.

  “So Captain Blood offered to help,” I said. “They went out to Itaewon together and slapped the girl around a little, to persuade her to shut the hell up. Blood was hoping that by becoming close buddies with Schultz, he might influence him to go a little easy in his inspection report.” Fenton frowned but didn’t contradict me. “But despite Blood’s best efforts,” I said, “Schultz wasn’t playing ball. He wasn’t going to ease up on his negative inspection report. Blood felt betrayed.”

  Fenton looked away.

  With his forefinger, Ernie poked him in the side of the head. “Are you listening to the man?”

  Reluctantly, Fenton turned his gaze back toward me.

  “So Blood killed him,” I said. “Or maybe it was you. One thing’s for damn sure, you’re the one who drove the body to Itaewon.”

  Fenton reached toward the night table and in one swift movement threw something at me. I dodged and it missed me but liquid splashed everywhere, some of it spraying on my pant leg. It crashed against the far wall but didn’t break, and more liquid gushed out. Then I realized what it was: an Army-issue blue plastic water carafe. I bent over and picked it up while slapping moisture off my knee.

  With both hands, Ernie grabbed Fenton’s head and dug in his fingers. Fenton pulled his arms free of the needles on hanging tubes and struggled to break Ernie’s grip.

  A nurse ran into the ward. Captain’s bars were pinned to her neat white smock, and her nameplate said Schulman. Ernie quickly released his grip and stood away.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked. When we didn’t answer, she said, “I don’t know what you two are up to, but visiting hours were over at eight. This man needs his sleep.” She glanced at Fenton. “And he shouldn’t be bothered while he’s recovering.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ernie said, stepping even farther from the bed.

  “Well, vamoose!” she said, planting her hands on generous hips.

  “We’re on our way,” I said. Then I turned and whispered in Fenton’s ear. “Think about it. If you spill what you know, you can cut a better deal for yourself.” When he ignored me, I decided to raise the stakes. I leaned in closer and said, “Nam told us about Commander Ku.”

  We drove away from the 121st Evac through a sleepy South Post, and then we crossed the MSR and entered the Yongsan Compound Main Post.

  “You think Fenton will rat on Blood?” Ernie asked.

  “He’d be crazy not to,” I replied. “Taking a little money on the side is one thing. You just hire a Stateside lawyer and keep your mouth shut, and you might be all right. But working with a North Korean agent, that’s serious biz. And if Fenton had anything to do with it, he’s going down too.”

  Ernie whistled. “I’ll say. Why’d they do it, anyway?”

  “Blood’s a glory hound,” I said. “Now that he’s grown the battalion so much, he thinks he can get away with anything. I’m sure Fenton and some of the other guys went along because they believed—like most GIs would—that they’d be all right as long as they could claim they were just following orders. Plus, they probably liked the extra cash and being treated like royalty on the occasional trip to the kisaeng house.”

  “Still,” Ernie said, “didn’t they realize how serious this was? It’s a betrayal of the whole country, not just Eighth Army. I’m not all that fond of our rah-rah I-love-the-flag bullshit, and I can understand selling booze and cigarettes down in the ville, but working with North Korean spies? That’s a level of hurt I’d never want to get involved with.”

  “Nam said it was gradual. First the real estate deals for some side money, then Commander Ku and the much bigger rewards for military intel. Maybe they were even blackmailed, or the Five Oh Five guys Blood didn’t trust were kept in the dark. However it happened, Captain Blood and the Five Oh First did it, and we’re gonna bring them down. For Major Schultz and Miss Kim and Miss Jo, and a lot of other reasons.”

  “Think they’ll give us a medal?”

  “Hell no. Eighth Army gives medals for hiding dirty laundry, not airing it.”

  -31-

  The next night we were in downtown Seoul, where the air was chilly but clear. We stood loitering in the heart of Mukyo-dong, the city’s most expensive entertainment district. Neon flashed down the long, winding roadways and well-dressed matrons carrying embossed shopping bags, their high heels clicking on pavement. Above us, the Dancing Lady Scotch Corner sported a spangled neon effigy of a beautiful, long-haired woman whose hips glowed as they swiveled from side to side.

  “We should’ve asked for more expense money from Mr. Kill,” Ernie said.

  “Why? We’re not going inside.”

  “But I feel poor out here,” Ernie replied. “I’m a shot-and-a-beer kind of guy.”

  “So get yourself some soju.” I pointed at a heavily laden vending cart, a pochang macha, being pushed by an old man along the edge of the narrow road.

  “Maybe I will,” Ernie said.

  And he did. He ran off and stopped the old man, communicating mostly with hand gestures, miming opening a bottle and pouring it down his throat. I also heard him say the word soju, rice liquor, which was probably the main reason the man understood him. He stopped his cart, reached beneath the canvas overhang, and pulled out a small crystalline bottle of Jinro. Ernie handed him a couple of small bills, thanked him, and trotted back to my side.

  I checked out the metal cap. “You forgot to have him open it,” I told Ernie.

  Startled, he stared at the soju and ran back to the old man, holding the bottle out and pointing at the cap. The old man grinned, stopped his cart again and reached deep into loose pants pockets to pull out a bottle opener. He popped the cap and handed it to Ernie. Ernie thanked him again and hurried back to where I was standing at a dark wall beneath a cement power pole.

  “That’s what I like about you, Sueño,” he said. “Always thinking.”

  He glugged a swig of the powerful rice liquor, then offered the bottle to me. I took it out of his hand, wiped the rim, knocked back a sip or two, grimaced, and handed it back.

  “Rotgut,” I said.

  “Gets the job done,” Ernie replied.

  I wasn’t worried about Ernie getting wasted. We’d spent most of the day at KNP headquarters going over the plan with Mr. Kill and Officer Oh. They had three or
four rookie cops lined up to act as customers in the Dancing Lady Scotch Corner when the meeting went down and plenty of backup in the surrounding alleyways.

  Officer Oh showed us the latest technology in recording equipment. I expected something from Japan, but she pointed proudly to the label. “Dokil,” she said. Germany. Korea was inundated with electronics from Japan, which was a little surprising because the Japanese colonization from 1910 to 1945 still conjured up resentment, sometimes even hatred. Still, the price and quality of Japanese products was hard to beat. There was talk of new Korean electronics companies that would one day equal or surpass Japanese technology, but I thought that a very ambitious goal. Officer Oh must’ve gone out of her way to find something made in Germany, which possibly said something about her family history. Some families had done better under Japanese colonization than others—and those who’d refused to knuckle under had suffered for it.

  Inspector Kill told me earlier that Nam had only reluctantly agreed to set up the sting. What he’d been threatened with to force his compliance, we didn’t know, but it couldn’t have been good.

  There was a secret communication system in place. First, Nam reached out to Blood. They had previously arranged a signaling mechanism: Nam visited one of the branch offices of the 501st outside of Seoul during certain times and used a code word to indicate that he wanted to parley with Blood. The 501st agent on duty contacted the captain through normal channels and used another password, and then Blood would leave the compound. At a randomly selected phone booth, he would call Nam directly at his bokdok-bang—real estate office—in Tongduchon to set up a time for the meeting. Inspector Kill had somehow managed to reroute this number to KNP headquarters in Seoul.

  Nam had told Captain Blood that Commander Ku was nervous about a few things—namely me and Ernie poking our noses into their business—and wanted to discuss them with Blood. Blood had rejected Nam’s earlier suggestions for a meeting place and only relented when Mukyo-dong was thrown into the mix—it appeared he liked his bars exclusive and discreet. The rendezvous was set up for 10 p.m. at the Dancing Lady Scotch Corner.