by Martin Limon
“Says who?” Katie asked.
Ernie looked at her. “You can’t.”
“Try me,” she said. “All I have to do is say the word and this photograph runs Sunday.” She grinned. “In the world-renowned Overseas Observer. You’ll both be even more famous than you were in our last issue.”
Which had almost gotten us killed.
“For God’s sake,” Ernie said, staring at the photograph as if it was his doom.
Officer Kang studied the photograph, too, although she seemed quite pleased with the likeness.
I lifted the glass of beer to my lips, tilted it back, and drained it. Then I poured myself more.
“What’d we ever do to you?” I asked Katie.
“It’s not you,” she said. “It’s who you represent.”
“So nothing personal?”
“No. In fact, I find you two quite entertaining.” She toasted me with her glass and glugged down the last of her champagne cocktail.
Ernie’s lips had moistened. His face reddened, and he seemed to be choking on his own saliva. Officer Kang watched him warily. Without warning, Ernie reached out, grabbed the photograph, and held it next to the flaming candle. Before it could start to smoke, Officer Kang grabbed Ernie’s wrist, twisted, and with her other hand reached behind her back, apparently going for her handcuffs. Ernie jerked backwards and they both rose to their feet, wrestling over the photograph.
I stood up. Katie backed away from the table, protecting her camera equipment. Using great force, Ernie managed to pull the now-crumpled photo to his mouth, bend down, and bite into it. Undaunted, Kang jerked his hand downward, and then the two of them were scraping their feet along the wooden floor, pushing and shoving like a demented Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.
The photo was now just a tiny wrinkled wad in Ernie’s massive grip. He seemed to forget about it as he and Officer Kang stood with their bodies pressed together, perspiration on both of their foreheads. They were so close that they must’ve been able to smell each other’s breath.
“Back off!” Katie screeched. “You’re wasting your time. I’ve already shipped the negatives by courier to Seoul. Tomorrow they’ll be airmailed to Hong Kong.” She stared at the two sweaty wrestlers. “Break the clinch already,” she told Ernie. “You’ve been checkmated.”
The two combatants stood together for what seemed to be another half minute. Ernie didn’t pull away. Finally, Officer Kang did. They finished their drinks, staring at one another warily. Ernie spit bits of paper onto the floor, using the beer to rinse out his mouth and spit some more. Before we left, I noticed that Officer Kang slipped something into Ernie’s palm. I didn’t think it was an arrest warrant.
That night Ernie and I stayed in a yoin-suk in downtown Bopwon. It was a clean place, but crowded. Since we were foreigners, they gave us our own room. The larger main room was shared by about a half-dozen customers, all of whom slept on cotton-covered sleeping mats that were rolled out on the warm ondol floor. Ernie and I were each issued a sleeping mat, a comforter, and a bead pillow. The byonso was outside.
Sometime past midnight, I rose to use the porcelain pee pot. That’s when I noticed Ernie was gone. At first I was worried, wondering if the GI bank robbers had somehow tracked us to this hole-in-the-wall inn. But I quickly realized that was not only unlikely, it was damn near impossible. Ernie must’ve left on his own recognizance. Being the top-notch detective that I was, I figured out why.
To rendezvous with the sensual, reckless Officer Kang Hey-kyong. That paper she’d slipped into his hand probably had all the information he needed.
The next morning, Ernie returned shortly after dawn.
“Get much sleep?” I asked.
“Who had the chance?”
“At least you’ll have some new stories for Strange.”
“He won’t believe them.” Ernie grabbed his back and groaned.
“Pretty rough?”
“Strongest broad I’ve ever known.” He pressed his open palms against his lower stomach. “Demanding, too.”
After using the byonso and the two pans of hot water provided by the proprietress for washing up, we hopped in the jeep and inched our way through narrow lanes until we reached the main road. With little traffic heading south, we arrived at KNP Headquarters in Seoul in record time. We needed to brief Inspector Kill on what we’d found. We now knew, pretty much conclusively, that these guys were GIs. They had to be. They were too young, too physically well-trained, and too close-cropped in hairstyle for them to be anything else. And they had definitely been the same guys who’d robbed the banks—the burly guy hadn’t known how much he’d given up when he’d mentioned a previous attempt to kill us. In Samgakji, with that misdirected bullet. Then the second time, when we’d been the ones to hunt them down in Yongju-gol. He’d promised that the third time would be a success.
Other than that, there wasn’t much to go on. We still didn’t know where these men were stationed. Yongju-gol sat in the geographic center of a circle of at least six small US combat units. And the roads from all thirty or so US compounds in the Division area ran there like the spokes of an even larger wheel. Which was probably one of the reasons it had sprung up as a hub for bars and brothels and nightclubs. Easy access. Both Korean civilian buses and the free-of-charge US military bus ran right through the center of town. And cab rides were cheap, especially if three or four GIs piled into a cab and split the fare. It wasn’t unusual for GIs from as far away as Camp Casey in the Eastern Corridor to commute for a change of scenery, as well as to experience the famously debauched charms of Yongju-gol. Even DACs, Department of the Army Civilians, sometimes drove up there during the day from 8th Army headquarters in Seoul to play hooky. It was a pretty good distance and, because of Seoul’s traffic, a good hour’s drive, but it was worth it to be away from the flagpole and prying eyes.
Since we knew that the bank robbers had wheels, they could’ve come to Yongju-gol from even farther away. From Camp Humphreys down in Pyongtaek or maybe even Osan, the big US Air Force base thirty miles south of Seoul.
“It would’ve made sense for them to travel a good distance to change their money,” Ernie said.
“Right,” I agreed. “They wouldn’t want to stay too close to home and make it easy for us. So we’re back where we started. All we know is that they’re GIs, not which service they’re in or where in the hell they’re stationed. And we only got a good look at one of them. After jumping us, the other two were back in the alley so quickly I didn’t get a chance to ID them.”
“Yeah, neither did I, especially after that brick.” He touched the bandaged wound on his forehead.
“We’re still trying to find three needles in a fifty-thousand-man haystack.”
“Don’t forget the driver,” I said.
“Oh, yeah. Four needles.”
“But he wasn’t there last night.”
“Nope. Maybe he just provides the wheels and doesn’t like the rough stuff.”
“Smart guy.”
We reported all of this to Mr. Kill. He expressed appreciation for our efforts, though he knew that despite our new bumps and bruises, we hadn’t really made progress. He asked what our next move was.
“ROK Army Third Corps,” I told him.
“Case of the blonde hookers?”
“Exactly,” I replied. “The head shed’s embarrassed, so the provost marshal wants us to go up there and establish the facts.”
“Pretty obvious, aren’t they?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the ROK Army Third Corps commander, Major General Bok Jung-nam. He’s infamous.”
“Infamous for what?” Ernie asked.
“For his ambition. And for thinking the rules don’t apply to him.”
“Isn’t that dangerous for someone along the DMZ?” I asked. “And wouldn’t President Park norma
lly hammer him down?”
“Yes, normally. But this isn’t your standard situation.”
“What do you mean?”
“General Bok Jung-nam is married to the First Lady’s cousin. It’s why he was promoted so fast.”
“He’s young, then?”
“Very. Especially for a two-star general. Barely in his thirties, they tell me.” Kill paused. “Also, he’s known to have an eye for the ladies. So much so that when military nurses are assigned there, their mothers cry.”
“He’s that much of a terror?” Ernie asked.
“Maybe it’s all rumor,” Mr. Kill said, ever the diplomat. “But maybe not.”
“Does he have other vices or weak spots?” I asked. “Besides women. Is there any way to get to him?”
“His wife,” Mr. Kill said. “They say she’s jealous. Checks up on him all the time.”
“Which is why he stays at Third Corps,” Ernie said.
“Right. Unauthorized civilians aren’t allowed there.”
“What about the press?” I asked.
“He loves the press,” Mr. Kill replied. “As long as he controls the stories they publish.”
I thought of Katie Byrd Worthington. Good luck telling her what to do.
“By the way,” he said. “We received the results on that bullet from Samgakji.”
“The one that barely missed my noggin,” Ernie said.
“Yes. It perfectly matches the shell of the one that killed the teller at Daehan Bank.”
“The same guys,” I said.
“Pretty dangerous guys,” Mr. Kill told us.
I rubbed the bump on the top of my skull, angry at myself for letting them get away again. But we’d find them. I wasn’t sure how, but we’d find them. And soon.
Back on Yongsan Compound, we stopped at the POL point and topped off the jeep’s tank. Then we drove to the barracks. I pulled my duffel bag from the back of my wall locker, shook it out, and loaded it with the field gear I might need. Ready to go, I went to meet Ernie in the parking lot and we took off.
Outside the back gate of the compound on a shaded lane in Huam-dong, Katie Byrd Worthington stood waiting for us, still in her loose, multi-pocketed fatigue shirt and, of course, carrying her trusty Nikon.
I climbed out of the passenger seat and used the up-and-forward tilt feature standard to all Army jeeps to make room for her to jump in the back. Once we were settled, Ernie took off with a roar of the engine. Katie pulled herself forward by the corners of our canvas-covered seats.
“You didn’t warn anyone, did you?”
“No, ma’am,” Ernie said facetiously. “We followed your instructions to the letter. Nobody knows you’re riding with us.”
“Good boy.” She patted his shoulder. “Stick with me and you’ll make military history.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Ernie said.
“Look, Katie,” I said. “We’re not in this for the recognition.”
“Then what in the hell are you in it for?”
“We don’t like to see people abused.”
“Or murdered,” Ernie added.
She sat back, crossing her arms. “Very noble. But you’re also here because you don’t want me publishing a picture of a Korean female police officer in a tight cocktail dress saving your asses.”
“She didn’t save us,” Ernie said indignantly.
“Pictures don’t lie,” Katie replied.
“This one does.”
“Huh. Wanna try explaining that for the rest of your life?”
Ernie and I were quiet, refusing to acknowledge our very real fear at the prospect of that photograph appearing in the Overseas Observer. It was of me and Ernie flat on our backs, a scantily-clad Korean woman standing over us pointing her revolver into the night: our protector. Not only would we never live it down, but there was no way the 8th Army honchos would ever accept such humiliation for two of their law enforcement officers. We’d be canned as CID agents. Probably sent to push paper somewhere in the vast bureaucracy of the 8th United States Army. Maybe in the Arms Room. Maybe even working for Strange.
The possibilities were horrifying. So Katie Byrd Worthington had the upper hand, at least for now. Quid pro quo for putting the kibosh on the photograph was us procuring her an interview with Lieutenant General Abner Jennings Crabtree, I Corps Commander—the man who’d ostensibly arranged for those blonde hookers to be transported by the MPs up to ROK Army III Corps headquarters. And since that was what she wanted, we’d help her get it. Of course, most military officers saw the reporters from the Overseas Observer as their enemy, so whether or not Crabtree would consent to the interview remained to be seen.
“But first,” Katie said, “I want to talk to Screech Owl Tapia.”
“Okay, okay,” Ernie said. “Whatever you say.”
Ernie was even more terrified of the photograph falling into the public eye than I was. His carefully crafted macho image was at stake.
I turned and looked at Katie. She leaned back in her seat, completely relaxed.
“Do you always use blackmail and coercion,” I asked, “to get what you want?”
“Whenever the opportunity presents itself,” she replied. “If I didn’t, you boys wouldn’t tell me nothin’.”
She was probably right.
-14-
I found him at Camp Red Cloud on the outskirts of Uijongbu, sitting alone at a table at the NCO Club with a shot glass half full of what looked like bourbon. He lifted the glass and sipped slowly, staring straight ahead at the go-go dancer gyrating on an elevated platform. He was the only one watching the girl perform. It was early, just after the close-of-business cannon had gone off. Except for a few guys in the dining room, the place was deserted.
“Sergeant Major,” I said, walking up to him and pulling out a chair to sit. He turned slowly, his craggy face pocked by what must’ve been smallpox in his youth. Weary brown eyes studied me.
“Command Sergeant Major,” he said.
“Yes. Command Sergeant Major Tapia.” I pulled out my badge. “I’m Agent Sueño. Eighth Army CID.”
His lips twisted slightly at the edges. Almost a smile, but not quite. “I didn’t black-market nothing,” he said.
“No. I didn’t think you did. It’s not about that.”
He stared at me, waiting.
“It’s about Lieutenant General Crabtree,” I said. “The Provost Marshal sent us, me and my partner Agent Bascom. He’s outside.”
“The Provost Marshal is outside?”
“No. Agent Bascom.”
“Okay.” He set down his glass of bourbon. “What about General Crabtree?”
“We understand he’s been acting a little erratically lately. Running outside at night, ordering alerts. Stuff like that.”
Tapia shrugged. “Just blowing off steam.”
“Seems like a little more than that. Didn’t you have to escort him back to his quarters and cancel the alert order?”
“Like I said, he’s just blowing off steam. This is a high-pressure job. He’s a good man, General Crabtree.”
“I don’t doubt it. But we need to report back. Especially after this incident with the women being transported north to ROK Army Third Corps.”
“Huh.” Sergeant Major Tapia chortled, leaned forward, and lifted his shot glass to his mouth. He tilted it backward and drained it. Like magic, a Korean waitress, padding silently on soft-soled shoes, appeared at our side.
“Ddo hana?” she asked, lifting the empty glass. Another?
Tapia shook his head. “Ani.” No.
He rose to his feet. A tall man, six-two, I figured, with legs that seemed somewhat spindly for his size, but a chest that barreled out right where the ribcage should be. His fatigue uniform fit perfectly, as if he’d had it tailored.
“What was
your name again?”
“Sueño,” I said.
“A dream,” he said.
“That’s right.”
“Us Apaches learned some Spanish, mostly from the Catholic priests who were sent to the res to keep us in line.”
I nodded, unsure how to respond.
“So what do you want me to do?” he asked. “Have Crabtree talk to a shrink? Ruin his chances for another star?”
“No. Me and my partner want to talk to him. Get his side of the story and report back to the Provost Marshal.”
“You believe that shit in the Oversexed Observer?”
“No, not necessarily. But we need to get the facts.”
He studied me, coming to a decision. Finally he said, “Do you know where the Grand Hotel is?”
“In downtown Uijongbu?”
“The same.”
“Sure.” It was the only tourist-class hotel in the city. That is, the only one with Western-style accommodations, including indoor toilets, tiled showers, and beds that weren’t sleeping mats on the floor.
“The old man and I are going there tonight. Downstairs in the ballroom. He’s receiving an award by the mayor at nineteen-hundred hours. Afterward, if you want, I’ll try to convince him to have a word with you.”
“Okay,” I said. “Where do you want to meet? In the coffee shop there or what?”
“He doesn’t like those fancy places. General Crabtree is a field soldier, like me. He only goes to the Grand Hotel when he has to. Can you track down a place called Chonwon Bulkalbi?”
“Country Village Barbecue Ribs,” I said.
“Yes.” He nodded approvingly.
“Is it within walking distance of the Grand?”
“About two blocks.”
“I’ll find it.”
“Okay, then. Nineteen-hundred.” He offered his hand. I shook it. “By the way,” he said, “tonight, you can call me Screech Owl. We’ll drop all this formal bullshit.”
“Okay,” I said.
He walked out of the NCO club. I wondered if the offer to use his first name was an attempt to be friendly, or if he meant to break military decorum and throw me off balance. I supposed I’d find out soon enough.
