Slicky Boys gsaeb-2

by Martin Limon

  When the train finally pulled into the big cement bulwark of the Pusan Train Station, it was already after eleven. Less than an hour until curfew.

  We were both worn out, and at the moment I didn’t give a damn about Shipton or Whitcomb or the murder case-all I wanted to do was get my butt off that damn rattling platform. We slung our AWOL bags over our shoulders and plowed through the milling crowds to a long row of kimchi cabs outside. The drivers loitered in front of their cars, smoking, exchanging banter, hoping for one more good fare before the world closed up at curfew.

  “Where to?” Ernie said.

  It wasn’t as cold down here but still our breath billowed before us.

  “Probably too late to get billeting at Hialeah Compound. Best we find a yoguan.”

  Across the broad road that ran in front of the train station were rows of two-and three-story cement and brick buildings, some with blinking lights advertising warm floors and baths.

  “Over there,” Ernie said. “Maybe they offer girls, too.”

  “Maybe.”

  Always thinking, that Ernie.

  We trotted across the big road against the light and entered the maze of alleys between the buildings. Soju houses and soup joints were still doing a good business at this hour. Sandwiched between a teahouse and a dumpling shop was a doorway that led upstairs to the Hei-un Yoguan. Upstairs, an old woman sat on the floor in a little room watching a Korean comedy show on a TV that was turned up way too loud. She lowered it when she saw us.

  I greeted her and asked about rooms, and she said she had two. After setting the price, we gave the money in advance and she gave us keys and pointed down the hallway.

  Our rooms were small but comfortable enough. Each had a flat hard bed and a cylindrical bead-filled pillow and a bathtub with a nozzle on a long rubber hose for a shower.

  Luxurious accommodations for a former field soldier.

  Neither of us felt like going outside and elbowing amongst the natives for some chop, so we ordered Chinese food from the old woman. In about twenty minutes a boy brought a tin box filled with fried rice and sweet-and-sour pork and a plastic pot of barley tea.

  After we ate, we shoved the plates and utensils out in the hallway. Despite Ernie’s protestations of wanting to find a girl, he didn’t do anything about it.

  Shortly after midnight the city quieted down and I lay beneath my half-open window, moonlight streaming in, and pulled the covers over my head. A few minutes later, I passed out.

  Something pounded on my door.

  “George! Reveille! It’s oh-dark-thirty.”

  Ernie’s voice. I looked around. He was right. It was still dark.

  I climbed out of bed, unlatched the door, and let him in.

  “I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I want to get out of this roach coach, make it over to the compound, and find some real chow. You know-coffee, toast, all that shit. And read the Stripes.”

  “Yeah. Let’s do that.”

  We had a lot of work ahead of us. No sense putting it off.

  Ten minutes later we were outside. When we found a cab, I told him to take us to Hialeah Compound. The driver roared through broad, wide-open streets, not nearly as crowded as those in Seoul. The compound was farther inland than I thought. About five miles from the Port of Pusan.

  The Japanese Imperial Army, for some reason, had been big on cavalry. The compound that is now Hialeah had been used by them to race horses. When the U.S. Army took it over, some wiseacre decided to call it Hialeah Compound, after the famous racetrack in the States. The name stuck.

  A narrow road lined with shops and bars led straight into a dead end that was the front gate of Hialeah Compound. A big cement MP guard shack sat on the side, and barbed wire ran along the top of the closed chain-link fence. We got out, paid the driver, and marched into an open door marked “Pedestrian Entrance.”

  A bored MP wearing a gleaming black helmet liner sat behind the counter. A stenciled sign behind him instructed us to show our identification and pass upon entering or leaving Hialeah Compound, by Order of the Commander.

  Friendly place.

  We showed him our ID’s and he gave us directions to the billeting office. Just outside the MP shack sat the NCO Club. Not open yet, but reassuring to know that it was there.

  “Ice cubes and cold beer,” Ernie said. “Who could ask for more?”

  The Korean clerk at the billeting office had us fill out a couple of forms, took copies of our temporary duty orders, and finally gave us the key to a section of a Quonset hut. He told us there were two bunks in there and we’d have to share. It didn’t bother us. We didn’t plan to spend much time there anyway.

  After dropping off our bags in the room, we forgot about breakfast and went straight to the PX.

  It was a good-sized building, which made sense because although the population of the compound was small-only about two thousand-there was still a big demand for the PX products off base, so everybody bought their full ration every month.

  The front door was locked. We walked around back and found a door open at the loading dock. After wandering around for a while we found an administrative office and a Korean secretary sitting at a desk in front of a door marked “Manager.”

  The manager was a small American man, a slight paunch under his business suit, and prematurely balding on top. He nodded enthusiastically when we told him why we were there. No, he said, the courier hadn’t picked up the ration control data cards from last night.

  He took us into a storage room marked “Layaway,” cleared a table for us, and plopped down three oblong boxes of computer punch cards.

  “You’ll keep them in order, won’t you?” he asked. “If they are out of order it cause’s them a terrible time up at Data Processing in Seoul, and I always receive a nasty phone call from their officer in charge.”

  “We’ll do our best,” I said.

  “Got any coffee?” Ernie asked.

  “Of course. Just ask Miss Lee. She’ll be happy to get some for you.”

  I wondered how happy Miss Lee would be about serving two strangers, but I didn’t say anything. The manager left, and Ernie followed him out and came back a few minutes later with two steaming cups of coffee in mugs marked “Army amp; Air Force Exchange Service.”

  “That Miss Lee is one fine-looking mama,” Ernie said.

  I was worried that he’d disappear on me but instead he took off his jacket, draped it over the back of one of the folding chairs, and rolled up his sleeves.

  The coffee wasn’t bad. Strong and hot, which is what I needed.

  We went to work. We compared the printed numbers across the top of each card in the boxes with the four numbers we had that we expected Shipton to be using. It was tedious work. Every few minutes I had to take a break, sip on some coffee, and let my eyes uncross. Ernie took off his round-lensed glasses and set them on the table next to him.

  A couple of PX employees-Koreans-wandered in, staring at us curiously. They took off their coats, hung them on the rack, and went back out onto the floor.

  While we worked, the store opened, soft music was turned on out in the main room, and we heard the buzz of consumers doing their part to keep the international economy humming.

  When I finished my coffee I decided to go after some more, but Ernie said he’d do the honors. Trying to keep Miss Lee all to himself.

  It took us another hour and a half to go through the cards but in the end we had nothing. Not one card matched any of the numbers that had been provided to me by Herbalist So. I had the nagging feeling we’d screwed up somewhere. Maybe missed one of the cards. But we’d been careful as we went through them, pulling each one out, holding it up to the light, passing it across the table for a double check. There was no sense going through them again.

  The manager came in.

  “Ration Control’s here to pick up the cards.” He smiled. “I hope you’re about finished.”

  “Yeah, we’re finished.”

  F
inished for good, I thought.

  Ernie walked out into the main part of the PX, put his hands on his hips, gazed around, and walked back in.

  “Goddamn shoppers,” he said. “Don’t they ever get tired of it?”

  The PX manager looked at him as if he were a bona fide madman.

  “Maybe we ought to go through the new cards,” Ernie said.

  “What?”

  “You know, the cards that have been anviled this morning. The ration control plate guy’s packing them up now.”

  “But he’s in a big hurry,” the PX manager said. “He has to make rounds of all the outlets.”

  “Come on,” I told Ernie.

  At the row of cash registers we found a guy in fatigues. His armband said “Ration Control” below the 8th Army red-and-white cloverleaf patch.

  He was a Spec 4, and after I showed him my CID identification and loomed over him for a few seconds he docilely brought the new cards back into the room.

  We leaned over the table, working, and suddenly Ernie stiffened his back.

  “Goddamn,” he said. “I got one! The son of a bitch was just in here!”

  I snatched the card from his fingertips and compared the number to my list.

  “You’re right. It was him.” I turned to the PX manager and pointed to a code number in the upper left of the card. “Which cashier was this?”

  “Fourteen. I don’t know. I’ll have to look it up.”

  Number Fourteen turned out to be a middle-aged Korean woman who’d been a PX employee for years, and when we pulled her off the cash register and escorted her back into the office, she was not only worried but her hands were shaking.

  I handed her the card. Two cartons of cigarettes and a hundred dollars of miscellaneous items had been marked off.

  “Do you remember this sale?”

  She gazed at it a few seconds, then shook her head. I pulled out the photograph.

  “How about this man?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I think so. Very big man. He wear hat.” She reached up to her ears and jerked down, as if pulling on a cap.

  “Did he say anything to you?”

  “No. Just buy and go.”

  “Have you ever seen him before?”

  She shook her head again. “I don’t think, so.”

  We checked with the ID card checker at the front door, but he didn’t remember the man at all.

  “Looks like we screwed up royally,” Ernie said.

  “But he’s still nearby,” I said. “If you wanted to make as much money as you could-fast-on the black market, where would you go next?”

  “The package store.”

  “And then?”

  “The commissary.”

  Without any good-byes we were out the door, jogging across the brown grass of the parade field, heading toward the little building that sold GI’s in Pusan all the duty-free booze they could drink.

  There was only one cashier at the package store and not much traffic. He recognized the photograph immediately.

  “He go. Maybe thirty minutes.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. PX taxi wait for him.”

  “What did he buy?”

  “Here.” He pulled put the ration control card and showed it to us. Four quarts of Johnnie Walker Black Label. The most expensive brand the store carried, and a full ration for the month. Also two cases of beer and two cases of soft drinks.

  “Where’s the commissary?”

  The man pointed and we were out the door.

  A row of black Ford Granada PX taxis stood in front of the Hialeah Compound Commissary. We checked to see if any of them were already loaded with goods and waiting for a customer to return, but none were.

  I showed the drivers the photograph of Shipton. But nobody recognized him or remembered a cab waiting for a fare. Either Shipton hadn’t arrived yet or we’d missed him completely.

  Ernie kept watch outside while I went in. Without bothering to check with management, I interrupted each one of the Korean cashiers right in the middle of her work, flashed my badge, and showed her the photograph. Each woman shook her head until I reached aisle number seven.

  “Yes,” she told me. “He go. Maybe fifteen, twenty minutes ago.”

  “Did he say where?”

  Her forehead crinkled. “No.”

  “Let me see his card.”

  “No can do.”

  The ration control punch cards here were dropped into locked metal boxes with two padlocks on the top. If they operated like they did in Seoul, the Ration Control representative would have the key to one lock and the store manager would have the other.

  “What did he buy?”

  “Everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “Every ration item. Also a lot of oxtail and bananas.”

  Prime black market stuff.

  “Did he say anything? Anything at all?”

  “No. He very quiet. Pay cash.”

  “Any hundreds?”

  Bills of fifty dollars of higher have to be recorded on a sheet of paper with the serial number listed and the name and social security number of the presenter. Another of the unbelievable steps 8th Army takes in their attempt to stop black-marketing. Not that it works.

  “No,” the cashier said. “just twenties.”

  “Did you see a cab outside waiting for him?”

  She shook her head emphatically. “No way. I’m too busy for that.”

  She glanced down the line of waiting shoppers and my eyes followed her. The women behind loaded carts stared at me with dull, resentful eyes.

  I smiled, waved at them, and ran out the door.

  Ernie stepped out of the shadows.

  “Shipton’s already been and gone,” I said, “with a big load. Only thing to do now is try to find the taxi.”

  I jumped into the cab on the end of the line and told the driver to get his dispatcher on the radio. The little box clicked and buzzed and when a Korean voice came on the line, the driver handed the mike to me, pointing at which button I should push.

  “This is Agent Sueno,” I said. “Criminal Investigation Division. Do you speak English?”

  “Yes,” a crackling voice said tentatively.

  “We’re after a man who picked up a PX cab, probably at the main PX. Then he went to the package store and then the commissary. He is a big man, light brown hair, and wearing a wool cap.”

  Suddenly I caught myself. If Shipton was in a PX cab right now, he might’ve had the driver turn his radio up. He could be listening to this conversation.

  I switched to Korean, hoping Shipton didn’t speak it well enough to follow me, and told the dispatcher that I’d made a mistake. I told him I wanted him to inquire on a general broadcast if anybody had a passenger who fit that description but I wanted him to use only Korean (which he normally would have anyway) because I didn’t want the man to know we were after him.

  He told me he understood. I heard conversation in the background, chatter amongst the other dispatchers, then he came back on the line.

  “We can speak English,” he said. “Man no can hear.”

  My heart sank. “He’s already out of the cab?” Once Shipton hit the streets, we could lose him again.

  “No. He’s in the cab, but cab too far away to pick up signal.”

  “Where in the hell is he going?”

  “To Texas Street.”

  Texas Street. The nightclub and red light district that ran along the strip right in front of the Port of Pusan, catering to sailors of every nationality. Less than a half mile from the train station district, near the little yoguan we’d stayed in.

  “Do you have an address?”

  “No. Driver just say he go Texas Street.”

  “I want to talk to that driver. Now!”

  “No can do. Too far away.”

  “If we take another cab down there, when we get in range, we’ll be able to talk to this driver, won’t we?”

  “Yes,” the
dispatcher answered. “That’s fastest way. It’s cab number one-four-five. Pak-si is the driver.”

  “Good. We’re leaving now.”

  I glanced at our driver. He was about forty, heavy lines in his face, and he looked worried. I spoke back into the mike. “Explain the situation to our driver. Tell him we want to find Pak-si and find him fast.”

  I handed the mike to the driver. He and the dispatcher chatted away for a few seconds. Ernie sat in the front seat. I climbed in back.

  After his conversation with the dispatcher, the driver didn’t seem any less worried than he had been but he backed the cab up and put it in gear. We slid past the line of shoppers loading bagfuls of groceries into the trunks of the waiting cabs.

  Once we passed through the main gate of the compound and were out on the broad roadways heading into downtown Pusan, Ernie patted the driver on the shoulder.

  “Don’t worry, ajjosi. My partner and me, we’re taaksan number-one policemen. We catch bad guy, no sweat.”

  The worried man nodded, flashed a wan smile, and turned back to the road.

  I patted the 38 under my coat and wished I felt as confident as Ernie.

  Chasing a murderous Navy Seal. On Texas Street in the red light district. Not the best way to round out your morning.

  33

  It doesn’t snow as often down south in Pusan, but there’s more rain and it can still get awfully cold. The roads were slick, and fat clouds swept into the city off the choppy gray waters of the Straits of Korea.

  When we were halfway to Texas Street the driver clicked on his radio and tried to contact Pak-si. No dice. About a mile farther on he tried again: This time the little speaker in the metal box crackled to life. The two drivers spoke so rapidly I didn’t catch most of it but I did learn that Pak-si had already dropped off his fare and was returning to Hialeah Compound. I told our driver to set up a rendezvous point. I had to talk to Pak-si.

  Five minutes later, we sat at the curb of a huge circular intersection with a statue in the middle. It was a granite replica of men and women striving forward together in an heroic effort to fight back the Communist hordes who had surrounded this city in the winter of 1950.