Slicky Boys

by Martin Limon

  “Miss Ku was able to identify the American who followed us in the U.N. Club.”

  Lieutenant Pak thought about that.

  “So the American’s been following you,” he said. “And he killed Miss Ku.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Who is this man?”

  “That’s what we all want to know.”

  He raised his finger and pointed it at me.

  “I received your reports. They told me nothing. You are Americans, so I am patient with you, but if you keep me from this killer, your life in Seoul will be most miserable.”

  He pointed his forefinger at Ernie. “You will not leave Korea.”

  Ernie nodded. “Can do.”

  Lieutenant Pak pivoted and walked back to the technicians in the alleyway, barking orders.

  When they forgot about us, we slipped down to the end of the alleyway and disappeared.

  On the ride back, Ernie couldn’t stop jabbering.

  “The son of a bitch!” He pounded his fist against the steering wheel. “He’s been following us since this investigation began. First in the U.N. Club, then the Kayagum Teahouse, and even down here to Mukyo-dong. When we got close to Miss Ku, he took her out.”

  I leaned back in the seat, trying not to show my terror as Ernie whizzed within millimeters of careening kimchi cabs that charged like cavalry through the narrow streets. “He’s been following us, all right. Whoever he is.”

  “Who does he kill next?” Ernie asked. “The guy who owns the print shop?”

  “Maybe. Miss Ku saw his face. Now she’s dead. So did Mr. Chong, the print shop owner.”

  “So we ought to tell Lieutenant Pak about it so he can get there first.”

  “The print shop guy can take care of himself. Besides, if we tell Lieutenant Pak, he’ll have to go through regular procedures for search permission at the Namdaemun Police Station and this print shop Chong is liable to hear about it. He’s making good money. Maybe somebody in the police precinct is on his payroll. If he gets wind of it, he hides any important information. I want to take another approach.”

  Ernie glanced at me. “You’re not crazy enough to go back there and break in yourself?”

  “No. Those boys in the shops are liable to lynch us. I’ll send somebody else.”

  “Like who?”

  “You’ll see.”

  No sense letting Ernie know everything. This whole case was about to explode in our faces. And if we went down, the less he knew about my plans the better.

  Ernie wasn’t the type to press if I told him I didn’t want to talk about something. We rode listening to the screech of brakes and the honking of horns and the pitiful pleadings of the dying Miss Ku.

  When troubles start they don’t stop. Back at the CID building Ernie let me off while he parked the jeep.

  Inside, the Nurse sat in the First Sergeant’s office, her dimpled knees peeking out from beneath the hemline of a neatly pressed brown skirt. Her long black hair was tied back in a bun and she clutched a cheap plastic handbag primly on her lap, nodding patiently as the First Sergeant spoke in loud English.

  I hurried down the hallway and grabbed Riley.

  “What’s going on?”

  “She came in a few minutes ago,” he said, “demanding to talk to the Provost Marshal.”

  “About what?”

  “About Ernie. And his ‘crimes,’as she put it. The First Sergeant knew it was trouble. She looks so cute and innocent that if she latches onto the right colonel or one of the dorks over at the Inspector General’s office, she’ll make the whole CID look bad.”

  “What sort of ‘crimes’?”

  “Going out with girls. Not staying home. Drinking too much.” Riley shrugged.

  “But they’re not even married.”

  “I don’t think she sees it that way.”

  Korean women often went to their husbands’ superiors to complain about off-duty behavior. In Korea, the role of the boss is so revered that he is considered to have the right—even the responsibility—to provide personal guidance to his subordinates. The Nurse was doing what came naturally. Trying to convince the men who controlled Ernie’s professional life to control his personal life.

  Miss Kim, the Admin secretary, kept her head down and pounded furiously on the keys of her electric typewriter. Having her rival here in the office, being treated like a queen by the First Sergeant, wasn’t doing much for her mood.

  “I have to warn Ernie,” I said.

  “Do that,” Riley said.

  I ran out to the narrow parking area between the buildings. Ernie had just parked the jeep and was walking toward the building. I grabbed him.

  “The Nurse is here. Talking to the First Sergeant.”

  “Oh, shit. About what?”

  “About you going out nights. Not coming home.”

  “Nothing in the Code of Military Justice says I can’t.”

  “No. But the honchos don’t like innocent-looking girls on their doorstep complaining about debauched GIs. Bad for the CID’s image.”

  “Fuck the CID’s image.”

  I squeezed his arm. Somebody had to lecture him. Somebody had to keep him from screwing up his life at every turn. If not me, who?

  “Ernie. You have to make the First Sergeant happy. Let him know you’ll do whatever it takes to avoid embarrassment for him and the Provost Marshal. Otherwise, he might restrict us to compound or worse, who knows. Conduct Unbecoming is a court-martial offense. They could lock you up. What with this new murder, we have to keep our freedom of movement. You have to take care of it, Ernie.”

  “Shit, George. You worry too much about the small stuff.”

  “It isn’t small, Ernie. You and I sent Cecil Whitcomb to his death.”

  He sighed.

  “Besides, you ought to treat the Nurse better. She’s a good chick. She deserves it. Get in there and make nice with her.”

  “I was going to anyway. Tonight.”

  “Do it now.”

  “Relax, Reverend. I get the point.”

  He shrugged off my grip and stormed up the steps. Before I went back into the Admin Office, I watched him knock on the open door of the First Sergeant’s office and enter.

  I leaned over Riley’s desk. “What’d you get on those former GIs?”

  He handed me a stack of messages. “A couple hundred names. Seems that foreigners aren’t as bashful as I thought about ending up on KNP blotter reports. Of course, a lot of them are just traffic accidents, things like that. But there’s a few fights. Even a few alleged robberies. When you pick out some names, let me know and I’ll ask for details.”

  “Thanks, Riley.”

  “What was all that shit about at the kisaeng house?”

  “Woman got killed.”

  “Anybody we know?”

  “A friend of Ernie’s.”

  “He’s not having a very good day, is he?”

  “No. He’s not.”

  Neither was I, but I didn’t tell Riley that.

  I thumbed through the blotter reports the Korean National Police Liaison had provided. As Riley had said, most were just traffic accidents or disputes over hotel bills. Of the serious incidents, four were alleged robberies by Americans, three of which turned out to be underpayment to prostitutes. Only one was an out-and-out theft, from a fellow traveler on a package tour. A Japanese camera. Virtually all the people listed, and all of those involved in the serious incidents, had already left the country.

  The next stack of paperwork was a little more interesting. Each page was a short biographical sketch with a small black-and-white photo: GIs who’d gone AWOL in Korea and had not yet been apprehended. The fact that they hadn’t been apprehended wasn’t surprising, since we don’t bother to look for them. The reason is that the ports of embarkation, either by ship or at the Kimpo International Airport, are so tightly controlled by the Korean authorities that we aren’t worried about AWOL GIs slipping out of the country. And if they stay here, eventually they’ll ti
re of scrounging for a living on the fringes of Korean life. Sooner or later, almost all of them turn themselves in, willing to accept court-martial as long as they can get a ticket back to the States.

  Of course, I suppose a few of them went to all the trouble of getting phony passports and slipping out of the country, but the army wasn’t worried about it. Now that the draft was gone and the American economy was in a shambles, men were fighting to stay in the army. Not to get out.

  Still, the most likely way to make a living after going AWOL was by way of the black market. A phony military identification card, a phony ration control plate, and you were in business. The danger was that you had to go onto the compounds regularly to do the purchasing. That’s why the guy who was shadowing us had short hair. So he’d look like an active duty GI.

  I studied the pictures carefully. None of the faces seemed familiar. I tried to imagine each one in a smoke-filled barroom or on a street, lounging behind us, trying to look inconspicuous. Nothing clicked. Every face was a complete stranger.

  I read the names and the biographical notes. Still nothing.

  Heels clicked down the hallway. The Nurse marched past the door of the Admin Office, looking straight ahead. The big double doors of the exitway creaked open and slammed shut.

  I thought of running after her, trying to console her, but she looked too upset. Anything I said would probably just come out stupid. Like most wives or girlfriends, the Nurse considered the running-the-ville buddy—me—the real cause for all her grief. Ernie was pure of heart. It was just evil guys like me who were leading him astray.

  I damn sure wasn’t going to betray Ernie and tell the Nurse the truth about his love life. And I didn’t feel like telling any more lies today. So I stayed where I was.

  The First Sergeant called Riley down the hallway, and after a brief chat the skinny Admin Sergeant returned. He was shaking his head.

  “What is it?”

  “I have to counsel Ernie on the dangers of promiscuity. And too much booze.”

  “You?”

  “Hey, I’m a Staff Sergeant.” Riley pointed to the yellow rocker beneath his stripes. “This gives me superior knowledge and virtue.”

  I thought of the bottle of Old Overwart he kept in his locker and the old hag business girls he sometimes picked up in the ville and dragged back to the barracks.

  “Yeah. Virtue,” I said. “You got that.”

  Miss Kim had had enough. Holding a handkerchief to her nose, she jumped up from her typewriter, ran out of the office, and clicked her high heels down the hallway toward the ladies’ room.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Riley asked.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

  Riley shuffled through a stack of paperwork. “Must be a virus.”

  26

  BEFORE THE FIRST SERGEANT HAD FINISHED WITH Ernie, I placed a call to the British Honor Guard.

  The Sergeant Major confirmed for me that Cecil Whitcomb had indeed been the proud owner of a Gurkha knife. He’d bought it off a soldier in a British Gurkha unit in Hong Kong. For “five quid,” whatever the hell that was. The knife was not listed in the inventory of his belongings conducted after his death.

  The Sergeant Major told me that Whitcomb’s body had been released by the Seoul coroner’s office and had been flown out that morning via a specially arranged flight from Kimpo Air Force Base. I asked him for the name and address of Whitcomb’s next of kin. He gave me an address somewhere in London, but of a woman with a last name other than Whitcomb. His mother, he said. Her husband, Whitcomb’s father, had died a few years ago and she’d remarried.

  I folded the address and stuck it in my wallet.

  I went back to the barracks and waited until the firing of the cannon at 1700 hours that signified the close of 8th Army’s official business day. When all was clear, I changed my clothes and went over to the snack bar and ate some chow. I just wanted to be alone. Have time to think about the case. Have time to think about what happened to Miss Ku. About what happened to Cecil Whitcomb.

  Whoever we were dealing with had wanted Cecil Whitcomb badly. He’d used Miss Ku and Eun-hi and me and Ernie, and using us, he’d accomplished his objective. It made sense that he had to entice Whitcomb off the compound. In the nature of army life, whether in the barracks or on the parade field or out running the ville with his buddies, Whitcomb would never be alone. That night out in Nam-daemun, he had been alone.

  But why go to so much trouble in the first place? What was so important about Cecil Whitcomb, a part-time petty thief?

  Why the killer wanted Miss Ku silenced was pretty clear. She knew who he was. She could identify him. She could testify against him in court. But not anymore.

  The print shop owner knew who he was, too, but he was in less danger. From what we knew so far, there was no way Mr. Chong could link him to the murder of Cecil Whitcomb. So Chong was probably safe.

  What about me? Was I safe? Was Ernie safe?

  This guy knew who Ernie and I were, but we didn’t know who he was. He was following us. If we closed in on him, he’d probably attempt to take us out, too.

  Who was he working for? For himself or for someone else? Was he working for the slicky boys?

  We hadn’t heard from the slicky boys since the night they kidnapped us. I’d relayed a message that the secret of the location of their headquarters would remain safe with us. Had it worked?

  Maybe.

  I had no answers. Only questions that kept piling up, one after the other.

  I felt for the .38 beneath my jacket. Still there.

  I studied the faces in the snack bar around me. A lot of them were familiar because I’d seen them around compound dozens of times. Nobody out of the ordinary. Nobody who looked as if he’d ruthlessly tortured and murdered a beautiful woman.

  That’s another thing that bothered me. He’d tortured her. What information did she have that he didn’t already know? I thought about it for a long time, but came up with nothing.

  When I finished the chow, I wandered around the compound. Walking. Thinking.

  If God gave me a chance to redo some things in my life, I’d have a long list. Number one would be canceling out the conversation Ernie and I had with Cecil Whitcomb.

  With the approach of night the temperature dropped, but still no threat of snow. Somehow, I found myself in front of the PX. Standing at the taxi stand was Strange. He spotted me and stepped out of line.

  When he came near he pulled his cigarette holder out of his mouth.

  “Had any strange lately?”

  I ignored the question. “Have you got anything for me, Harvey?”

  He glanced to either side. “Not here.”

  “Okay. Where?”

  He nodded toward the latrine. “Follow me.”

  He waddled through the crowd and back into the PX, toward the hallway that led to the men’s room. I followed and pushed through the big wooden door. One guy stood in front of a urinal. Not Strange.

  On the other side of the tiled wall was a row of commodes. Something hissed. I walked down to the last stall near the window and opened the door. Strange sat on the pot, pants up, staring down at a crumpled sheet of notebook paper.

  “Four security violations in the last month,” he said.

  His cigarette holder waggled from side to side in his mouth.

  “You inspected J-two?” I asked. J-2 was the place where Whitcomb had stolen the typewriter.

  “Yeah.”

  The window above us was open and cold air billowed in like a small gray cloud. I was grateful for the fresh air.

  “The violations wouldn’t have been caught at all without surprise inspections,” Strange continued. “They were small things. A safe left open during the workday while everyone was out of the room for a couple of minutes. A Top Secret cover sheet on a Secret document. Things like that. The only other thing I noticed was a couple of documents out of numerical order. Just slightly out of place. As if someone had been in a hurr
y and shoved it back into the file without checking the numbers. Not something many security clerks do. Finding an out-of-sequence document can be a bear. Take you all day. So you learn to be careful.” He shook his head. “That wouldn’t have bothered me at all if it wasn’t for the rumors I’ve been hearing.”

  “What rumors?”

  “Not violations, exactly. Just shit being tampered with. A guy down at Camp Market. He swears nobody but him touches his files, but when he comes in one morning, a couple of documents have been moved. He’d placed them in the file a certain way, flush up to the left side of the safe. In the morning, they were in the center.”

  “You security guys are a meticulous lot.”

  Strange ignored me. His cigarette holder quivered a little faster.

  “Another guy at Army Support Command swears somebody came into his office. Dust that he leaves atop the filing cabinets on purpose was moved. Not much. Just like somebody had breathed on it.”

  “So why didn’t he report it?”

  Strange looked up at me wide-eyed, as if I were mad.

  “And have a bunch of outsiders tampering with our files? We in security handle our own properties. Don’t need a bunch of ham-handed MP’s stomping around.” He thought about that for a minute. “No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  Somebody new entered the latrine. We were quiet until he urinated and left.

  “That pig didn’t even wash his hands.” Strange scowled.

  “Some people,” I said. “So tell me what happens. You security NCO’s get together sometimes and compare notes. And if you find something suspicious going on you investigate it yourself?”

  “Dick Tracy.”

  “So what’ve you found out so far?”

  “Nada. Zilch. Not a goddamn thing. But we’re keeping our eyes open.”

  “If somebody did break into those files, how would they do it?”

  “Not from one of us, that’s for sure.”

  I waited.

  “All of our combinations have to be backed up. In case we’re killed in the line of duty or smothered from muff diving or something. There’s always a security officer.”