by Gus Lee
Dr. Purvis used the eraser end of a pencil to dial a number, the rotary face clicking erratically.
“Zipper, this is Sam Purvis at the med…. Yes, Zip,” he said slowly, “it's cold enough for me.” Purvis asked about a Captain Buford, or an unknown soldier, or anyone going through graves registration since 6 January, eleven days ago. Zipper the mortician said he'd check it out.
Jimmy's death might be as fake as the certificate. Time slowed while Purvis and Koo cleared patients. They were both good. Filled with hope, I thought of Beth and the boys.
An hour passed. Zipper Man phoned Purvis. No hits, no deaths, no cremations, no tags, no Captain Buford in any UN shop.
The Q echoed with combat between country music and Motown. I knocked. Major Foss, the burly, thick-necked cop, stepped into the hall in grayed thermals, brown socks, and watchman's cap. “Shit. You again.”
Horny troops went to the Ville; high achievers hit the sack. It was eight P.M., and the number-two cop in town was asleep in his work cap. His roommates snored, one industriously, the other pitifully, like a dying asthmatic. Foss closed the door on a socked foot and swore for a while.
“Ooh,” intoned Min, recording the oaths in a notepad.
Foss belched. He smelled of chaw. A lot of troops on the Z never brushed their teeth, violating a local regulation.
“Sir, you remember a jeep accident last night?”
He tried to think. He nodded again, swaying like a drunk hippo in the red aura of the Q emergency light, eyes half-closed.
“I need to see that jeep now, sir.”
He smelled my clothes and leaned back. He squinted at his watch. His head came back into two-inch glaring range. “You do, huh? Gonna help me run at reveille, too?”
“You find me the jeep, sir, I'll get you out of it.”
“I hate running.” He exhaled. “Prints on the sunglass lenses belong to Patrick McCrail, a sergeant major who drowned back in ‘66. But the prints were fresh.” He looked at me. I said nothing.
Min drove us to the DX yard, the elephant grave for dead equipment. We skidded into the dark compound, rammed two wood barriers that used to say Stop, and shot into the junkyard, headlights bright and eager for another hapless target.
The major awoke with a jolt. “God crap a brick! You drive like Oh Shit Min! Christ Jesus—it's you!”
“Neh, yukkun soryong. ” Yes, Major, gasped Min.
“STOP THIS JEEP!” We lurched to a stop, throwing snow and skidding on ice and banging me into the dashboard. “Craphead KATUSA! Asshole! You filled the yard with half the junk! Oh, man! Great blotter report: ‘Foss killed by Oh Shit Min Andretti.’ Man, what a wreck you caused at Armor Crossroads!”
Min had shrunk to the size of a Chihuahua.
“Hey—forget it, son. Didn't mean to ruin your opinion of yourself. Hell, I can brag I rode with you and lived.”
Min coughed, hissing through his teeth, head down.
A dark yard filled with two-and-a-half-ton trucks which had been caught in floods, fires, or MSR wrecks or had driven too close to Min. There were stacks of flattened jeeps, a dead armored personnel carrier.
Foss stuffed Red Man in his bulging left cheek, chewed, and spat a glob. He got out and churned through the snow to a hut. He turned on a line of low yellow lights. The yard was immense. Most of this wasn't Min's work—it was the Korean MSR 3, the suicide alley between Seoul and the DMZ. Foss returned, spitting in the snow, admiring his dark marks while he glanced at a DX manifest.
“Top of stack sixty-one.” Jimmy's jeep sat on top of five other crushed sisters in a numbered pile. I heard a chopper.
Even in the cold air in a snow-filled hulk, the high-hydrocarbon, metallic stench persisted from a petroleum fire that had taken rubber and steel in its search for fuel.
I scooped out the snow and switched on the flashlight. Something had burned and spattered in the driver's seat and my guts turned. I sat on the chassis where the passenger seat once was, staring at the smear of former humanity, my stomach acidic. “Thanks, Jimmy,” I said. “I needed this.”
Foss and Min climbed in after me, shifting the jeep. Foss spat, dribbling on his field jacket. I was going to say something about preserving crime scenes, but this was Korea. I saw the chopper lights. It was coming in low and fast from the west.
“What we looking for here?” asked Foss, sitting on a pile of snow and ice in the back. His jeep radio below squawked.
“ID of the deceased. You worried about that chopper?” “Cap'n, no fatal wrecks come to DX. Got them in my yard.”
“Sir, you have any vehicle fatalities since 6 January?”
He shook his head. The wind burst over us. Junk rattled, snow blew, and metal clanged against coiled barbed wire. Min put his nose into the driver's seat. “What smell?” he asked.
“Petroleum fire,” I said above the chopper rotors.
“Aniyo, dae-wi. Is twae-ji. Hog-oo. Big pig-oo.”
Foss put his nose into the seat, the cop in him emerging. “Oh Shit Min's right. Smells like pork rind.”
It was like seared chujou, pork, absent the sickening stench of flesh fires pushed by gas accelerants, when bodies were torched by napalm and burned in helo crashes. I cleaned the Randall knife and scraped the burned matter into an envelope, glued it shut, and time/dated it across the seal.
The chopper banked around us, bursting with noise and light, a hundred meters out Its thumping rotors raised my heartbeat. Vietnamese country music, an indelible association with bad days.
The chopper whipped snow as its hot searchlight hit us. I saw a door gunner, gun post, ammo, and no barrel, meaning that the M-60 machine-gun muzzle was pointing at me. I sensed the gunner's nervousness, adrenaline warming his frigid door position. Fear rang through me; I remembered dusk engagements when gun-ships had seen my Asian features as a bull's-eye. I froze.
“Do not move. Identify,” said a bullhorn.
The light caught Foss. He pointed at his MP arm brassard.
“Call us next time, Major,” came the echoing voice. The light was doused and the gunship whumped off low across the yard, blowing ground snow. I exhaled.
Min looked at his watch. He had timed the helo response.
“Captain Shawn,” shouted Foss. “Good man with good eyes.”
“Think a man died in this fire, Major?” I yelled.
“Oh, hell no!” he bellowed, the rotors still loud. “This was arson—lots of gas thrown in the compartment. Completely blew away the jeep.” He smiled like Groucho Marx. “And committed a hogacide.”
I began to laugh, Foss hit me and we laughed harder.
The Wizard didn't kill. He roasted barn animals, torched jeeps, and incarcerated sergeants major in foreign lockups.
“You okay?” asked Foss.
“Oh, hell, I'm fine. You sure?”
He pointed his flashlight. “Someone burned the crap out of something, imprinting bacon, rind and small animal skeleton into the floor. Spread that on bread with some cheddar and you got yourself a ham-and-cheese sammich.”
I saw it. “Major, this wreck goes with a comprehensive chain of custody to Evidence.” That meant each MP effecting the jeep's transfer from DX into evidence would document time and action, without any breaks in time.
“Then tie it back to the wreck at Pusan Alley. I want to know everyone who even saw this jeep.” He nodded.
I showed him the death cert. He read it under a flashlight. “Bogus. A two-dollar whore offerin’ a Rolex. No ROK doc in his right mind would sign a death C on an American.” He squinted at me. “Mind telling me what the hell is going on?”
“Major, if you wanted to disappear an IG captain, where would you stow him?”
He huffed breath and looked at me flatly. “I got a good idea. Go screw yourself and the horse you rode in on.” He climbed down and strode through the snow, talking to himself, getting angrier. “I'm the straight cop and the asshole IG rousts me. And Oh Shit Min's his driver. Hauls my butt to DX to study a kitchen f
ire and don't tell me crap.” He turned to me. “Captain, you go jump high and wide. I hate to see what happens when you get higher rank.” He spat ferociously. “Which you probably will.”
We were driving back to his Q with the heater fan coughing, Foss's long, thick leg stuck between our front seats, the missing engine rockers competing with his ceaseless spitting.
“Major, someone kidnapped an IG and faked his death in that jeep. I'm sorry for stiffing you. I could use your help.”
The studded tires plowed snow. He sighed. “I'd fly ‘im to Japan. Shoot ‘im full a scag and drop ‘im on the Shi-monoseki ferry back to Korea. Heroin addict docks on Korean soil becomes instant dead meat. ROKs don't play games and ain't half nice. Got a craphole called Naktong Tower south of the Han in Suwon country. American boys melt down in there with stick beatings and then get blown away by firing squad.”
“Where would you stow him around here?”
He shrugged. “Probably Southside Ville. Old Japa-nese industrial park, survived the war cuz both sides used the warehouses as hospitals. Ville changed hands between us and the Inmingun seventeen times. Villagers took it in the shorts. Now the oogliest whores in the Orient work there. ROKs don't hassle ‘em—go figure.”
That's where McCrail had said Jimmy would be, half-dead: Southside. “Maybe you can draw me a map.” I gave him my notepad.
He drew it. “Park at the canal and walk. Southsiders are retreads and vampires; sleep in the day and work at night. Wait till dusk or they'll freak and, if your boy's there, they'll crapcan him. We got no jurisdiction there.” He rubbed his nose. “Guess if you asked pretty I'd give you some sidearms. I sure as hell wouldn't go into South-side with just good looks.”
“What would you use as a rally point?”
He studied his own map, then drew an X on the north-west corner where the alley that led to the warehouses met the main Southside road. “Leather shop. Only red sign on the block.”
I nodded. “Major, we could sure use some guns.”
He blew out air, then passed me his service automatic with two magazines. “Armorer competition model. Hits what you aim at.” He pulled an S&W Airweight five-shot.38 from an ankle holster and a speed loader from his jacket. From his armpit he removed a leather-banded concussion grenade. He opened the glove box and extracted a massive S&W 44 magnum revolver with a speed loader.
“Kan, this is some of my personal stuff. I want it back.”
I had trouble stowing it. “Roger that. You bare?”
He pulled a nickel-plated S&W.357 Python from a shoulder holster. “Don't ask ROK cops for help. South-side's a parking lot for two-bit whores and fugitives from justice.” The brakes screeched and I banged into the dash. We got out. “You owe me one, Captain.”
“Yes, sir, I do.” I looked at him. “What happened to the law here?”
He holstered the pistol, worked the chaw, and spat on his chin, where it began to freeze. “We trash evidence. Drink too much rnokkli and write bad reports. We don't chase perps—we pull guard duty on claims payouts.” He wiped his chin. “GIs are usin’ AK-47s to dust comfort girls who piss ‘em off in fee disputes. I got a direct order not to find out where the guns came from. I gotta tell you, that's bullshit” He picked up a rock and hurled it. It landed and a dog howled.
“Think the old man's on the take. Wizard covers for him while they play grab-ass with claims and recruiting and let bad cops lie. Never thought I'd say that about the top MP or the SJA.” He shook his head. “Goddamn Korea, oink, oink. I don't like it. But the odds out here are the shits.” He pushed the wad into his left cheek. “I didn't even use to curse.”
“Sir, you keep holding the line.”
He studied me, chewing. “Why in hell should I do that?”
“It's your job, Major.”
“Yeah, so should everyone. Where's our heat? Chow? Fresh wire? New winter gear?” He snorted. “No one does their damn job. It's colder than blue crap and I wouldn't know a head a lettuce if it bit me. I'm the best cop here and I think I'm going sideways.”
Dr. Purvis awoke sharply, accustomed to living in an ongoing emergency. Rumpled and sleepy, he inspected the contents of the envelope. He sniffed. He put it under a microscope on his desk, tweezing a burned hair under the glass. “Suidae family. Porcine. Pig, swine, hog. NHI—no humans involved. Want a report?”
“Please.” When drug dealers blew each other away in retail debates, cops said it went down NHI. No Humans.
“I'm about to call the jeep accident deceased's wife and inform her that she's not a widow. You see a problem with that?”
“These are not human remains. Use my phone, Counselor.”
Noon yesterday in Silver Spring. The phone rang six times. “Beth, this is Jackson.” I had to wait three seconds for my voice to get there and three more for hers. I said I had proof Jimmy didn't die in the wreck, that I believed he was alive but didn't know where he was, that Carlos had sent a team to find him.
She cried. She had always had control, her voice softer than Charlotte lemonade. “Oh, God—oh, God! Oh, the kids. Kids! David! Rick! Brian! Come here! Come here now! Oh, my God, thank you, Jackson, thank you. God love you! I knew you'd do it! Jackson, does Carlos know? I'll call him. Kisses from us. Jackson—I love you! Oh, sweetheart, find him! Oh, God bless you! Oh God! Oh my God! Boys, oh my boys! Your daddy's alive! Daddy's alive! Yes! Honest to God, cross my heart! It's Jackson on the phone and he's not dead!”
Their weeping rang in my head, even though they had cried in joy. Jimmy was a lucky man. If I could find him.
I wanted to call Cara and tell her I had not left her, that I was doing something I had to and would soon be home.
“Want some sedatives?” asked Purvis.
I shook my head.
“Come in the three-to-eleven. See Doc Dwaine Dean. You're labile, emotionally in flux, with sleep deprivation and delayed, chronic recurring combat fatigue. You're treating it by clenching your teeth, which is like fighting fire with your hair. You don't respect it, and treat it, you'll embarrass us for another failure to exercise preventive medicine.”
“This a masked comment about my ROK Army hair-cut?”
Later, I thanked Corporal Min. “You should be a general.”
“Dae-wi too muchee kind!” He bowed, baring teeth and scraping. I regretted saying anything. He saluted hor-ribly. I returned it.
I took a military shower but nearly emptied the tank.
Magrip was supposed to be on duty. He slouched like a dead man in the chair, sounding like a garbage disposal dispatching artichokes. I had left him without a weapon.
Levine was breathing easy. I put down the firearms, opened the box and urn, clicked on the flashlight. I stirred with my knife. Pure, fine silica, no bone.
I turned on the bright ceiling light.
Magrip fell out of the chair. “Whatthafug?”
Levine grumbled into her pillow. Her makeshift curtain had fallen. I found one of her candies. I popped it in my mouth. I preferred Chinese sour plums.
I cleared my throat. “I'd like your attention, please.” Sock-clad feet dragged under covers, the groveling, sordid, sour grumping of overworked cadets at dawn.
“Listen up! I have the murder of an innocent pig to report.”
20
NO DEALS
Friday, January 18
It took only ten minutes to reach the Pentagon exchanges and Carlos Murray on the second floor of the D Ring. I heard him sip coffee, black. Eleven-thirty yesterday morning his time, one-thirty A.M. ours. Beth Buford had called him with the good news. I gave him the details. His sense of relief brought out his supportive nature.
“You waiting to find Jimmy next year? This year too soon?”
“Been working on my tan.” I told him we needed to free a ROK inmate named Curadess, explaining McCrail. I said a habeas would take too long; we needed a ROK presidential release. I suggested new staffs for damage control on Casey's legal woes.
“Cholo, I send you to
get Jimmy and you decide to become an interior decorator.”
“Yeah, well I once had a Chicano professor who said, ‘Research all options, exhaust all remedies, and exercise unlimited zealousness for your client.’ ”
“You should not believe everything you hear in college.”
“That wasn't college. Carlos, let me deal McCrail for Jimmy.”
Give the Wizard immunity for McCrail in return for our getting Jimmy intact; the Wizard would fall to a host of other charges.
Carlos bristled. “No way we forgive an SJA for Curadess and McCrail and let him retire with an attaboy. Jesus Cristo, what are you thinking?”
I told him he was wrong. Then I told him about the POWs.
“Culero! A crazy con in ROK stir might not even know his name anymore. Forget Hong Kong. You get back on track, Captain Jack.”
“My job,” I said, “is getting Jimmy. Don't get greedy. We got to bring our boys in. Not only Jimmy, but McCrail. Carlos, he said there are eight thousand Korean War MIAs.”
He exhaled. “Urchin, get Jimmy. Stop being creative, stop ghost chases, at ease with further slop thought and stay in your damned lane!”
“The Wizard drips with evidence. Pig Breath's here. Carlos, we owe McCrail.” Pause. “I told him I'd go.”
“No way. Pig's a loose cannon. Wizard hangs with our rope, so it's done right, not as a religious exercise by a half-fascist who'd convict his mother had God issued him one. Get the Bee, avoid Pig, and trap the rats. I didn't send you out there to do a missionary dance. No deals for the Wizard and no Chinese gangs.”
He was excited to the point of contractions.
I said nothing.
“Crap, pendejo, you're sticking it to me! You're the one guy in the Corps who always remembers the job, and you do this, to me, your old patrón?” He cleared his throat. “You piss me off.”
I knew that. Pendejo was a kind word for “stupid.”
“Let me deal McCrail so LeBlanc'11 give us Jimmy. Ten years—” Murray had hung up.
