by Martin Limon
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Somebody threw something at the cab. It hit the windshield and gave me enough time to get out of the way.” I paused. “What are you doing here?”
He smiled. “We visited your friend, Haggler Lee, after you talked to him. He agreed that you might need some backup.”
I glanced at the two kneeling Korean men. “Who are they?”
“Not sure, but we’ll find out soon enough.”
Ernie said, “They’re lucky I didn’t pop them with one of the rounds I fired.”
Mr. Kill smiled. “That certainly put them into a panic.”
I told them about the can of Colt 45 that someone had thrown.
“The Ville Rat,” Ernie said. “Gotta be. He must be in the area.”
Quickly, I explained to Mr. Kill who the Ville Rat was and told him what he looked like.
“I’ll send a patrol in,” Mr. Kill said.
“No.” I held out my hand. “It’s better if Ernie and I approach him.”
Mr. Kill studied me. Then he said, “If you think it’s best.”
“Yes, we want his cooperation,” I said, “if we can get it.”
Ernie and I hurried back to the black section of Songtan.
The Blue Diamond Bar was packed. The music was so loud it blared out into the roadway as GIs jostled one another wall to wall. Inside, I could make out a half-dozen bar maids, sweating and serving drinks as fast as their hands could move. Most of the GIs were marines. I could tell by the T-shirts and headgear they wore, marked by unit insignia, and by the Japanese words—such as musame and taaksan and skoshi—they bantered about. Also, most of the men were in much better physical condition than your average Osan airman. Not that the zoomies didn’t work hard, but most of their jobs were highly technical and often sedentary.
Ernie and I pushed our way through the crowd. The greeting we received wasn’t particularly unfriendly, but it wasn’t friendly either. Most of the black marines eyed us suspiciously. Like one black GI had told me long ago, when you’re off duty and you finally have a chance to relax with other black GIs, you don’t particularly want to deal with any white motherfuckers, not if you don’t have to. We searched along the far wall with the small tables and finally Ernie elbowed me.
“There he is.”
Like a red flame in a dark night, the Ville Rat’s afro flashed red, orange, and yellow, depending on how the rotating strobe lights happened to hit his hairdo. He sat with three other GIs, all of them black, and they were smoking and laughing and chugging down sixteen-ounce cans of Colt 45. As we approached, he looked up at us.
At first there was fear in his green eyes. But then his black friends turned, noticing where his gaze fell, and uniformly they frowned. This seemed to give the Ville Rat courage. I pulled out my badge, showed it to the GIs at the table, and said, “We need to talk to you, outside.” Two of the black GIs stood, ready to object. “Not you,” I said, “only him.”
They glanced at the Ville Rat. He motioned for them to sit down.
“We’ll talk,” he said, “but we’ll talk here.” His voice was high and reedy, but it had a cadence to it, like a laid-back musician who spent a lot of time playing saxophone riffs.
“Outside,” Ernie said.
“Here,” the Ville Rat repeated.
By now, more GIs in the crowd had noticed our presence and a small group of curious parties coalesced around us. Ernie glanced back and forth, grinned, and said, “On second thought, this is as good a place as any.”
I grabbed an empty stool and sat opposite the Ville Rat. Ernie stood behind me, still grinning. He pulled out a pack of ginseng gum and offered some around. No takers.
“You threw a can at the cab,” I said.
The Ville Rat lifted his cigarette from the ashtray and puffed. The smoke only crawled part of the way down his throat before he blew it out.
“Didn’t want to see anybody killed,” he said.
“So who’s trying to kill me?”
“The same guys who are going to kill me.”
“As in who?”
“Dangerous people,” he replied. “People with connections.”
“And they want to kill you because you can finger them.”
“Some of them.”
“What’s your name?”
“Rat. That’s what the GIs call me.”
“Affectionately, I hope.”
“I’m a popular guy.”
“You tried to tell us something up in Sonyu-ri. You said it wasn’t right, what they did to that girl.”
“It wasn’t right.”
“You knew her?”
“I’d seen her.”
“So who killed her?”
The Ville Rat puffed on his cigarette again. “The same guy who’s supplying me.”
“Through the Class Six?”
He nodded.
“But off the books.”
He nodded again.
“You used to work for them,” I said, “when you were in the army.”
“It was different then,” he said, setting down his cigarette and leaning toward me. “Nobody was getting hurt. Just some extra supplies ordered into the country. It had been going on for years before I got here. Harmless, they told me. A fund was set up to ease the way of the US Forces in Korea, to make the politicians happy; provide money for projects on compound that couldn’t be done through normal appropriations. Things like tennis courts at the officers’ club. A new air conditioner for the Defense Youth Activities Center. Things like that.”
“They even helped orphans,” I said.
“They did. They really did. Jackets during the winter, toys at Christmas; at one of them, they even paid to have a new well dug.”
“Who was in charge?”
“People high up. Way up.”
“Generals?”
The Ville Rat frowned. “Not them, they come and go. Civilians. They’re the ones who stay here. They’re the ones with the contacts in the ROK government.”
“Department of the Army Civilians,” I said. “DACs?”
He nodded.
“Civilians like Rick Mills?”
“I don’t know. I never saw him involved directly.”
“But he runs the Central Locker Fund,” I said. “He had to know.”
The Ville Rat didn’t contradict me. I continued.
“But now the operation is threatened, so they’re willing to kill me and they’re willing to kill you. Your supply chain has been cut.”
He spread his thin fingers.
“So give me their names. We’ll bust this thing wide open.”
“It won’t do any good. They’re too high up. If they have to, they’ll sic the Korean government on you.”
I thought of Mr. Kill. Did he have the power to protect us? Probably not.
“So if you didn’t want to help, why did you contact us up north? Why did you throw that can of malt liquor at the taxicab?”
“I want to stop him.”
“Stop who?”
“Stop the guy who’s caused all this trouble. The guy who screwed everything up. The guy who murdered Miss Hwang.”
“We can do that,” I told him. “All I need is a name.”
He acted as if he hadn’t heard me. “The worst part is, he has a new girl.”
“A new girl like Miss Hwang?”
“Yes. His own servant. His own kisaeng.”
“She’s in danger too, then.”
“I’ll say.”
I grabbed his hand. “You need to give me a name.”
“They’ll kill me.”
“You have to tell me. There are lives at stake. Yours, mine, this young woman who’s being forced into being someone’s private kisaeng. If you won’t talk here,” I said, “then you’re leaving me no choice. I’ll
take you in.”
Roughly, I jerked him toward me and reached for the handcuffs clipped to the back of my belt. Without warning, the Ville Rat jerked back violently. I kept my grip, but maybe because of the pounding I’d taken lately, I suddenly became dizzy. Ernie grabbed me and reached across the table for the Ville Rat. But by then the other GIs were on their feet, shoving Ernie and forcing me backward. I pushed back.
That did it.
Somebody threw a punch and then somebody else shoved and a table fell over and bottles crashed to the ground, and then Ernie was against the wall, reaching for his .45. He pulled it out and shot one round into the ceiling. The Ville Rat reeled backward into the crowd. I lunged for him, but missed and then was held back by a half-dozen hands.
A whistle shrilled at the front door. Barmaids screamed and helmeted Korean National Police pushed their way into the bar, formed into a phalanx, using heavy black batons to shove the enraged marines out of the way.
Punches rained down on me. I crouched and grabbed a knocked-over cocktail table and used it as a shield. The crowd rushed toward the back door and soon the KNPs held the central ground in the club. Ernie was still waving his .45 in the air, but the GIs were gone now, making their way out of the Blue Diamond as fast as they could move.
And the Ville Rat was gone with them.
I motioned for Ernie to put away his pistol. Wide-eyed, he stared around the empty barroom. When he realized we were safe, he switched the safety on and tucked the .45 back into his shoulder holster.
“Where’s the Ville Rat?” he asked.
I pointed toward the back door. We followed the retreating crowd and with a patrol of KNPs spent the next hour searching for him. No luck. The Ville Rat had lived up to his name. Like a clever rodent, he’d disappeared.
Early the next morning, I left a note on Staff Sergeant Riley’s desk for him to check with his contacts at 8th Army Personnel and find out the names and ranks of all GIs assigned to the Central Locker Fund in the last few years. I left him a physical description of the Ville Rat. Then Ernie and I, both in green dress uniforms, marched over to the JAG office.
Lieutenant Margaret Mendelson seemed relieved to see us. “There you are. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. Have you got anything new on the Threets court-martial? Anything more about Sergeant Orgwell?”
“Not a thing,” Ernie said smiling.
“Good. You screwed things up enough as it is.”
My mind flew back to Private Threets’s accusations of sexual assault by Sergeant Orgwell, which could well have been his motive for the shooting on the firing range. Not a good motive and certainly not a justification, but at least a mitigating factor that might become important when it came time for sentencing. None of which the army wanted to hear. The 8th Army honchos’ attitude was clear. A low-ranking enlisted man shot a senior NCO in broad daylight in front of his entire unit. The answer was simple. Throw him in the federal pen and toss away the key. Don’t muddy the waters with accusations of homosexuality and sexual assault. That just embarrasses everybody.
“Get over to the courthouse,” Lieutenant Mendelson told us. “Bob Conroy is waiting for you.” Threets’s less-than-veteran defense counsel. Before we left, she added, “And don’t talk to anybody.”
Which was good advice, and advice that we would’ve followed if we hadn’t been stopped ten yards in front of the courthouse entrance by none other than Major General Frederick R. Kokol, the commander of the 2nd Infantry Division, the man known to journalists everywhere as the Gunslinger.
He stood with his hands on narrow hips, hawk nose pointed at us, pearl-handled revolvers grip-forward, hanging from either side of his web belt. He wore fatigues—not the dress green uniform that everyone else wore to court-martial—but he was the Gunslinger and he didn’t have to follow the usual rules of military decorum. The fatigues were starched and cut in front with a razor-like crease. His white-laced jump boots gleamed with ebony polish.
“You,” he said, pointing at us like Uncle Sam in a recruiting poster. “You’re the two who started this shit.”
Ernie and I both saluted. He didn’t return the salute, so we dropped our hands. A worried-looking captain stood behind him, apparently his aide. Behind him stood a senior NCO, probably his bodyguard and driver, less worried, smirking and enjoying the show.
“So what have you got to say for yourselves?” the Gunslinger asked.
“We didn’t start anything, sir,” Ernie told him, keeping his voice calm and, for once, reasonable. “The shooting at the firing range is what started it.”
“But you made it worse. Now the men in the unit are upset because, according to you, a poor black man is being attacked by a white man. My soldiers who used to see nothing but the color green are now seeing themselves as black and white. You,” he said, pointing again, “you’re dividing my division!”
I’d heard enough. “It was divided before we got there,” I said.
The Gunslinger turned his withering gaze toward me. “No, it wasn’t! We were one! One body, one team, one infantry division ready to kick some North Korean ass. Now, because of you, people are laughing at the Second Division. Saying we’re full of homos. Saying we don’t treat our black soldiers right.”
“Maybe you don’t, sir.”
“The hell I don’t.”
“Have you been out in Sonyu-ri lately?” I asked. “Have you visited the Black Star Nightclub? Seen how the black soldiers don’t want to socialize with the white soldiers? Seen how they feel they have to stick together to protect one another? Have you seen any of that, sir?”
He stepped toward me, face burning red. “Who in the hell do you think you are? What’s your name? Sween-o? What the fuck kind of a name is that?”
“Sueño,” Ernie said, pronouncing it correctly, the ñ like the ny in canyon.
The general swiveled on him. “You? You’re standing up for him? You’re in on it too, trying to make the division look bad. Trying to drag our name through the mud.”
“We gathered testimony,” Ernie said, “the testimony of your soldiers.”
The Gunslinger’s aide stepped forward and whispered something in the general’s ear. He nodded, seeming to come out of a reverie. He turned back to us and once again shook a bony finger.
“The court-martial’s starting. You’d better not tell any lies up there on the stand.”
With that, he swiveled and hurried into the courtroom. The aide didn’t look at us, but the senior NCO turned back and grinned.
“Hope you enjoyed the show,” Ernie said.
“Oh, I did.”
He grinned even more broadly.
Inside the courtroom, Second Lieutenant Robert Conroy fidgeted on a straight-backed wooden chair, looking like a third grader waiting for class to start. Ernie and I sat directly behind him in the gallery and he turned around, relieved to see us. “Did you find anything else?”
“No, sir,” Ernie replied, “can’t say that we have. Did you subpoena Threets’s buddies?”
“They wouldn’t let me.”
“Who?”
“Eighth Army JAG.”
“You could’ve done it if you wanted to.”
“They told me it would just make things worse for Threets.”
“Bull,” Ernie said.
Two MPs escorted in the accused, Private First Class Clifton Threets. He wore a wrinkled khaki uniform; nobody’d bothered to fetch his Class A uniform from Division. Hands shackled in front, Threets glanced at us sullenly and then, guided by the MPs, plopped down in a chair next to Lieutenant Conroy. The MPs retreated, one taking his place by the front entrance and the other near the rear. The accused and counsel conferred for a while, and then Conroy rose and stepped toward us. “Threets says his buddies will be here.”
“They can’t,” I said. “Not on a duty day and not unless they’re on appro
ved pass.”
“I know that,” Conroy said, “but he insists they’ll be here.”
Ernie grinned and pulled out a stick of ginseng gum. “This I gotta see.”
To our left, the Gunslinger, his aide, and the accompanying senior NCO sat grimly behind Lieutenant Mendelson at the prosecution desk. A clerk I recognized from the JAG office entered through the back door behind the dais and shouted, “Attention in the Court!” Everyone stood, including General Kokol.
Three officers walked in: one JAG colonel and two lieutenant colonels. One of the lieutenant colonels wore signal brass, the other infantry. The three men marched behind polished oak, turned, and abruptly took their seats. Everyone else sat too. Then the presiding officer banged his gavel.
“Is the prosecution ready to proceed?”
“Ready, Your Honor,” Lieutenant Mendelson replied.
She stepped forward to present her case. It was precise and devastating. There was little doubt that during the biannual range qualification for Charley Battery, 2nd of the 17th Field Artillery Battalion, Private First Class Clifton Threets had, in fact, turned his weapon on Sergeant First Class Vincent P. Orgwell and shot him through the thigh. A ballistics technician testified as to the caliber of the rifle assigned to Threets, photographs of Orgwell’s wounds were shown, and Orgwell himself pointed out Threets as the man who had shot him. Most devastating were the written affidavits of a half-dozen fellow soldiers of Charley Battery who claimed they had seen Threets turn his weapon, aim at Orgwell, and fire.
Two hours later, when the prosecution rested, the court called a half-hour break. Ernie and I hustled back to the CID office.
“Where the hell you guys been?” Riley said.
“In court,” I replied.
“Where you belong,” he growled. “How many years they going to put you away for?”
I ignored him and checked my messages. Nothing from Mr. Kill. “Did you talk to personnel?” I asked.
“Yeah.” He tossed a sheaf of paperwork at me. “There’s your man. Worked for the Central Locker Fund two years ago. Specialist Five. Got out after four years active duty, chose an in-country discharge.”
“He didn’t go back to the States?” Ernie asked.
