Ping-Pong Heart

by Martin Limon

  “She union. Not supposed to have union.”

  The Pak Chung-hee government had banned unions. All except for the FOEU, the Foreign Organizations Employees Union—the one that represented the workers on the US Forces Korea compounds; in other words, the Korean civilians who worked for 8th Army. The workers in other industries, like steel foundries, ship-building docks or mining companies, were prohibited from forming unions on pain of death. The rationale was that the country couldn’t afford these unions yet. The rebuilding after the Korean War had to be done in a “cooperative spirit,” or the nation wouldn’t be able to lift itself out of poverty. This meant, in effect, that workers got the shaft while the chaebol, corporate conglomerates, made millions and continued to reinvest and grow larger.

  “They have a union in this cannery?” I asked.

  “No,” Lieutenant Taek said. “No can have. But secret, maybe they have.”

  So the workers were organizing clandestinely. I’d heard about that. Just a few months ago, an illegal union had been formed by coal miners in the Taebaek Mountains. They’d brought production to a halt with a strike and even armed themselves to resist the KNP. Pak Chung-hee didn’t mess around. He sent in a battalion of ROK Army infantry, and they ruthlessly eliminated what the president considered to be an armed rebellion. None of this appeared in the Korean press, not even in the Pacific Stars and Stripes. I’d read about it in TIME magazine.

  “So if she’s in a union,” I asked, “why haven’t you arrested her?”

  “Maybe we do someday. Right now, we watch.”

  “You want a bigger catch,” I said.

  Lieutenant Taek looked at me, puzzled.

  “A bigger fish,” I said, spreading my arms.

  He smiled, understanding now.

  “Do you think the North Koreans are helping the union?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe no. Anyway, we watch.”

  I took another look through the telescope. The gigantic cannery loomed over dozens of tin-roofed shanties. What was taking place behind those walls was probably a scene right from an Upton Sinclair novel, and in a way I was glad I couldn’t see it. I thought of another question.

  “What’s it mean, koshigi?”

  Lieutenant Taek smiled even more broadly. “Who teach you?”

  “I heard it. In Seoul.”

  Taek shook his head. “Seoul people no speak. Only Cholla people.”

  Of course, I knew that Miss Jo was from here, from Cholla province. “What’s it mean?” I asked.

  Lieutenant Taek thought about that. “It’s like when you forget something or don’t know. So you wanna say something, anything.”

  “So it means nothing,” I said.

  “Or everything,” Taek responded. “But most important thing, koshigi means you’re Cholla people.”

  “And Cholla people are troublemakers,” Ernie said.

  Taek’s face darkened. He turned to Ernie. “Seoul people say so. Maybe they are troublemakers.”

  His face flushed red. He’d said more than he intended to. But what he’d shown me was that the ancient animosity between the people of Cholla, who’d once been an independent kingdom, and those who imposed a central government from Seoul, ran very deep indeed.

  I thanked Lieutenant Taek for his help and we returned to KNP headquarters.

  An hour before noon, Ernie and I drove out to a long wharf near the cannery. It was lined with a promenade along the beach and what appeared to be hundreds of small fish eateries. Live mackerel splashed in green tanks. We climbed out of the jeep and walked.

  “Do you suppose they’re close?” Ernie asked, meaning In-ja and my son.

  “Impossible to say.”

  “Right,” Ernie said. “You don’t know where they are, and if you try to find them you put them both in danger.”

  “You think they’d hurt the boy?”

  “Probably not,” Ernie replied. “But he’d be left without a mother.”

  I nodded, knowing from experience how painful that was. My mother died when I was a toddler. My father disappeared into the endless murky sea known as Mexico. I’d been brought up by the Supervisors of the County of Los Angeles, moving from foster home to foster home. When I turned seventeen, I joined the Army.

  Ernie stared out to sea. A blue KNP sedan sat parked near the beach, not too far from our jeep.

  “They’re watching,” Ernie said.

  “I know.”

  He sighed. “You need to let it go, Sueño. In-ja and Il-yong have made a life without you. Not because they wanted to, but because they had no choice. Now it’s up to you. You can wallow in grief forever or you can suck it up and get on with it.”

  “Get on with my life?”

  “Yeah. With somebody else.”

  “You mean Leah.”

  “Whoever. That’s up to you. But someone. You’re not like me. You’re a homebody, a one-woman man.”

  Beyond the vast bay in front of us, small islands dotted the horizon.

  “You want some haemul-tang?” I asked. Ernie stared at me blankly. “Fish soup,” I translated.

  “Before we hit the road?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Before we hit the road.”

  “You’re on,” Ernie said, patting the envelope in his pocket. “I’m buying.”

  -14-

  We drove straight through and made it back to Seoul two hours after close of business. Staff Sergeant Riley was still at his desk.

  “I know. I know,” Ernie said. And then, in a nasal voice, “Where in the hell have you two guys been?”

  “The Provost Marshal is about to bust a gut,” Riley told us.

  “We were on an investigation,” Ernie replied.

  Riley stuck his finger into the center of his desk blotter. “You’re required to report in at zero eight hundred hours every day, Trooper. No exceptions. No ifs, ands, or buts.”

  Ernie ignored him and stalked to the counter in back and tilted the stainless steel coffee urn. “What, no java?”

  “You’re late,” Riley said. “By about twelve hours.”

  Ernie fiddled with the coffee urn for a while, as if to prepare another pot, but finally gave up in disgust.

  I sat down in front of Riley’s desk. “What’d you find out about Major Schultz?”

  “What’s to find out?” he said, pulling out a sheaf of papers. “Been in the army for twelve years. ROTC from some agricultural school in Texas. Pretty good efficiency ratings. Comes to Korea and is assigned to the J-2.”

  “What’d he do there?”

  “His official title was Adjutant. But in reality, he was a gopher. Go for anything Colonel Jameson wanted.”

  “Isn’t Jameson the J-2?” This was the full colonel in charge of military intelligence for the Joint Staff of the United Nations Command, US Forces Korea, and 8th United States Army.

  “Yeah,” Riley said. “Took over about five months ago. They say he’s a go-getter.”

  “So Schultz was, too?”

  Riley shrugged. “Hell if I know.”

  “What was Schultz working on?”

  “I don’t know that either. What’s that have to do with being stabbed by some business girl in Itaewon?”

  “Maybe nothing.”

  “Maybe nothing is right.” Riley pointed his forefinger at me, resembling some sort of debauched Uncle Sam. “Don’t be poking your nose into things that don’t concern you, Sueño. Especially when it deals with those spooks over at J-2.”

  Ernie walked back from the counter. “Who turned you into an enforcer?”

  “Just a word to the wise,” Riley said.

  “Wise? You’re nothing but a paper-pusher.”

  After all that driving and lack of sleep and a painfully jammed finger, Ernie was in a bad mood. I stood up.

  “C
ome on, Ernie,” I told him. “Let’s get some chow.”

  He glared at Riley on the way out, and Riley glared back.

  Leah Prevault, at least, was glad to hear from me.

  After washing up in the barracks, I called her BOQ—Bachelor Officer Quarters—from the Charge of Quarters phone. Even though the BOQ phone sat on a small table in the hallway, shared by all the female officers who lived there, she picked up after two rings.

  “I was hoping it would be you,” she said.

  “Can I come over?” I asked.

  “All clear on the female BOQ front,” she said.

  Twenty minutes later I was knocking on her door and she let me in, glancing up and down the hallway as she did so.

  “Did anybody see you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Good,” she said, throwing her arms around my neck. “That means you can stay the night.”

  “Is that an order?” I asked.

  “Consider it so.”

  Later, I told her about Mokpo. She was quiet as she listened, and for a long time after I finished. Finally, she said, “What happens if you find her?”

  “I take care of my son, that’s first and foremost.”

  She waited. I knew the unspoken question she was asking. I continued. “Between me and his mother, I’m not sure. It’s been a long time.” I paused. Captain Prevault was a good shrink. Instead of prompting me with another question, she waited for me to go on. “I believe I’m over her,” I said.

  She had a sharp intuition, and she also knew me well. The question rushed out of her. “But if you saw her, if she was standing right in front of you . . .”

  I swung my legs out of the bed, stood up, and walked toward the small window. I peered outside of the long Quonset hut that had been remodeled into the Female Bachelor Officer Quarters. It was cold outside. Wind whipped through the few remaining leaves on a line of poplar trees. Down the hallway, someone turned on a shower.

  I knew what it was like to grow up without a mom, without a dad, to be the child of a broken home. In my case, a completely shattered home. How could I do that to my son? And how would I explain all this to Leah? Maybe I eventually could, but at that moment, standing there in that poorly heated Quonset hut, I was unable to find the words.

  “I don’t know,” I said finally.

  This didn’t make her happy. She sat up, slipped on her robe and kept her back toward me. I grabbed my clothes, stepped into my pants and buttoned my shirt. I started to leave. I hesitated at the door, hoping she’d ask me to stay. She didn’t. She just sat huddled on the edge of the bed, looking small.

  “I’ll call you,” I said, then I opened the door and left.

  The next morning, Colonel Emmett S. Jameson sat behind a mother-of-pearl nameplate that was almost as wide as his desk. Behind him, a framed diploma, various photographs, and military awards were hung in three busy rows. Leaning atop a varnished bookshelf, a ceremonial bayonet gleamed against a velvet backdrop, testifying to the great man’s martial prowess.

  Ernie and I were there early, showered and shaved and wearing newly pressed coats and ties. We wanted this man’s cooperation, and from what we’d gleaned from his receptionist, he was a bereaved man.

  “He thought of Major Schultz as a son,” she told us solemnly.

  A slight paunch bulged out from above Colonel Jameson’s highly polished belt buckle. Not enough to classify him as a slob, but enough to make it clear that he’d spent many years fighting battles more concerned with memos, reports, and briefings than with bullets and hand grenades.

  “I’ve been waiting for you two,” he said. I raised an eyebrow. “Not you specifically,” he continued, “but someone from law enforcement.”

  “Concerning Major Schultz’s death?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Why is that, sir?”

  He interlaced his fingers. “I knew Major Schultz quite well, and his wife and children. He was assigned to me back at Fort Hood, and when I was appointed to this job, I asked if he’d accompany me. He agreed.” Colonel Jameson placed his hands on his desk. “As such, I feel aggrieved not only about his death, but also about the earlier allegations that were made against him.”

  Ernie sat expressionless and completely still. In formal interactions with the brass, he usually liked to let me take the lead, unless something pissed him off.

  “Aggrieved, sir?”

  “Yes. About the accusations of infidelity on his part.”

  Ernie glanced at me. When I didn’t speak, he said, “They’re not just accusations.”

  Colonel Jameson shrugged. “There’re two sides to every story.”

  I was worried that Ernie was about to say something rude, so I spoke up quickly.

  “What exactly were Major Schultz’s duties, sir?”

  “Duties?” Colonel Jameson seemed surprised by the question. “He was my adjutant.”

  “So he did the work you assigned to him?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “What, for example?”

  Colonel Jameson squirmed in his seat. “Well, some of it was administrative, making sure that our personnel system ran smoothly and that the right people were being slotted into the right jobs, things like that.”

  “But some of it was classified,” Ernie said.

  “Yes, of course. That’s what we do here at J-2.”

  “What sort of classified work was Major Schultz doing?” I asked.

  “Well, if it’s classified,” Colonel Jameson replied, “then, of course, I can’t tell you.”

  “We have Top Secret clearances,” I told him.

  “Yes, but do you have a need to know?”

  “It could’ve had to do with Major Schultz’s death,” Ernie said. “We damn sure do have a need to know.”

  Colonel Jameson swiveled his chair and stared at Ernie. “I’m not sure I like your attitude.”

  “I’m not sure Major Schultz liked getting dead,” Ernie replied. “Maybe you ought to tell us what the hell he was working on, Colonel.”

  He squinted at Ernie, as if trying to memorize his face. “What’s your name again?”

  “Bascom,” Ernie said, and then spelled it for him. “First name Ernest.”

  Colonel Jameson jotted it down. “Your rank?” he asked.

  “Classified.”

  “Oh, that’s right. CID.” He tossed his pen down.

  In theory, the ranks of CID agents was classified because the army didn’t want higher ranking officers to be able to put pressure on field agents in order to quash an investigation. In practice, everybody knew we were low-ranking schmoes and pressure could be placed on us through informal channels, such as a conversation over drinks at the Officers Club.

  I spoke rapidly, trying to break the tension. “It probably has nothing to do with his death, sir. Even if his duties were of a classified nature. But his killer is still on the loose and we have to cover all the bases. Make sure we’re not missing something.”

  “I heard you missed her,” he said, “after you took her into custody.”

  News spread fast at the 8th Army Officers Club.

  “Yes, sir. She got away. A mistake we will soon rectify. In the meantime, was Major Schultz working on any special projects? Anything out of the ordinary?”

  Colonel Jameson took a deep breath and apparently willed himself to calm down. “There was one thing.”

  I pulled out my notebook. “What was that, sir?”

  He waggled his finger at me. “Don’t write anything down.”

  I stuck my notebook back into my jacket pocket.

  “I had him doing a full review of operations,” he said. “The J-2 organizational chart is a mess. So many functions have been added over the years, sometimes operated for a while and then forgotten, that it seemed to me there
was a lot of dead wood floating around. I wanted to streamline and consolidate where possible. Fred was looking into that.”

  “Major Schultz?”

  “Yes, Major Schultz.”

  “Had he found anything in particular that seemed anomalous?” Then I remembered that field grade officers sometimes found the use of sophisticated words to be insubordinate, as if you were trying to prove that you were smarter than them. Quickly, I added, “Anything out of line that needed to be fixed?”

  “The Five Oh First,” Colonel Jameson said without hesitation. “Their TO&E has grown tremendously over the years.” Table of Operations and Equipment. “We thought they might’ve become top-heavy.”

  “Empire-building,” Ernie said.

  “It happens,” Colonel Jameson replied.

  The US Army is fundamentally a bureaucracy. Whenever they have the chance, bureaucrats enhance their authority, which means acquiring new funds, facilities, equipment and, most importantly, personnel.

  “So Major Schultz,” I said, “was looking into streamlining operations, eliminating redundancies, maybe eliminating a few positions?”

  “Yes. But certainly that couldn’t have had anything to do with his death. That sort of thing happens every day.”

  Keeping the giant blob that is the military industrial complex from endlessly expanding is a full-time endeavor.

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “You’re probably right. Probably had nothing to do with his death. Was Major Schultz working on anything else?”

  For the first time, Colonel Jameson barked a laugh. “That seemed like a full plate to me.”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied. “I can see that it would be.”

  I thanked him and started to get up but Ernie said, “Why don’t you believe the allegations of infidelity?”

  Colonel Jameson studied Ernie as if he were looking for a soft spot to shove in the lethal end of the bayonet above his shelf. “Because I know his wife,” he said, in a low firm voice. “She’s a fine woman. And I know his children.” Blood had flushed up through his neck and quickly spread to his upper cheeks. “And I know Fred Schultz would never be playing around with a business girl out in the ville.”

  Ernie grinned at him, a wide, toothy grin. “Yes, sir,” he said.