Nightmare Range (8 page)

Blind chance had determined that it would be Budusky’s back that hit the cement pole with the full force of our rolling bodies. I punched him a couple of times on the side of his head before I realized that he was finished. I got up in a crouch and checked his pulse. It was steady. I slapped his face a couple of times. His eyes opened. Before he could pull himself together, I rolled him over on his stomach, pulled my handcuffs out from the back of my belt, and locked his hands securely behind the small of his back.

I heard whistles and then running feet. The Shore Patrol surrounded me and then a couple of MPs. The MPs stood back, as if they wanted nothing to do with this.

I lifted Budusky by the collar and pushed his face back to the pavement.

“Why? Why’d you kill Lockworth?”

His face was contorted, grimacing in pain. His eyes were clenched. I lifted him and slammed him back again.

“It was your dad, wasn’t it? Your dad was a sailor. And he left you, you and your mother.”

It was an old story and didn’t take a great leap of imagination. An illegitimate kid from Norfolk, growing up to hate the navy, joining the army as an MP, finding his opportunity to take his revenge. A few bumps, a few bruises, a few dollars, and a sailor
would get over it. It was the least they owed him for what his dad had done to him and his mother. Until he went too far. And killed.

I heard Budusky talking. It was choking out his throat.

“He left us. So what’s it to you?”

“And when you last heard from him …”

“Yeah.” The tears seemed to be squeezed out of his eyes. “When the last letter came, he was on the
Kitty Hawk
.”

Ernie and I left the next day with the date for Budusky’s court-martial set for next month.

Back in Seoul the first sergeant requested that the venue be changed about sixty miles north, to Camp Henry in Taegu. Ernie and I had to appear in court as witnesses, and it wouldn’t be smart to give the MPs in Pusan a chance to get at us.

I could understand their feelings. They saw us as traitors to the Military Police Corps. Maybe we were.

But none of those MPs ever sat down to write a letter to the parents of the late Petty Officer Third Class Gerald R. Lockworth.

I did.

I
t seemed that half our blotter reports lately had something to do with gambling.

Maybe it was the beautiful autumn in Korea, when the green leaves of summer turn to orange and yellow and brown and people realize that they are heading for that long cold winter we call death.

“Take a chance! You only go round once.”

Not what Buddha or Confucius would have said, but this is the modern Korea and the rules are changing. And the GIs stationed here have nothing better to do than throw away their money.

I thumbed through the blotter reports. A Korean businessman busted in a poker game on the compound; an NCO Club bartender rifling the night’s receipts to cover his “flower card” losses; a GI collared running a shell game in the barracks. And so when the first sergeant called me and Ernie into his office and gave us our assignment, it didn’t come as much of a surprise.

“Somebody stole the football pool on the Army and Navy game over at the Officers’ Club.”

We stared in mock horror. Ernie spoke first.

“Has Eighth Army been put on alert?”

“Yeah, wise guy. On alert. This may not seem too serious to you two, but the Eighth Army chief of staff is about to soil his
shorts. ‘Besmirching the honor of the Army-Navy tradition,’ he said.”

Whenever they start talking tradition, honor, or country, look out for your brisket.

“How much money did he have invested?” I said.

The first sergeant sighed, took a sip of his lukewarm coffee, and ignored me.

“I’d put Burrows and Slabem on the case—they have more respect for the officer corps—but they’re on a case out at ASCOM City. So all I have left is you two.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Top.”

“Don’t mention it.”

The first sergeant set down his coffee and smiled at us. There was a warning in that smile. Something about not screwing up.

“The pool money was collected by the bartender, Miss Pei …”

“A female bartender? On a military installation? I thought the union didn’t allow that.”

“Normally they don’t, but this is the Officers’ Club and the union honchos want to keep the Eighth Army staff happy.”

“At the Enlisted Club, all we have to look at is the crusty old Mr. Huang.”

“You should have gone to Officers’ Candidate School.”

“Too late to become a brown-noser,” Ernie said.

The first sergeant shook his head. “All right, Bascom. And you too, Sueño. I don’t care what your personal feelings are about the Officers’ Club. This is a simple matter, and I want you to keep it that way. No nosing around for things that don’t concern you, and no mouthing off to those officers over there.”

Ernie pointed to his chest and mouthed a silent, “Us?”

“Yeah, you! Miss Pei is over there now, tending bar for the lunch crowd. At about thirteen hundred I want you to check it out and give me a complete report. Keep it simple, keep it neat, and don’t get yourselves into any trouble.”

“Piece of rice cake,” Ernie said. “Not to worry, Top.”

The first sergeant frowned as we rose from our chairs and
walked toward the door. All I could think about was the number of times I’ve gagged on a wad of thick chewy rice cake.

Terrible stuff.

Halfway down the carpeted hallway of the 8th Army Officers’ Club I was slapped with the familiar aroma of stale beer, sliced lemon, and liberally sloshed disinfectant.

Home.

Miss Pei was behind the bar, cleaning up and doing her post-lunch-hour inventory. There weren’t any officers left in the bar, as the chief of staff keeps the place closed during the afternoon.

Miss Pei stood up as we approached. Her face was flushed, and she appeared nervous. It hadn’t been a good day. A wisp of straight black hair hung down across her forehead, and she brushed it back with her chubby hand and short brown forearm.

“You CID?” she asked.

“That’s us,” Ernie said. “Criminal Investigation Division, Yongsan Detachment.”

Miss Pei wore a neatly pressed white blouse and a red skirt. She was a very attractive young lady and I could see why the chief of staff preferred this young flower gracing his cocktail lounge to some old curmudgeon like Mr. Huang.

“All the money is back,” she said. “I made a mistake. There is no problem.”

We looked at her for a moment, not sure what to say, and then a tall, thin American in a baby blue three-piece suit hustled out of the hallway and wound through the cocktail tables.

“George! Ernie! I tried to get in touch with you, but your first sergeant told me you’d already left. It was all a mistake. We found the money locked in the liquor cabinet and it’s all there and there’s nothing to worry about. But I’m glad you guys came anyway. Can I buy you a drink?”

“I thought the bar was closed?”

“For chumps. For you guys it’s always open.”

“I’ll take a beer,” Ernie said.

I shrugged. What the hell. It wasn’t often that Freddy bought anything. Not unless you had him over a barrel. I turned to Miss Pei. “I’ll take a Falstaff.”

“Two Falstaff?” She held up two stubby fingers. Ernie nodded.

I looked at Freddy. “How the hell did you get over here? They kick you out of the NCO Club?”

“Naw, nothing like that,” Freddy said. “That mush-for-brains Ballard was losing money here, so they sent me over two months ago. Already we’re back in the black. Made a profit of two thousand dollars last month, and we’re climbing.”

“You must know how to handle these officers.”

“Nothing to it. Tell ’em that they’re smart and make them feel like they’re getting something for free and they’ll let you manage the place the way you want to manage it.”

“You mean, steal the club blind.”

“Come on, George. You know better than that. We’re audited all the time.”

“A guy like you, Freddy, should be able to outsmart an auditor any day of the week.”

His eyes sparkled at that, but he didn’t say anything.

Ernie finished his beer and ordered another one from Miss Pei. As long as it was free, he didn’t have time to talk.

“You say it was a mistake?” I said.

“Yeah,” Freddy replied. “This new clown of an assistant manager, fresh out of club management school, he told the chief of staff about it before he got his head out of his ass and checked with me. The money was just misplaced, that’s all. I counted it myself. It’s all there.”

“Miss Pei said that the money had been ‘put back.’ ”

Freddy shot her a look. She froze, like a squirrel in front of a hunter.

“Just a figure of speech, that’s all.”

“Let me see the money, Freddy.”

“Sure. No sweat, George. No sweat.”

He snapped his fingers, and Miss Pei bent down into her
liquor cabinet and soon reappeared with a gigantic brandy snifter full of crisp green bills.

“And I’ll need the chart, or whatever you use to record the money put into the pool.”

Freddy went around behind the bar and helped Miss Pei take down a large cardboard poster that was taped to the mirror.

She laid it on the bar. A hundred squares, ten by ten, were drawn on the board. Across the top and down the left side, each square was numbered zero to nine. For a set amount you bought a square, and if your numbers were, say, three and seven, and the final score of the game turned out to be twenty-three to seventeen, the two last digits matched yours and you won the pool—the total amount of money bought in for. If each square cost a dollar, and they were all sold, your take would be a hundred dollars. In this case it was a little steeper.

“Five dollar pool,” I said. “Serious money.”

“The Army-Navy game,” Freddy said. “Half these guys were cadets at West Point way back when Christ was a corporal. It’s like a religion to them.”

I noticed a number of entries marked “SMF” in red felt pen. The chief of staff’s initials.

First I started to count the number of blocks that were filled in with somebody’s signature, but there were so many of them that I just counted the empty blocks. There were five. Ninety-five were filled in. That meant there should be a total of four hundred and seventy-five dollars in the brandy snifter. The bills were crisp, and I had to peel them off one another carefully. Twenty-three twenties, a ten, and a five. The money was all there.

“It balances out, Freddy.”

“You want another beer?”

“No.”

But Ernie did. Miss Pei served him, deftly and silently.

I could have let it go. All the money was there, each square in the poster was accounted for, but there was the crispness of
the bills. They hadn’t been collected by the bartender as she went along during the workday over the weeks preceding the game; a five dollar bill here, a twenty dollar bill there. These bills had all been put in together. Even the serial numbers were in sequence. Fresh stuff. Right out of the Finance Office. My guess was that when somebody blew the whistle on him, Freddy had hustled into his cashier’s cage, gotten the money, and replenished the brandy snifter so everything balanced.

“You mind if I take a look at the liquor cabinet?”

“No. Go ahead.”

I walked around behind the bar. Stepping on the planks, I realized that I towered over Miss Pei. She was much more in control when us foreign monsters were seated on the other side of the counter. The liquor cabinets had sliding wooden doors with hasps and padlocks. None of them appeared to have been tampered with, and there was no evidence of recent repair work. Whoever had gotten to the brandy snifter had access to the area while the liquor cabinets were open, or they used a key.

While I was down there checking, I noticed Miss Pei’s clipboard with her daily bar inventory on it. It listed all the various types of liquor and beer served in the 8th Army Officers’ club. She had accounted for each shot poured, multiplied that total by the cost per drink, and compared the grand total to the amount of money taken in during her shift. It matched to the penny. Not an ounce of liquor had been wasted.

I stood up and rotated my back to loosen it up. “No sign of tampering with the locks.”

“I told you,” Freddy said. “It was all a mistake. The money’s all here, what are you worried about?”

I ignored him and walked to the front of the bar. “Let’s check the cashier’s cage, Freddy.”

As I walked toward the front lobby, Freddy followed. “You don’t have a right! You came here to check out the football pool, not to rummage around in my cashier’s cage.”

I stopped when we reached the hallway and put my finger up to Freddy’s nose. “I’m in the middle of an investigation, Freddy, in a government-owned facility. If you try to interfere, I’ll arrest you.”

Freddy stared at me, his thin brown mustache quivering with rage.

“You’re an idiot, George.”

Ernie passed us on his way to the cashier’s cage, his Falstaff still in hand. “That’s what everybody tells him. Doesn’t do any good, though. He’s still the same.”

The middle-aged bespectacled woman in the cashier’s cage stood up as we entered. I went right to work. The total amount of operating funds for the club was posted on the side of the safe and signed by the Yongsan Compound Director of Personnel and Community Affairs. The total was eight thousand five hundred dollars in US money and fifteen hundred dollars’ worth of Korean
won
. Any monies above that would be cash receipts and would have to be accounted for with a form called the Daily Cashier’s Record.

The big safe was open, and the money was neatly arranged. With Freddy and the cashier watching us, we counted it quickly. It was all there with the addition of the two hundred seventy-three dollars and eighty-five cents taken in by the bar and the six hundred forty-seven dollars taken in by the kitchen during the just completed lunch hour.

There was only one problem. Instead of fifteen hundred dollars’ worth of
won
, the Korean operating bank had nineteen hundred seventy-five dollars’ worth of
won
and the US dollar operating bank was depleted by exactly four hundred seventy-five. It all balanced out, but they had too much Korean money and not enough US money. And the difference was exactly the amount found in the big glass brandy snifter.