Slicky Boys (21 page)

“Jesus H. Christ,” Ernie said. “That figures.”

The flagpole loomed above us, fluttering listlessly. Moist snowflakes plopped into the mud.

When we checked at the classified documents center, the civilian clerk told us that Strange was attending monthly training with all the other NCO’s assigned to 8th Imperial Army. We found out where the training was being conducted and walked past the parade field and trudged up the hill through some supply huts to the leveled-off training area.

A twenty-man tent had been set up amongst the trees. When someone ducked out through a canvas flap, a smudge of tear gas wafted through the pine-scented grove.

“They’re nothing but a bunch of clerks and jerks,” Ernie said. “What do they need CBR training for?”

CBR: Chemical, Biological, and Radiological. Three of the army’s favorite subjects.

“In case they have to use tear gas to put down a riot or something.”

“Strange? Put down a riot? I’d like to see that.”

We found him off by himself, under the tree line, smoking a
tambei.
He wore fatigues that were too tight around the butt and too baggy at the shoulders. It wasn’t so much the cut of the uniform but the cut of his body. His jump boots were as unscratched as if they’d come out of the shoe box that morning. The highly spit-shined tips pointed to either side at a wide angle. He looked like a web-footed paratrooper with a weight problem. When we came close he peered at us through his tinted glasses and grabbed the cigarette holder in his mouth, tapping it with his pinky, dropping ash onto the ground in front of him.

“Hmmm,” he said. “Had any
strange
lately?”

I could’ve told him about Eun-hi and Suk-ja and wrestling with their naked bodies, but I didn’t want to get him all worked up.

“No, Harvey,” I said. “No strange lately. We’re here for some information.”

His real name was Harvey and he didn’t like to be called by his nickname, which was Strange. Primarily, I supposed, because people who really are strange don’t like to be reminded of it.

“Information, eh? That’s a valuable commodity.”

Ernie stepped forward. “Have you ever met Annie and Miss Inchon?”

His eyes widened behind the dark glasses. “Who?”

“They work in Itaewon. Let me tell you about them.”

While Ernie went on with his made-up story, I surveyed the training site. Men were lined up, white scorecards clutched in their hands. As they took their turns going into the tent they handed their card to one of the cadre NCO’s. Before stepping inside, they slipped their black protective masks over their heads, blew out and cleared them, and made sure all the seals were tight. Once inside they stayed for only a few seconds. They had to take off their masks and recite their Social Security numbers or the first lines of the Gettysburg Address or something inane like that. Most of them didn’t finish even the most simple dissertation before they burst madly out of the tent flap, coughing and hacking.

The idea was to get you used to being uncomfortable. Sometimes I figured that was the sole purpose of the entire U.S. Army training program.

When I turned back, Ernie had finished his lies, and Strange’s eyeballs were glazed over.

“Harvey,” I said.

He didn’t answer. I tapped him on the cheek. The flesh quivered like refrigerated lard.

“Harvey!”

“What?”

“Tell me about Captain Burlingame.”

“Hard-ass,” he said.

“What else?”

“Sloppy with his classified documents.”

“Sloppy?”

“Thinks his people are above making mistakes. Doesn’t like it when we come down to inspect his security arrangements. Thinks he’s getting back at us by not signing and dating all the log-in sheets.”

“How many classified documents do Burlingame’s people handle?”

“Loads. Were you in his office?”

“Yes.”

“Then you were sitting right on top of the J-two vault. Access downstairs.”

Cecil Whitcomb was into stealing things that he could immediately resell on the black market. He was a petty thief, not very skilled. If he’d been an expert we might not’ve even noticed his little crime wave. So would he have risked going after classified documents? Probably not. He wasn’t stupid. Missing typewriters can be ignored. Missing classified documents can’t. Besides, where would he find an outlet for military secrets? They’re not easy to sell. Even though there are plenty of spies in Korea, contacting them is not easy. They don’t advertise in newspapers.

“Has J-two had any problems? Missing documents? Stuff like that?”

“Nah. They’ve been lucky. But if they keep up with sloppy procedures they’ll get burned eventually. Then they better not come crying to me.”

So that wasn’t it. The fact that classified documents were nearby when Cecil stole a typewriter was just a coincidence. Anyway, where could he steal something in 8th Army Headquarters and not be near classified documents? The whole place was crawling with them.

Strange pulled on his cigarette. I watched his thin lips crinkle around the tobacco-stained holder. It wasn’t a pleasant sight.

“Have there been any other security problems lately?” I asked. “Anything unusual?”

“There’s always something unusual in security.”

“Here on Yongsan Compound?”

“No. Not here. Other places. Only rumors though.”

A gruff voice bellowed beside the tent. “Second squad! Fall in.”

Strange plucked his cigarette stub out of the holder and dropped it to the mud.

“Gotta go.”

“Harvey,” I said. “Check with the other security NCO’s. Especially here on compound. Find out if they’ve run into any problems.”

I didn’t think there had been any, but since Cecil Whitcomb had broken into at least one office that housed classified documents it had to be checked out.

“I will,” he said. “But if you get any
strange
…”

“Yeah. Don’t worry. I’ll tell you about it.”

We watched him waddle off. When he was out of earshot, I leaned toward Ernie.

“It’s good to know,” I said, “that he and others like him are maintaining a constant state of readiness.”

“Yeah,” Ernie said. “But ready for what?”

I didn’t know the answer to that one.

We walked down the hill, away from the burning gas that floated in the gray sky. Broad steps between whitewashed brick led down to an open iron grating, behind which sat a counter and a giant reading a comic book. Palinki, unit armorer for the CID Detachment. He looked up from the magazine.

“What’s up, brotha? Gotta shoot somebody again?”

Ernie offered the big Samoan some gum and he accepted it in his thick fingers without saying a word.

“I need a pistol, Palinki,” I said.

“That’s my line of work,” he said. “Hold on.”

He rummaged amongst the rows of oiled metal until he found something, returned to the counter, and plopped it down in front of me. A .45.

“Got anything smaller?”

“Sure.” He looked slightly disappointed. “You’re not planning on blowing anybody away?”

“Not today. I want something that won’t be conspicuous.”

“What?”

“Something that I can hide.”

“Sure, brotha. Can do.”

Palinki was one of the friendliest guys you ever met. When he was sober. But when he was drunk he could turn into the biggest pain in the ass in the universe. Out in Itaewon, Ernie and I had pulled him away from trouble more than once. Lately, he’d been seeing the chaplain and had enrolled in some sort of alcohol-and-drug rehabilitation program. That’s why Ernie wasn’t talking to him. He was afraid something might rub off.

Palinki prowled around the gleaming rows of black metal, the aroma of light oil wafting out toward us like a lethal pomade.

When he returned he slapped something on the counter. A small revolver, almost hidden in his huge brown fist.

“Snub-nosed thirty-eight,” he said. “Just the thing.”

I adjusted the strap around my chest, put my jacket back on, and shrugged my shoulders.

“Fits good.”

“Palinki’s Fine Tailoring. That’s us.”

I thanked him and we trotted out of the cement cellar back up into the cold wintry wind and the warm jeep. Ernie had left it idling. When we jumped back in, he let out the clutch and jammed it into gear.

“No more riding in wooden carts,” Ernie said.

“Right. And no more letting the bad guys wrap us in canvas.”

I tapped the .38. It felt snug and secure against my chest.

20

T
HE NURSE WORE A BRIGHT BLUE COTTON DRESS WITH
long sleeves and puffed shoulders, and a single strand of imitation pearls around her neck. A stainless steel barrette held back her long black hair, and she clasped Ernie’s hand and smiled and bounced as she walked.

If she hadn’t been concerned with appearing mature, she would’ve skipped like a little girl. That’s how happy she was.

The snow had stopped and although the sun hadn’t quite decided to make an appearance, it was thinking about it.

We left the jeep behind on the compound because parking in downtown Seoul is impossible, and besides, we’d be asking for information and didn’t want to intimidate anyone by appearing too official. The city bus was packed. Bodies pressed against me and the entire rocking enclosure reeked of fermented cabbage and garlic. I kept a close check on my wallet and the pistol hanging heavily beneath my armpit.

The Nurse had marked at least a dozen destinations down on a tourist map of Seoul. Our first stop, a training school for Korean traditional music in Ahyon-dong, wasn’t very productive. The caretaker was too frightened when she saw Caucasian faces to talk to us. The next place was a music conservatory in the Okchon District. The headmaster consented to grant us a bit of his time.

I explained the situation as best I could, letting the Nurse translate my English into Korean to give her good face. The headmaster nodded respectfully, checking us out all the while, wondering what two GI’s and a business girl were doing in this part of Seoul. Finally, he asked me a question.

“Did you see this woman’s calluses?”

I nodded.

“Which fingers?”

I pointed to all the fingers on the left hand and the forefinger and the middle finger on the right.

He nodded. Miss Ku was a
kayagum
player, all right.

He held out his hand. “Were the calluses as big as mine?”

I shook my head. Not nearly. Enormous welts rose off of his skin, almost as if he had two fingertips instead of one.

“Then they were smaller?”

“Yes.”

“How small?”

Through the Nurse, I tried to describe the size of Miss Ku’s calluses but I wasn’t communicating very well. In frustration, the headmaster called for one of his students. A girl of about thirteen trotted over and bowed.

“Myong-chun,” the headmaster told her, “hold out your hands.”

Obediently, she did. The soft skin was distorted by hard lumps at the tips of her fingers.

“Myong-chun is one of our best students,” the headmaster said. “She has been studying the
kayagum
for six years. How did this woman’s hands compare?”

I studied Myong-chun’s calluses carefully, trying to remember every detail of Miss Ku’s hands. I had seen them in dim light, in the teahouse in Itaewon. Still, I remembered because the ugliness of the calluses had contrasted sharply with the general softness and beauty of her skin.

“The woman we are looking for,” I said, “had calluses on her fingers about twice as big as those of Myong-chun.”

The Nurse translated. The headmaster told Myong-chun to return to her studies. The girl bowed and scurried off.

“Then the woman you are looking for,” the headmaster told us, “is a serious student of the
kayagum.
Ten years, at least. If she studied that hard, and if she’s as beautiful as you say, she shouldn’t have difficulty finding employment.”

“Where?” I asked.

The headmaster rubbed his chin. “It is difficult to say, but most young women employ the same method to find a job.”

“What’s that?”

He answered using a Korean term that I was unfamiliar with. The Nurse, also, had trouble translating it. After a little discussion, we figured it out.

Miss Ku, like most young female musicians in Seoul, would’ve used a talent agency. An agency organized for the purpose of finding jobs for
kisaeng. Kisaeng
are the Korean equivalent of Japanese geisha girls, but theirs is an even more ancient art. They play the
kayagum,
sing, dance, and beat drums, and they have been entertaining royalty for uncounted centuries. Now, of course, they’re reduced to performing for tourists. And Japanese businessmen here on sex tours.

Without prompting from me, the Nurse asked the headmaster for a list of agencies. He said there were only three major ones. He didn’t have their addresses but he gave her the names. The Nurse produced a small notebook from her purse and, her face crinkled in concentration, scribbled down the name of each agency.

We bowed to the headmaster and thanked him.

Ernie complained about being hungry, so we stopped in a noodle shop with a picture of three frolicking eels over the door. I don’t like seafood much, especially if it looks like a snake, so I ordered plain rice with bean curd soup. Ernie and the Nurse both asked for noodles with eel flesh. When the steaming bowls were delivered, they dug in with zest.