Slicky Boys (13 page)

“You sign.
Bali ball”
Hurry.

The GI signed.

The honcho grabbed the clipboard, ripped off a copy of the inventory, thrust it at the GI, and hurried out to his truck.

Ernie elbowed me. “As soon as they fire up the engine and roll forward, we take them.”

That would be proof of intent to abscond with the pilfered goods.

Ernie trotted down the hill. I stayed on the other side of the narrow road, keeping my eyes open.

As the truck driver started the engine and rolled forward, Ernie hopped up on the running board, holding up his badge.

“CID. You’re under arrest. Pull over
now!”

The slicky boys must all have attended the same training session. They knew that with American rules of evidence, if you escape, and you destroy the tangible proof of your crime, it is much harder to convict you. The driver here made the same move the driver at Camp Market had.

He stepped on the gas.

This time, though, Ernie was already aboard the truck.

I ran after them, shouting.
“Chong ji!”
Halt.

They didn’t listen.

The truck careened down the hill. The red brake lights sparkled to life at the bottom of the incline, but only for an instant. The driver jammed the gears and plowed forward, into the heavy afternoon traffic.

Ernie was still holding on. I couldn’t be sure but it looked as if he were trying to claw his way over the driver.

When I hit the bottom of the hill, I could still see the truck. The traffic was heavy, as usual on an afternoon in Seoul. Our jeep was parked two blocks away. Too far away to be of any help now. I kept running after the truck, pushing through the crowds.

Ernie punched the blue-capped honcho. The driver was trying to help his boss but couldn’t do much because he had to keep his eyes on the swirling flow of traffic. The guys squatting in the back seemed confused at first. Then they started to move forward. One of them clutched a short crowbar.

Shit! Even if they didn’t get the best of Ernie, one false move and someone could fall off the truck and be crushed beneath the wheels of the oncoming herd of kimchi cabs.

I wished I had a pistol. Korea is a country with complete gun control. Only the police and the military are allowed to possess weapons. Seldom do we carry arms on a case. Busting a guy for stealing a toaster didn’t seem to require heavy armament, but after dealing with these slicky boys for half a day, I was starting to reconsider.

The traffic ahead opened up and the truck zoomed forward. By now, Ernie had rolled the honcho out of the way and had managed to lift up the front seat. The truck was bouncing wildly, and by cursing and threatening and using the vinyl-covered seat as a shield, Ernie somehow kept the irate deliverymen at bay.

He raised a stainless steel toaster aloft in the air. Suddenly, he tossed it forward and the deliverymen flinched. The toaster bounced once on the back of the cab and caromed off into the cars behind. It hit a bumper and bounced back, hit another and started being kicked around like a soccer ball.

Undaunted, the guy with the crowbar moved forward but Ernie flung the blender at him. It hit his shoulder, flew off into the traffic, and the crowbar clattered after it.

After that, Ernie unleashed his entire arsenal: the iron, a radio, a makeup mirror, the coffeepot. All the appliances crashed into the pavement and were smashed to smithereens.

Cab drivers slammed on their brakes, tires squealed, men cursed.

Up ahead the traffic bunched up and the truck slowed.

Ernie leapt off the truck running, stumbled, hit the pavement with his shoulder and rolled, and finally came to a halt.

I plowed through the pedestrian traffic, knocking people over, ignoring their curses. Ranting, I finally reached him.

“You crazy son of a bitch!” I shouted.

Ernie ignored me and glanced back at the escaping truck. The driver gunned the engine and pulled quickly away. The men in the back growled and slammed their fists into open palms. Ernie watched them fade into the distance.

“Fuck you too,” he said softly.

I knelt down. “Are you out of your gourd? Jumping on a moving truck like that?”

He fingered his head. “No. My gourd’s still here.”

“And your shoulder?”

He rotated it. “No problem.”

“Hey,” I said. “No arrest is worth that much risk.”

“They didn’t get their damn toaster, did they?”

He swiveled toward the road. A half dozen cab drivers had pulled over and were examining the damage to their headlights and grillwork. One of them picked up the dented iron, chattered away to his comrades, and pointed at us.

“Time to fade into the alleys,” Ernie said.

“Yes,” I said, helping him up. “Let’s do that.”

12

W
E CHECKED THE KNP LIAISON OFFICE ON COMPOUND
and had them contact Lieutenant Pak at the Namdaemun Precinct. The homicide investigation downtown had stalled. All leads resulted in nothing so far and they were beginning to discount any thought that the murder of Lance Corporal Cecil Whitcomb might have been a mugging gone wrong.

“They’re counting on you,” the Liaison Officer told us sourly.

Although it was still midafternoon, we purposely avoided the CID office and slid on back to the barracks. In my room, my soiled blue jeans still lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, and they still reeked of field manure.

I sighed and picked them up and carried them down to the latrine. Using hand soap, I washed them as best I could. After wringing them out, I returned to my room and dried them on the radiator.

“The guy wants money,” Ernie said.

“How much?” I asked.

“Twenty thousand won.” About forty dollars. “Just enough to cover his expenses while he sneaks out of town. He’s quitting anyway.”

“Can we trust him?”

“Shit, I don’t know. But it’s the best lead we have so far. A contract security guard. Pissed at the slicky boys. It’s our shot at catching one of them in the flesh.”

We were in my room. Ernie had stopped by and I sat on my bunk in my skivvies. We were both watching my blue jeans dry on the clanging radiator.

Ernie’s houseboy had gone on strike against him, too. The word was out, apparently promulgated by the slicky boys. No Korean workers on-compound were to help Ernie or me in any way. A not very subtle message: Leave us alone!

I had never realized how far the influence of the slicky boys reached, but we were starting to find out.

A trickle of smoke slithered its way into my nose.

“Shit! The jeans!”

I turned them over. They were singed by the radiator, Little black lines across the butt.

“Don’t sweat it,” Ernie said. “Nobody looks at your butt anyway.”

“Only your girlfriends.”

“Hey!”

“Okay,” I said. “Do you think we can write the twenty thousand won off our expense account?”

“Maybe Riley can find a way.”

“Yeah. He’s a genius at that sort of thing. What time is the meeting set up for?”

“Zero one hundred tonight. We pay the guy the money and he leads us to the slicky boy.”

“How does he know the slicky boy is going to strike tonight?”

“It’s set up. The medic who provides the medicine works on a rotating shift. He’s on duty tonight. He steals the shit out of the one-two-one Evac Hospital, leaves it at a prearranged place, the slicky boy climbs the fence and retrieves it, then climbs back out and turns it over to his fence. Sweet deal.”

“And this security guard is supposed to make sure that he’s looking the other way?”

“Right. They pay him later. But lately he figures he’s been getting stiffed.”

“Why?”

“Because the shit they’re bringing out is high-grade American primo pharmaceuticals. Products from all the big companies. Antibiotics that they don’t even make in Korea because the diseases just recently arrived. Germs carried in on jet planes by tourists with hard-ons and too much money to spend. People need the medicine in the ville. But after customs duties are paid, it’s just too expensive. And most of the time it’s not even available anyway.”

I whistled. “High profit margin.”

“You got that right. When a rich guy’s caught a case of the creeping crud, he’s willing to pay through the nose for the right kind of medicine.”

“So what’s this guard going to do?”

“He’s going back to his farm, he says, down in Cholla Province. He’s tired of all this corruption up here in Seoul.”

The people of Cholla had always been at odds with the people here in Kyongki Province. For the last few millennia anyway.

“Why doesn’t he just do his job,” I said, “and quit playing the game with the slicky boys?”

Ernie’s eyes widened. “Are you kidding? They’d fire him, if he was lucky. If they thought he was a turncoat, he’d end up in the Han River.”

“Next to us.”

“Not me,” he said. “They’re never taking Ernie Bascom down.”

I wished I felt as confident as Ernie did. I watched him. I think he was only faking his bravado, but I knew him well enough to realize that he’d never admit it.

“So we have about five hours to wait?”

“Yeah,” Ernie said. “Might as well have a brewski.”

“Capital idea.”

As he rose to walk down the hallway to the vending machine, someone pounded on the door.

“Who is it?” I yelled.

“CQ.”
The Charge of Quarters. “Someone here to see you.”

Ernie and I looked at each other. Without saying anything, he grabbed the entrenching tool stashed with my field gear and padded over to the wall behind the door. When he was in place, he nodded.

I opened the door.

Two MP’s, black helmets glistening, filled my doorway, their fat thumbs hooked over webbed pistol belts.

“Sueño?” one of them asked.

“Yeah.”

“Your presence is requested over at the Provost Marshal’s office.”

“I’m off duty.”

“I don’t think it has anything to do with duty.”

“Then what’s it about?”

The MP tried to look bored. “Don’t know. All we know is that you have to come with us.”

Ernie stepped out from behind the door. “What the fuck’s going on?”

“Ah, Bascom,” the MP said. “How convenient. Your presence is requested also.”

“Me?” Without thinking, Ernie raised the entrenching tool. Both MP’s stepped back. Their hands reached for the butts of their .45’s.

“Drop it, Bascom,” one of them said.

Ernie looked puzzled at first but he swiveled his head and looked at the entrenching tool.

“Oh, this. Sorry.”

He started to lower it but suddenly reared back and threw it at them with all his might.

“Ernie!” I shouted.

Both MP’s dodged and the short shovel slammed against the far wall, gouging a chunk of cement block and kicking up a cloud of dust.

The MP’s rushed into the room. They were big and knew what they were doing, and soon they had wrestled Ernie to the ground and slapped the handcuffs on his wrists. I started tussling with one of them but my heart wasn’t in it because I knew it was absolutely the wrong thing to do. Instead I held the MP back a little, yelling at the other one to take it easy on Ernie.

When they had him secured, the MP’s stood up and one of them pointed at me.

“Put your clothes on!”

I walked over to the radiator and slipped on the still damp blue jeans. After I had thrown on my jacket and my sneakers, the MP told me to turn around. He snapped the cuffs on my wrists.

They marched us outside to a line of vehicles waiting, red lights swirling.

In the back of the jeep, Ernie leaned over.

“I didn’t actually mean to hit them with the entrenching tool,” he whispered to me. “I missed on purpose.”

“That was considerate of you.”

He sat back in his seat.

“I’m a considerate kind of guy.”

13

A
N MP HELD OPEN THE DOOR AND THE FIRST SERGEANT
walked into the holding cell. Top’s stubbled jowls sagged and he wiped his face with an open palm, as if trying to wake up from a bad dream.

“What’s this about you guys resisting arrest?”

“Not so,” Ernie said. “They never told us we were under arrest.”