Slicky Boys (25 page)

He pronounced the name
Way-tuh-comb.
Koreans have to break down harsh consonant endings into separate syllables.

I said, “Way-tuh-comb met someone who was very tough.”

“Yes,” Lieutenant Pak agreed. “Maybe Tae Kwon Do.”

The Korean form of karate. A lot of kicks used.

Lance Corporal Cecil Whitcomb, although not a big man, had been a trained soldier. Whoever met him in that dark alley and took his knife away from him must’ve been a skilled street fighter indeed. I started to form a picture in my mind. A picture that corresponded with the cuts I’d seen on Whitcomb’s hands and arms. Whoever had attacked him, once they had his knife, performed a deadly dance with him first. Sliced him lightly on the arms and wrists and hadn’t moved in immediately for the fatal blow. Maybe taunting him for fun? Or trying to obtain information from someone who, at the moment, must’ve been a terrified man.

I knew martial arts experts who claimed they could take a knife away from a grown man. I’d never seen it done, except in movies, which are all bullshit. In training we used wooden knives and the instructor went through the moves of snatching a blade from an armed man step by step. But I never believed it would work. One jab in the calf or the forearm and all the lessons in the world would bleed right out of you.

Whoever had taken this knife from Whitcomb had to be not only highly skilled but also as fast as an enraged cougar. And he had planned it carefully. Isolated spot, an open level area, about the size of a prizefighting ring. The killer had looked forward to this. And enjoyed it.

And when he tired of playing with his living ball of yarn, he had killed Whitcomb as easily as biting into the neck of a helpless kitten.

But why had Whitcomb decided to carry his Gurkha knife that night?

Supposedly, he’d been on his way to see an old girlfriend. Not a meeting that usually requires being armed.

But now I knew that Whitcomb didn’t even know Miss Ku. I closed my eyes and tried to picture the note she’d paid us to deliver to Whitcomb. I’d only glanced at it briefly but I remembered a few of the words. One of them was “secrets.”

Whitcomb had gone out to Namdaemun, armed, probably for some reason having to do with these “secrets.”

So the killer knew that Whitcomb would be on guard.

Without any visible signal from Lieutenant Pak, the driver shifted the car into gear and we rolled forward. We drove down the Main Supply Route, past all the shuttered shops and chop houses and past the Itaewon Police Station. At the main drag of the nightclub district the driver turned right and the engine churned steadily up the hill. All the hot joints sat quiet and dead, shrouded in fresh snow. At the top of the hill, we made a slow U-turn. Tonight these alleys would be staffed by dozens of half-naked business girls.

“You never call me,” Lieutenant Pak said.

I didn’t answer.

“So we come Itaewon, look for you.”

Lieutenant Pak laid the knife down on the seat, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and offered me one.
Kobuk-son.
Turtle boat brand. I turned it down. Nicotine is one of the few bad habits I never acquired.

He lit the cigarette with a wooden match and snuffed that out with a fierce wave. The harsh aroma invaded my nostrils. I tried not to snort.

“You like tea, I think,” Pak said.

I gazed out the window, letting him get to the point in his own good time. Like the killer of Cecil Whitcomb, he was toying with me. I wasn’t going to play along.

“You and your partner,” he said, “you went to the Kayagum Teahouse. Owner there was very frightened by two big-nose foreigners give her hard time. She say you break all her teacups, frighten her nephew. Keep ask about someone named Miss Ku. Owner went to Itaewon Police Station. Cry very much. They call me.”

That was sweet of him. He already had feelers out here in Itaewon in case Ernie or I drew any attention to ourselves.

“The lady, she frightened but she have very strong mind.” He pointed to his temple. “She remember another name you mentioned. Eun-hi. In the U.N. Club.”

I turned slowly to look at him, trying to keep my face composed. Pak would know about how we roughed up Eun-hi and her girlfriend, Suk-ja.

“Eun-hi is a very big woman,” Pak said. “Big
jeejee.”
He cupped his hands in front of his chest. “Big
kundingi.”
He patted his rump. “Like an American woman. I think that’s why GI’s like her and that’s why she work in U.N. Club.”

I didn’t comment on his social observations. Eun-hi worked in the U.N. Club because of poverty more than anything else, but he already knew that.

“I have long talk with Eun-hi. And her girlfriend called Suk-ja.” He shook his head. “Oh, she don’t like you very much.”

He peered at me curiously. “Geogie, you shouldn’t punch woman.”

“I didn’t punch anybody,” I said.

“Okay. Maybe your friend did.”

“What’d Eun-hi tell you?” I asked.

“She said that woman paid her to give you message. To meet her at Kayagum Teahouse.”

“Happens all the time.”

“And this woman must be Miss Ku who you asked Kayagum Teahouse owner about.”

“That might be her name. I forget.”

“What’d Miss Ku want from you?”

“The usual.”

His eyes widened in mock curiosity.

“She wanted us to black-market,” I said.

“Yes. Good money. What did you say?”

“We said no. Forget it.”

“Then why you go back and bother Eun-hi day after Whitcomb was killed?”

“Look, Lieutenant Pak. Are we supposed to be cooperating on this case, or are you investigating me and Ernie?”

He pulled deeply on his cigarette, held the smoke for a long time, and let it out. Sometimes I swear Korean cops must study old gangster movies as part of their training.

The driver had slowly cruised back down the Main Supply Route. The barbed wire atop the walls of Yongsan Compound loomed ahead.

“One more thing, Geogie.”

“What’s that?”

“Your interrogation technique, not too good.”

“What do you mean?”

“Eun-hi. She told us something that she did not tell you.

“Like what?”

“Like in U.N. Club that night there was a strange man.

I snapped my head and stared into his face. “What strange man?”

“The night she gave you a message. An American was there. Someone Eun-hi never see before.”

“What was he doing?”

“Nothing. Just watching. And after you left, he left, too.”

Maybe he was the same foreigner who had paid Miss Ku to deliver the message to us. “Has she seen him since then?”

“No. Never.”

“What did he look like?”

He shrugged. “Like GI. Big nose.”

“Brown hair? White hair? Black hair?”

“Maybe light color. GI haircut. Tall, like you. Strong. Not fat. Blue jeans, shirt, jacket.” He shrugged. “Like all GI’s.”

“Did she talk to him?”

“No. Another girl served him. She don’t remember anything either.”

“You believe her?”

“Yes. Just another customer. He did nothing unusual.”

“Then why did Eun-hi remember him?”

“Because he stared at you. When you left, he leave full beer. Follow.”

She’d remember a full beer. Your typical Cheap Charley GI would never walk off and leave a virgin bottle of suds.

The police sedan pulled up to the front of the main gate of Yongsan Compound. I opened the door and started to climb out.

“Remember, Geogie.”

I looked back.

“You off case now. But maybe this man, maybe he don’t know that.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe he doesn’t.”

I grabbed the handle and slammed the door.

The guy in the U.N. Club whom Eun-hi had seen could’ve been just your regular lookey-loo. Ernie and I attract a lot of attention everywhere we go. Most people don’t have their own life; they like to stare at ours. I’m dark, tall, big, Mexican, and used to being stared at. Ernie is always doing something weird. And girls like him. Why, I’ve never been quite sure. But when women look at him, guys will be jealous and stare.

Leaving the U.N. Club after we did could’ve been just a coincidence, and not touching a full beer could’ve meant that the guy either had a sour stomach or suddenly decided to reform.

Maybe.

And maybe he was following us.

I sat at Riley’s desk with a big, steaming cup of snack bar coffee, reading the just-flown-in-from-Tokyo edition of the
Pacific Stars
&
Stripes.
I had stopped at the barracks, showered, shaved, and changed into my coat and tie. I felt a hell of a lot better. Revitalized.

The big double door down the hallway creaked open, then banged shut. Footsteps clattered down the varnished wood slat floor. When he burst through the door, he looked as pleased with himself as a deacon on his way to church.

“Ernie,” I said. “What the hell you doing in so early?”

He marched straight to the unplugged coffee um and rattled the empty shell.

“Jesus, no java. How do they expect a man to live?”

I realized that although he was clean and dressed neatly, his eyes were rimmed with red and his cheeks seemed to be sagging a bit.

“She kept me up all night,” he said.

“Miss Ku?”

“Yeah. Crazy broad. I thought she was going to scratch off my third layer of skin.”

I shook my head. This meant more trouble with the Nurse. She’d attacked him with sticks and knives before. All I could do was pray she didn’t get her hands on a bazooka.

In the distance, doors slammed open. Upstairs, shoes pounded on cement. Eighth Army was coming to life.

Ernie found a cup and I shared half of my coffee with him. We sat like dazed prizefighters between rounds, sipping gratefully on life-giving fluid.

I tried to think of the case but nothing fit. Not yet.

When Riley stormed through the door of the Admin Office, he stopped and looked back and forth between us, pink tongue flicking between crooked teeth.

“Damn. The Honor Guard is already here.”

There was so much starch in his fatigues that when he sat down at his desk the fabric crackled.

Ernie started fiddling with the coffee urn again. “Where can I get some coffee around here?”

Riley ignored us. He had already grabbed a stack of paperwork from his in-basket and, licking his thumb every third page, riffled through it.

“I need something from you, Riley,” I said.

“Have to do with the Whitcomb case?”

“Maybe.”

“Name it. At your service.”

“We’re looking for a former GI.”

“Good. That narrows it down to about fifty million souls.”

“He’s here in Korea.”

“Scratch forty-nine million.”

“He might’ve been involved in black market operations. Phony Ration Control Plates. Stuff like that.”

Without looking up, Riley reached for a pad of paper and a pencil and started making notes.

“I figure we should check the KNP Liaison blotter reports. Find out if any Americans have been arrested by the Korean authorities lately for customs violations, assaults, anything at all. If so, I want all the information we can find on them. Date they entered the country. If they’ve left yet. Anything.”

“Won’t be much,” Riley said. “The ROK’s don’t arrest many tourists. Bad for the travel industry. If they get out of line, they just hustle them onto the next flight out of country.”

“Yeah. But find out what you can.”

“A former GI, huh? I’ll check the AWOL register too.”

“Great.” I don’t know why I hadn’t thought about that. The brain wasn’t functioning well this morning.

“And ROK immigration,” Riley added. “See if we’ve got any
Miguks
who’ve overstayed their welcome.”

“And other foreigners, too,” I said. “There’s always the possibility that he’s not really an American. After all, it was an Englishman who was killed.”

“Right you are. Anything else?”

“Don’t say anything to the First Sergeant about this.”

He looked at me.

“Not until I’m sure.”

He nodded. “I’ll make some calls.”

I stood and grabbed Ernie by the elbow.

“Come on, pal. Let’s go. I’ll buy you some coffee at the snack bar.”

That mollified him somewhat but he was still grumbling as we walked down the long empty corridor and hopped down the stone steps outside to the jeep.

I told Ernie about what Lieutenant Pak had told me and about the guy who’d been following us. He didn’t like it any better than I did.

At the snack bar we bought two cups of coffee and sat down against the wall.

I thought about the Tiger Lady’s
kisaeng
house and the deep caverns beneath the streets of Itaewon and the phoney ration control plate we had found at the Hyundai Print Shop. None of it did any good. I didn’t know what we had. I didn’t know how big it was. Or if any of what we’d learned had any importance at all. The case was wrapping itself around me like the tentacles of a giant squid, and I knew that if I didn’t swim up for air soon it would drag me down into the slime and devour me bit by slowly chewed bit.

As if he were reading my thoughts, Ernie began to speak.

“Miss Ku didn’t say much,” he said. “Just that the guy was American and that he gave her real detailed instructions on what he wanted her to do. Go to Itaewon, find us, pretend she was a jilted girlfriend, and give us the note. She only saw him twice. The first night he came in with Print Shop Chong. Three or four nights later, he came back and made the deal with her. She doesn’t even know his name.”

Ernie glanced at me nervously. I knew what was happening. He was feeling guilty for having cheated on the Nurse. But that was his business. I had no opinion about it one way or the other, but he kept on chattering—unusual for him—as if he wanted to justify himself.

“I tried to pry more information out of her. But I believe that’s all she knows. After all, it was a straight money proposition. She does a job for him, he pays her.”

“But she saw him one more time,” I said.

Ernie ladled more sugar into his coffee. “What do you mean?”

“In Itaewon. After she talked to us. To receive the second half of the money.”