Ping-Pong Heart

– 15-

“I’m ready,” Strange said.

“Ready for what?” I asked.

“For you to tell me about the strange you’ve been getting.”

“What’ve you done to earn it?” Ernie asked.

“What do you mean?” Strange’s eyebrows drooped and once again he looked aggrieved.

“I mean you haven’t told us squat. Not about Major Schultz. Not about nothing.”

“What do you want to know?”

Strange’s cigarette lighter waggled with excitement. Ernie reached out and, with the tip of his thumb and forefinger, held it steady.

“Everything,” Ernie said. “Start from the beginning.”

Strange kept his hands flat on the table. “Let go of my cigarette holder.”

His words were garbled because he was keeping his lips tightened around the holder.

“Why don’t you ever put a cigarette into this thing?” Ernie asked.

“I’m trying to quit.” This came out as something like, “I dying to kit.”

Ernie let go of the holder. “Okay, Strange. Spill.”

“The name’s Harvey.” He grabbed the cigarette holder, pulled it out of his mouth, and tugged a paper napkin from the stainless steel dispenser. Ostentatiously, he used it to scrub the holder thoroughly before shoving it back between his lips.

“Major Schultz,” Ernie repeated.

“Mama’s boy,” Strange told him. “Or more exactly, Daddy’s boy. Been working for Colonel Jameson for years, ever since he was a First Looey.” First Lieutenant. “The Colonel took care of him, made sure he received top efficiency reports, made sure he got every promotion as soon as he was eligible for it.”

“Why?”

“That’s the mystery. There’s some talk about the Colonel and Schultz’s wife.”

“People always say shit like that,” I said.

Strange smirked at me. “Do they?”

“Sure,” I replied. “Gossip, that’s all it is.”

“Well,” Strange said, leaning back in his chair, “if you don’t want to hear gossip . . .”

Ernie grabbed the cigarette holder again and pulled Strange back toward the table.

“Keep going,” he said, glaring at him.

Strange pulled the holder free, straightened his khaki shirt, and continued to talk.

“So there’s that, about the Colonel and Mrs. Schultz. Only a rumor, sure, but it’s a fact that Schultz owed his successful military career, as far as it got, to his daddy, Colonel Jameson.”

“Okay,” I said.

Strange seemed pleased with himself, now that his cigarette holder was free and he had our full attention. He frowned. “Don’t I get any hot chocolate?”

“For Christ’s sake,” Ernie said, exasperated. “Sueno’s going to tell you about the strange he’s getting. What more do you want?”

“Hot chocolate,” Strange repeated.

I rose to walk to the serving line. “With two marshmallows,” Strange said.

Next to the big steel coffee urn was a small hot chocolate dispenser. I pulled a steaming cup. Using tongs, I plopped one, then a second marshmallow into the concoction. At the cash register, the middle-aged Korean lady who seemed to always be on duty looked at me curiously.

“Not for me,” I said and slapped the money on the counter.

When I returned, Strange frowned and said, “No spoon?”

Ernie was about to strangle him, but I hurried back to the counter and plucked a small stirring spoon out of the huge array of utensils. When I came back, Strange finally smiled, wiped down the spoon with another napkin, and stirred the marshmallows into his chocolate until they were frothy at the edges. Then, one by one, he pulled them out of the cup and slid them into his gullet. Ernie grimaced. I looked away. I’d seen Strange do this before, but no matter how many times I witnessed it, it was still disgusting. I’m not sure why. He had a talent for these things. He sipped on the chocolate and, finally satisfied, set the cup down.

“The Five Oh Worst,” he said. The 501st Military Intelligence Battalion, where our twerp pal Fenton was from.

“What about them?” Ernie asked.

“That’s who Schultz was after. Headquarters Company has been running a semi-autonomous operation for years. Previous J-2s haven’t given a shit about them, too busy worrying about the daily briefings they have to give to the Chief of Staff Eighth Army. So, year after year, the Five Oh First has been running their own show.”

“Until Colonel Jameson arrived.”

“Right. He wanted to bring the hammer down on them.”

“And Major Schultz was the hammer.”

“So they tell me,” Strange said. “Of course, all this is just rumor. Gossip, you might say.”

“Okay, gossip. We got it, Strange. Just tell us what you know.”

“The name’s Harvey.”

“Right. Harvey. Sorry.”

Strange slurped on more hot chocolate, glanced at us to make sure we were still enraptured, and continued to talk.

“The commander of the Five Oh First Headquarters Company is Captain Blood.”

“Captain Blood?”

“Yeah, cool name, huh? Like Errol Flynn.”

“That’s his real name?” I asked.

Strange looked slightly offended. “Check the personnel records if you don’t believe me. Lance P. Blood, Captain, O-3, US Army.”

“What’s the ‘P’ stand for?” Ernie asked.

“Penis. At least, that’s what everybody says. Captain Blood is a real dick. And Headquarters Company is the only company in the Battalion that counts. The other companies are on the books but not staffed, only there to be activated in case of war.”

“What does the Five Oh First do?”

“Counter-intel. Keeping us safe from those pesky North Koreans.”

“Spy hunters.”

“Right. And that’s how they’ve been able to expand over the years: keep scaring one Eighth Army Commander after the other as to the extent of North Korean espionage. From what I hear, it’s all bull. But if you see a spy under every mattress, you get more money in your budget, more spooks assigned to your command, and new branch offices throughout the country.”

“Branch offices?”

“Yeah. Detached subordinate units. Small desks from Munsan to Pusan, all staffed by spooks under the command of Captain Blood.”

“How come we haven’t heard about them?”

“Because you’ve been sitting on your ass over at CID.” He glugged down the last of his hot chocolate. “Too worried about cute Korean dollies black marketing duty-free goods out of the PX and Commissary. Not worried enough about North Korean spies.”

“Has the Five Oh First actually caught any Commie spies?” Ernie asked.

Strange shrugged. “Depends on who you ask. They’ve railroaded enough guys out of the Army. Some of them even ended up in Leavenworth.” The Federal Penitentiary in Leavenworth, Kansas. Serious business. “But real North Korean spies? None that I’ve heard. They mainly deal in accusation and innuendo.”

“But they stay busy?”

“Very. Captain Blood is always on the road, zipping around the country to personally oversee their operations. He’s after his next promotion. Once he’s a field grade officer, watch out.”

“How did he and Major Schultz get along?”

“Screaming matches, they tell me. Both of them with tempers that exploded about half a dozen times a day. Major Schultz had Colonel Jameson backing him up. Good thing he did, because Lance Blood is as tall as Sueno here, but with muscle on him. They say he bench presses four-twenty.”

Four hundred and twenty pounds? I could bench press two-forty and was proud of it.

“Four-twenty ain’t shit,” Ernie said.

“You try it.”

“When I have time,” Ernie replied.

“So did Major Schultz conduct a formal inspection of the Five Oh First?” I asked.

Strange grinned. It was a hideous sight to see. His cigarette holder waggled between greasy lips, and his eyes seemed to grow even more opaque behind his thick sunglasses.

“Thought you’d never ask.” He unfastened a center button on his khaki shirt and slid out a folded packet of paper. “Right, here it is.” I reached for it, but he quickly slid it back into his shirt and refastened the button.

“Uh uh uh,” he said. “First what you promised.” I glanced at Ernie. “No, not him. You.” Then he leaned closer to me and said, “Had any strange lately?”

I was tempted to punch him out right there, rip the copy of Major Schultz’s 501st inspection report out of his shirt, forget Strange and continue on with our investigation. The problem was that he was our only source for information directly from the Headquarters Command Staff of 8th Army. Asking for classified information formally was a waste of time. In the Army, it’s always safer to disallow a request for information than grant it. You can’t get into trouble by saying no.

Ernie patted my arm as if to say, We can’t afford to lose him. Then he rose from his seat and walked out of the snack bar, leaving me alone with Strange. Strange leaned even closer until I could smell his hot breath. “Well?” he said.

My problem was that I hadn’t had any strange lately. And even if I had, I’d sure as hell never tell him about anything with Leah Prevault. Even if I left her name out of the story, it would still feel like a betrayal.

“Strange,” I said.

“Yes,” he replied. “Strange.”

I remembered a blue movie I’d seen years ago in high school. My classmate’s older brother had a projector and some 16-millimeter film, and he’d shown it to us in his parents’ basement. To be honest, I’d been shocked by it at the time, but like the other kids in the room, I pretended that I experienced such things every day. I looked back at Strange, trying to imagine myself back in that formative moment. Stammering, I started to describe what I’d seen.

After a few sentences, Strange interrupted me. “Not the guy in the gorilla suit.”

“Huh?”

“That’s what you’re describing. That old smut film about a guy in a gorilla suit who breaks into some innocent girl’s house and rapes her.”

“I didn’t say anything about a gorilla suit.”

“I know the plot,” Strange said, crossing his arms and leaning back. “I want something real. Not made up.”

Apparently, Strange was an expert at these things. How did Ernie fake it? Suddenly it occurred to me that maybe he didn’t.

I started to talk. But after every sentence or two, Strange interrupted me and told me he didn’t believe my story. Finally, after several attempts, I remembered an article I’d read on the Stanislavsky method, something about putting yourself into the story and living it to make your emotions more believable. I remembered what Miss Jo had said to that hapless GI: “You slicky my ping-pong heart.” I took a deep breath and tried again, describing an Itaewon bar, a business girl approaching me and whispering those words. My imagination began to move forward on its own: We walked to her hooch, I handed her a folded stack of bills and she began to undo my belt. This time, Strange didn’t interrupt me. I envisioned Miss Jo Kyong-ja with her clothes off-it wasn’t difficult, especially after seeing Torrelli’s Polaroid of her in a two-piece bathing suit. I took her in my arms, feeling her closeness and warmth, hoping upon hope that she was still actually, truly alive.

When I was done, Strange seemed satisfied. He unbuttoned his khaki blouse, pulled out the paperwork, and set it down in the middle of the table.

“The last report Major Schultz turned in,” he told me, “just before he died.” He stood up and said, “Thanks for the hot chocolate. But that ping-pong heart bit, you’re going to have to work on it.”

He waddled his way out of the 8th Army Snack Bar. I sat there for a few moments, feeling soiled. Then I grabbed the report and, holding it with two fingers, walked back to the CID office, wishing I had an evidence bag to drop it in.