Ping-Pong Heart

– 29-

Smoke billowed from the bokdok-bang. The double-door was slid open and inside Officer Oh flailed away with her blue coat, trying to bat out the fire. Two men were trying to stop her until they spotted Mr. Kill barreling toward them. They were young, barely out of their teenage years, but both were husky and towered over Mr. Kill. They took martial arts stances. Kill plowed into the biggest one head-first. The thug let out a woof of air. Somehow, Kill maintained his balance, swiveled, and kicked the other punk in the groin. Then, with his right fist, he popped a jab into the first one’s nose. Blood spattered through the smoke. Within half a minute, both of them rolled to the ground, holding their faces and trying to protect their stomachs.

Ernie and I ran up to help, but it was too late. Both thugs had been reduced to pulsating puddles of goo. All we could do now was cuff them, just in case.

“Remind me not to mess with Mr. Kill,” Ernie told me out of the side of his mouth.

Now that the attackers were down, two neighbors appeared: one with a fire extinguisher, the other with a pail of water. Soon we were dousing the flames that had originated in the filing cabinets. Mr. Kill pulled Officer Oh outside and was speaking to her calmingly.

Apparently, while she was concentrating on reading the files, she’d been surprised by the two men. One of them punched her and she was dazed for a moment. When she regained control of her senses, the flames were already consuming the file cabinets. She then did her best to put them out.

By now, the local KNPs had arrived. Mr. Kill showed them his identification, and the uniformed men bowed. He asked them if they knew the two young men, and they did; they were a pair of local strong-arm thieves. One was in good enough condition to be slapped alert, and in a groggy voice, whining like a child, he explained to his KNP interrogator that Nam had paid him and his cousin to keep an eye on his office. And if anyone besides Nam tried to gain access to his files, they were instructed to burn them.

One of the cops asked him why they’d hit a female police officer and he replied, “She’s smaller than us.”

The KNP laughed, and then frowned, and leaned over and slapped him on the side of the head. The young thug whined again, the only mode of self-protection he’d have available to him for quite some time.

Officer Oh was checked out at a local clinic with a clean bill of health. Though she protested, Chief Inspector Gil Kwon-up insisted on driving and she sat in the front passenger seat, which is the seat of honor in Korean custom. We didn’t talk much on the way back to Seoul, except to tell her how well she’d done. Thanks to her efforts, most of the records had been salvaged. Still, she was embarrassed by the fact that she’d been overcome by such obvious idiots.

Back at the KNP headquarters in Seoul, Ernie and I promised Mr. Kill that we’d meet him in Mukyo-dong tomorrow night. We marched off in search of the jeep. The old lady of the pindeidok stand was still watching it, but she complained that the thousand won Ernie had paid her wasn’t enough after parking all day. He handed her another bill and she smiled and bowed.

What we’d learned today was significant, terrifying. If we could just make the Provost Marshal believe that Nam was telling the truth, we’d get the go-ahead to audit the 501st financial records. But I didn’t believe that the word of a slippery Korean street hustler would be enough to make Colonel Brace doubt the integrity of a fellow officer. He wouldn’t stick his neck out on such flimsy evidence; we needed corroboration.

Mr. Kill’s sting operation in Mukyo-dong was one way to provide one channel to that corroboration, but that would have to wait until tomorrow night. I told Ernie about another way. He listened and nodded. “Worth a try,” he said.

He started the jeep’s engine and we wound through the heavy Seoul traffic back to Yongsan Compound.