Slicky Boys

19

The next morning we made an appearance at the CID office but slipped away as soon as we could. For two bottles of Johnnie Walker Black, Ernie’s jeep had been repaired and looked as good as it did before we crashed into the trash truck. It purred through the evergreen trees of Yongsan Compound’s south post toward the redbrick warehouse area.

One of the Korean supply honchos escorted us into the building. He may not have known all the particulars, but he knew this had something to do with the slicky boy operations. His hands shook as he twisted the key on the padlock.

Ernie elbowed me and nodded toward one of the windows. It was the one we had broken last night when we escaped from the warehouse. New glass. Already.

But that was nothing compared to what we found at the spot where the trapdoor had been. The heavy crate had been pushed out of the way and new flooring laid down. The trapdoor no longer existed.

The Korean manager ran his finger beneath his collar, sweating.

Ernie hollered for a crowbar and one of the warehousemen came running. It took us about twenty minutes to rip up the new wooden planks. Ernie climbed down into the crawl space and knelt. He came back up with a claylike substance smudged on his finger.

“Mortar,” he said. “The tunnel’s closed. Bricked up.”

We could’ve had the new brick broken in, but something told me that all we’d find would be caved-in rock.

I turned to the Korean manager. His entire body quivered.

“When will you talk to Herbalist So?”

He looked at me, stupefied, his throat so dry he croaked.

“Never mind,” I said. “When you see him, tell him that his secret is safe with us.”

I didn’t know if it would do any good but it was worth a try. Let the slicky boys know that our objective was to catch the killer of Cecil Whitcomb, not to expose their operation.

Of course, if Herbalist So had been lying to us and he actually was the one who’d ordered Whitcomb murdered, they wouldn’t stop trying for us until they succeeded.

The manager didn’t nod. He just gaped at me, beads of perspiration clinging to his forehead.

Ernie tossed the crowbar back to the workman. We climbed into the jeep and roared off.

Ernie pounded on the steering wheel. “Can you believe those guys? They somehow managed to move supplies and a work crew in here in the middle of the night and close up that damn tunnel.”

“I can believe it.”

“Jesus H. Christ. Is there anything the slicky boys can’t do on this compound?”

“A few things,” I said.

“Like what?”

“Like gain access to classified information.”

“Classified information?” Ernie looked at me. A two-and-a-half-ton truck barreled toward us. We slid past it by inches. “What’s classified information got to do with the price of kimchi in Itaewon?”

“I’m not sure, but it’s something maybe we should check out. Just in case Herbalist So really wasn’t involved in Cecil Whitcomb’s murder.”

“I thought we decided that Whitcomb couldn’t be a spy?”

“We did. But maybe we cut off that avenue of investigation too early. We ought to check it out.”

“Okay,” Ernie said. “We check it out. What with the slicky boys after our butts and the First Sergeant thinking we might’ve had something to do with the murder and us no longer assigned to the case, no problem!”

I ignored his bellyaching. “Let’s go see Strange.”

“That pervert? He turns my stomach.”

“You always tell him dirty stories.”

“The only language he understands.”

“No matter how objectionable his personal habits might be,” I said, “every classified document at Eighth Army Headquarters passes through his hands.”

“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.