Slicky Boys

22

Chong-no means “Road of the Bell.” At the base of the road, where it begins near the old Capitol Building, is an ornate temple housing a massive bell made of solid cast bronze. Every morning the bell is rung by Buddhist priests. Its low vibrations spread over the city of Seoul, rattling stacked beer bottles and resonating out in circles that bring the citizenry to life.

The alleys shooting off Chong-no contain shops and small factories where, even at this hour, men worked under the glare of floodlights.

Sparks shot out from grinding wheels. Hammers pounded on plumbing fixtures.

We found the Hyundai Print Shop in the third alley we visited. Three men hunched over rattling presses, oblivious to our presence.

“Doesn’t look like the owner of this place could afford to go to the Tiger Lady’s,” Ernie said.

“Maybe this isn’t his only enterprise.”

“Maybe not.”

Ernie had spent almost a half hour trying to convince the Nurse to go home. She didn’t want to leave him-danger or no danger. When I finally told her that it was necessary for her to leave, she resigned herself to her fate and allowed Ernie to put her in a taxi and pay for her fare back to Itaewon.

I watched the red taillights of the cab fade off into the deepening night, feeling sad for some reason. This quest for Miss Ku had been the best day the three of us had ever spent together.

A few of the young workmen across the street from the print shop halted their chores and looked at us. When you wander away from the GI bar districts, get used to being stared at. They don’t see many foreigners back in these alleys. We stepped forward into the shop.

The three young men inside were still too preoccupied with their work to look up. We wandered around. Browsing.

Finally, one of them noticed movement and took off his goggles. His mouth fell open.

“Anyonghaseiyo,” I told him. Hello. “We are looking for the other foreigner who usually comes in here.”

“Mulah-gu?” What?

“The American. With blond hair. A little taller than him.” I jerked my thumb toward Ernie.

“No. We didn’t see him in a long time.”

I turned, as if I were surveying the ink-stained presses, and mumbled to Ernie. “It’s the right place.”

I swiveled back to the printer. “Are you the owner?”

“Oh, no. Not me.” The young man shot his eyes toward Ernie. “What is he doing there?”

Ernie had wandered back through the equipment to a tiny office area with a desk and a file cabinet.

“He’s just curious,” I told the young man. “Tell me about this American. Did you meet him?”

The other two printers stopped their work. The one I was talking to barked an order to the youngest. “Go fetch Chong.”

The youngest man peeled off his filthy gloves and sped through the door. I pulled out my badge.

“This is police business,” I told the two printers. “You must tell me what you know.”

While they gawked at the badge, not making any sense of the English lettering, Ernie opened the drawers of the desk and searched them. I shot more questions.

“Is the American a good friend of Mr. Chong’s?”

They shook their heads, grimacing.

“What’s the matter?”

They looked at each other but didn’t answer.

“Did he come in here often?”

“Only twice.”

Emie tried the filing cabinet but it was padlocked with a bar down the center of the drawer handles. Somewhere, he found a short metal pry bar, propped it between the hasp and the edge of the cabinet, and levered it forward with both hands. He tried twice but the drawer didn’t budge. Lowering himself and rebracing his feet, he gave it a tremendous pull. The lock popped open and clattered across the cement floor until it clanged against a printing press.

“What’s he doing there?” the printer hollered.

“Police business. Don’t worry about it.”

Some of the workers across the way started to come out of their shops. I heard the word “Miguk” floating through the air: American.

Ernie riffled through the files quickly, checking behind and under each folder. He had started on the second drawer when a man burst into the shop. Red-faced. Hollering.

“What are you doing here?”

The print shop owner was a squat, sturdy Korean man with a square, leathery face that was burning crimson. The youngest printer stood behind him nervously. It looked as if he’d had to drag the owner out of a soju house.

“Get away from my files!”

The red-faced man stormed back toward Ernie. I zigzagged through the presses and placed my body in front of him. When he came to a stop, I showed him my badge.

“We’re looking for an American,” I said. “You did business with him. You took him to see the Tiger Lady.”

“What? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you do, Mr. Chong. You introduced him to a kisaeng, Choi Yong-ran. She also calls herself Miss Ku.”

Worry crossed his scarlet features. “Who in the shit are you?”

“Eighth Army CID,” I said.

He turned his face from me, spittle exploding from his lips as he spoke. “Sangnom sikki.” Born of a base lout.

I ignored the insult. “The American, Mr. Chong, what’s his name?”

“I don’t know his name.”

“But he’s a GI?”

“He was a GI.”

“Where can I find him?”

“I don’t know.” The owner pointed a squat finger, the tip swirled with black, at my nose. “But if you do find him, tell him he owes me money.”

“How much?”

“Plenty.”

“What’d you sell to him, Chong?”

“Not your business.” Sobering slightly, he became aware of Ernie again. “Hey! What are you doing?”

Ernie was on the bottom drawer now. Before I could react, Chong shoved his way past me, took three long steps forward, and grabbed Ernie by the back of his jacket. Without thinking, Ernie turned, swung his fist in an arc, and punched the man on the side of the head.

The printers let out a howl. I ran forward and stood in front of Mr. Chong again, but now he was screeching.

“Get away from my stuff, you long-nosed foreign louts!”

The printers started jostling me. Across the street the crowd of workers swelled. They made rude comments about people of nationalities other than Korean.

I grabbed Ernie’s arm and jerked him close.

“We have to un-ass the area,” I told him. “Now!”

“I’m right behind you.”

I made my way through the machines to the front. Some of the workers walked over to block my way. I swerved away but when one shuffled in front of me, I held him gently and said “Mianhamnida,” I’m sorry, as loudly as I could. Ernie slipped by me and we were moving down the alley. The crowd slowly flowed toward us, still undecided as to whether or not to attack. I turned and smiled and said I was sorry and bowed repeatedly, like a big overgrown pigeon. When we reached the end of the alley, we started to run.

We strode through the busy nighttime streets of Seoul, avoiding pedestrians, stepping over soot-speckled piles of slush.

Ernie reached in his pocket and pulled out a small plastic card. It was beige on the bottom with a brown stripe on top and a red-and-white cloverleaf in the upper left. The emblem of the 8th United States Army.

I took it in my fingers and studied it front and back. A perfect facsimile of a U.S. Forces Korea ration control plate. Blank. Suitable for embossing with whatever name and serial number you chose to put on it.

The RCP is used by all GI’s in Korea when they purchase anything out of military PX’s or commissaries. The idea is to limit what they buy so they won’t violate customs law and sell American-made goods in the Korean villages.

I pulled out my own RCP and compared them. The forgery was a fine piece of work. The only difference was that the plastic on the authentic one was a little more pliable. I nestled them both back into the folds of my worn leather wallet.

“Nice work,” Ernie said. “Get a phony ID to go with that and you can black-market your ass off and clear a couple of grand a month. Easy.”

“So now we know why Mr. Chong can afford to spend time with the expensive ladies at the Tiger Lady’s kisaeng house. He creates and sells bogus documents. And we know that the guy who talked Miss Ku into doing a number on us the other day is into some serious black-marketing.”

“Yeah,” Ernie said, “but that still doesn’t explain why he of fed Cecil Whitcomb.”

No. Ernie was right. It sure as shit didn’t.

Our most promising lead so far had ended in a dead end.

The guy was an American. He had disappeared. The print shop owner said he didn’t know who or where he was and I believed him. A serious black marketeer wasn’t exactly likely to leave a forwarding address. Especially when he owed money to the people he’d done business with.

We wound back toward Mukyo-dong. I spotted a taxi stand and started toward it. Curfew was close, less than an hour away. Already the taxi line was long. In a few more minutes it would be hell trying to catch a cab and it was a four-mile walk back to Yongsan Compound.

When I queued up at the end of the line, Ernie grabbed my elbow.

“You go ahead,” he said. “I’ll stay down here.”

I looked at him blankly. “Why?”

“The interrogation of Miss Ku,” he said. “Got to finish it.”

I remembered her flushed face and her labored breath.

“Yeah,” I said. “I guess you do.”

He shoved his hands deep in his pockets, turned, and waded into the crowd.

It took me twenty minutes to catch a cab, and when I finally found one it was crowded with other customers heading toward the south of Seoul. The cramped sedan reeked of rice wine, fermented cabbage, and cheap tobacco. The driver refused to take me all the way to 8th Army Compound. There were only a few minutes left until the midnight curfew and he had to take his other customers to their destinations. Instead, he dropped me off in Itaewon.

I could’ve hoofed it back to the main gate-in fact I started to-but when I walked past the alley that led to the main nightclub district, the sparkling neon and the laughter and the rock and roll were more than I could resist.

I stopped in the 7 Club and ordered a drink. There wasn’t much time to get drunk before curfew, but I did the best I could.

It was morning. Charcoal glowed inside a small metal stove. The tattered wallpaper and the cold, vinyl-covered floor told me where I was: the hooch of an Itaewon business girl.

I searched frantically for the. 38. It hung in its holster on a nail in the wall. I put on my shirt and strapped the leather around my chest.

Other than the stove, the only piece of furniture in the room was a Western-style bed. When you’re in business, no matter how low your capital, you must invest in equipment.

Vaguely, I remembered something about two sisters. The younger sister lay under a thin blanket, curled up next to the stove. The elder had exercised her prerogative and snuggled comfortably in the big luxurious bed.

In Korea, the dictates of Confucius still live: Elders come first.

What had I done?

I couldn’t remember so I shook it off. No sense even thinking about it.

As I stepped into my trousers, both girls woke up. After they rubbed their eyes and slipped on their robes, I reached deep into my pocket and checked my money. All there. I gave them some of it. I’m not sure what service they had performed for me the previous night, but they’d let me sleep here. Besides, they were both skinny and looked as if they could use a few bucks.

Outside the hooch, I slipped on my shoes and pushed through the front gate.

It was still dark. The road that led back to the compound was deserted, all the shops still shuttered, and the dirty blacktop had been sheathed overnight by a smooth new layer of snow. Only a few curved tracks marred its beauty.

I spotted the sedan about ten yards down the road. A blue-and-white police car. Engine running. Windows steamed.

As I came closer I read the license plate. Namdaemun District, it said. The back window rolled down.

“Geogie.”

It was a strong male voice. A voice that I recognized.

“Get in,” he said.

The car door opened. A man wearing a brown trench coat slid over on the back seat to make room for me. Lieutenant Pak. He was up early.

I climbed in and slammed the door shut.

The car was warmer than outside but clogged with the smoke of pungent Korean cigarettes. Suddenly I knew I should’ve stayed outside and talked through the window. Now I was in KNP territory.

Up front, a uniformed driver and another officer stared straight ahead.

Lieutenant Pak reached deep into his coat pocket, pulled something out, and nudged it into my ribs. I glanced down.

The gleaming blade of a wickedly curved knife.