Slicky Boys

27

The beam of the First Sergeant’s flashlight bobbed through dust and intricate cobwebs: disused office furniture, the coal furnace, ancient cardboard boxes filled with yellowing files, mops and buckets. Nothing else.

“Who’d you say was down here?” the First Sergeant asked suspiciously.

The odor of gunpowder drifted above the must and cobwebs.

“Somebody was here,” I said. “I’m sure of it. I was talking to him.”

The metal door of the fuse box stood open, a couple of plugs missing.

Behind the furnace, falling snow drifted into the cellar. The wooden hatchway where the workmen brought in the coal was wide open. A padlock hung loosely on the hasp. Busted.

The First Sergeant’s face grew more grim but he didn’t apologize for doubting me.

Outside, what looked like footsteps led off through the slush. They were big, about size twelves, but whether or not they were sneakers or oxfords or combat boots we couldn’t tell.

“You say this guy talked to you?” the First Sergeant asked.

I nodded.

“What’d he say?”

“He said we killed the gal down at the Tiger Lady’s. And he virtually admitted to killing Whitcomb.”

“Virtually?”

“Well, he didn’t deny it.”

“What else did he say?”

“He said he was going to kill me. And Ernie, too.”

We followed the footsteps until they climbed back onto the sidewalk heading deep into the redbrick buildings of 8th Army Headquarters.

“You want back on the case?” the First Sergeant asked me.

“I never left it.”

“Yeah. I didn’t think you did.”

From the CID office I dialed my way through the ancient phone exchange and finally was connected to a number off post. Ajjima, the Nurse’s landlady, answered. Ernie and the Nurse were out she said-back together again, good news in itself-and she’d let them know about the threat to our lives as soon as they returned.

The landlady was a responsible woman. I knew she’d relay the message and make sure Ernie understood how serious it was.

Afterward, I walked back to the barracks through the softly falling snow. I drank a beer from the big vending machine. Even though I showered and changed into clean underwear I couldn’t sleep. It was two hours past midnight. Still, I sat on the edge of my bunk in the dark. Thinking.

Footsteps down the hallway. I straightened. Pounding on my door. “Sueno!”

The voice of the CQ.

“Yeah?” I said.

“Phone call.”

I slipped on my rubber thongs and slapped down the hallway, still in my skivvies. I grabbed the receiver.

“What?”

“Agent Sueno?”

“Yes.”

“This is the Desk Sergeant at the MP Station. Your presence is requested in Itaewon.”

“What is it?”

“Emergency. Someone hurt.”

“Who?”

“I don’t have a name.”

“Where?”

“A hooch in Itaewon. The KNP Liaison Officer didn’t give me an address. Said you’d know. Belongs to a woman called ‘the Nurse.’”

I’m not sure what I did after that. I do remember the CQ talking to me. “Sueno. Sueno? You OK?”

I stumbled back to my room and threw on my clothes.

I ran to Itaewon.

The last glimmers of silvery moonlight disappeared behind floating clouds. The snow and slush had stopped, but the wind picked up and spirits whistled through dark alleys. I wound through a narrow pathway between brick and stone walls, listening for footsteps behind me.

Nothing.

At the Nurse’s hooch, the front gate was open. Neighbors loitered in front, arms crossed, faces greedy with curiosity. Light from a street lamp streamed down onto the muddy walkway. A shrill wail ricocheted off the stone walls. The voice was tired, weathered. Not the Nurse. But it came from her hooch.

Then I knew who it was. Warmth drained from my face. I started to run again.

In front of the house I pushed through a small crowd. Without taking off my shoes, I leapt up onto the narrow porch.

Blue-suited policemen had already arrived. I saw something below me and stopped and almost stumbled. Blood streamed in a long trail across the vinyl floor.

She was on her back, and for the first time since I’d known her the Nurse’s face was twisted in agony.

Ajjima, the landlady, knelt beside her, screaming through the dry reeds of what was left of her tattered vocal cords.

A young Korean policeman, pale, looked at me and then looked at the wall, as if bringing my attention to something.

Scribbled in blood, like the scrawl of an evil child’s fingerpainting, were four dripping words. In English.

“Dreamer, dream of me!”

The landlady screamed again. I stepped back, smacking my shoulder against a cabinet. Jars shattered. Tins crashed to the floor and rolled crazily through the blood.

I knelt beside the landlady and reached for her. When my fingertips touched the cheap material of her sweater, a spark crackled between us.

She shrieked-again and again-as if someone had shoved a hot blade into her heart.