Slicky Boys

29

A tall, busty girl, her black hair tied back in a white bandana, brought me another frosty mug of beer.

“Dasi hanbon?” she asked. One more time?

“Yes,” I said. “Dasi hanbon.”

She laughed, still amused by the fact that a foreigner could actually speak an intelligible sentence. As she turned away the skirt of her long blue dress swirled around her thick calves.

I was in the OB Bear House, on the outskirts of Itaewon, a spot where GI’s don’t often go. Plenty of Korean working men stood around at the small shelves against the walls or perched on tall stools surrounding high tables that were just large enough for three or four mugs of beer and a small plate of snacks.

This morning, Ernie had refused to return to the hospital. When I nagged him about it, he took a swing at me. I dodged it and later he apologized, but I knew the murder of the Nurse was about to drive him nuts. He just sat in his room, drinking beer, telling even the houseboy to get the fuck away from him.

There was only one way to pull him out of it: action.

I had to get a line on this killer and I had to get it fast. Eighth Army CID was too inefficient and relied too much on what they were told by the Korean National Police. There were just too many leaks in Lieutenant Pak’s organization. Herbalist So was my last chance.

I needed direct action. I needed expertise in operating clandestinely in the city of Seoul. And I needed it now. Only So and his slicky boys could provide it.

The biggest stumbling block was, of course, that Slicky King So and the slicky boys had tried to murder us a couple of days ago.

But I’m a forgiving type of guy. I had to keep in mind that Ernie had pissed him off by slapping herbal tea into his face. And Herbalist So probably figured that if we escaped, we would betray his operation.

Since then, he’d had time to cool off. He must’ve come to realize that we weren’t after the slicky boys, we were after the murderer of Cecil Whitcomb-and the murderer of Miss Ku and now the Nurse.

At least I hoped he’d come to realize that.

After all, he hadn’t made any further attempts on our lives. This I took as a sign of goodwill.

The way I figured it there were two possibilities. If the slicky boys had nothing to do with the murder of Cecil Whitcomb, then Slicky Boy So would be happy to cooperate in tracking down the real killer. More murders could further excite the honchos of 8th Army, disrupting the slicky boy king’s operation and costing him money.

That was the way I figured it. He’d want my help. Sure. No problem.

It was the second possibility that had me worried: Maybe the slicky boys had knifed Cecil Whitcomb.

Then, if we had drunk the potion that Herbalist So offered us in the dungeon, it probably would’ve proved fatal. And if I walked back into his clutches again, I’d probably never walk out.

Still, what choice did I have? I had to take the chance. I wasn’t going to catch this killer, whoever he was, without help.

This afternoon, I’d gone to visit the retired slicky boy, Mr. Ma. I told him I wanted to meet with Herbalist So because I was sure that we could work out our differences and that we needed one another’s help. He was noncommittal, but listened to me.

Finally, he sent his son Kuang-sok scampering away with a whispered message. When he came back, Mr. Ma told me to be here, at the OB Bear House, at eight P.M. Alone.

When I tried to drink the first beer at the OB Bear House, my hand shook so badly that I was forced to prop my elbow against the wall to raise the mug.

That had been two hours ago. I was still cooling my heels. No word yet. My stomach twisted like an undisciplined beast. This was my fourth liter of beer but I felt more sober than a chaplain at Sunday services.

A neat young man wearing thick, round-lensed glasses sat next to me, sipping on his beer and studying a textbook with a number of mathematical notations on its pages. He shifted his umbrella in his lap, recrossed his legs, and spoke to me in English.

“You shouldn’t drink so much.”

I looked at him. Amused. Good thing Ernie wasn’t here. He was liable to pop him one for a remark like that. Me, I was just curious. Koreans don’t usually interfere with other people’s business, especially foreigners.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Herbalist So doesn’t like it.”

I set my beer down. “Why didn’t you talk to me earlier?”

“We had to check you out.”

I glanced out in the street. No sign of So’s sentries, but they were out there somewhere.

“I’m alone,” I told the neat young man.

“I know.”

He picked up his umbrella, rose, and said, “Follow me. About ten paces behind.”

Sadistic little bastard, I thought. He had waited until I ordered a fresh beer. I glugged down as much of it as I could and hurried after him. Pellets of frozen rain spat against my face. Still, I managed to keep the swiftly moving young man in sight. He crossed the MSR, away from the main nightclub district, heading up a winding road that led into a somewhat higher class residential district. We turned down a number of narrow lanes. They were clean, well kept. Upturned shingle roofs rose behind high brick walls. Ernie and I never came up here because the debauchery of Itaewon didn’t reach this high.

After we walked for about ten minutes, the young man snapped his umbrella shut and stepped into a small tearoom. I followed him in. The joint wasn’t much bigger than a four-man room in the barracks.

We walked past a half dozen empty tables, pushed through a beaded curtain, and through another door into an outdoor garden with metal tables sheltered beneath a large canvas awning.

Herbalist So sat at one of the tables, an elegantly designed glass lamp in front of him. He wore a three-piece business suit and a huge wristwatch. A brand the PX never carried.

The neat young man with the umbrella disappeared. Shadows hovered beneath grinning demons carved into the stone-walled enclosure. Bodyguards.

I sat down in front of Herbalist So.

“You look good in that outfit,” I told him. “On Wall Street you’d fit right in.”

He stared at me for a moment, his lips tightening. “You’re drunk.”

“I had a couple of beers. Who wouldn’t after what I saw last night?”

“I’ll tell you who wouldn’t. A smart man wouldn’t.”

I let the insult sit for a while. The rain pattered against the canvas above us. I needed him. I wasn’t going to start an argument.

“You’re wasting your talents, Agent Sueno,” So said. “Stop drinking and you’ll become somebody. We Koreans always knew you were smarter than the other CID agents we’ve seen. You’ve learned our language, you keep your word, you do not bully Koreans or think you’re better than us. You don’t look down at the things we’ve had to do since the war to make a living. All the other agents showed us nothing but false bravado and an inflated opinion of themselves. You have more than that.”

I didn’t particularly like being lectured by a thief. Sure, I drank more than I should, but that was my business.

“I may be a drunk,” I said, “but I’m not a thief.” I knew I’d lose his goodwill, but I was angry enough that I didn’t care.

He studied me. A chill ran through my body and it wasn’t from the cold wind. His eyes seemed to pinch into my soul.

I had been foolish. Maybe the men in the shadows didn’t understand English, but they certainly understood that their leader had been insulted. The loss of face would make Herbalist So harder to deal with. Maybe impossible to deal with.

“No,” the king of the slicky boys said softly. “You are not a thief, Agent Sueno. When you take money to do a job, you do it. Even if it results in death.”

I lowered my head. So was right. We all have our shortcomings. Mine were legion.

I knew I had to be contrite to get what I wanted. Especially now that I’d mouthed off.

“This man I hunt has killed three people already: the British soldier, a young kisaeng called Miss Ku, and a former student of nursing. I need your help to find him.”

“Yes. You do need my help. What do you want me to do?”

I told him about the print shop in Mukyo-dong and about the phony ration control plate we’d found there and how the owner had done business with the killer and claimed the man owed him money.

“I believe there’s more information inside the shop,” I told Herbalist So. “On the killer of these three people and his black market activities. Also I believe the owner knows more than he told me.”

“And you wish us to talk to him?”

“Yes. Meanwhile, I will be doing everything I can to identify some sort of renegade American from our files. But so far we have nothing to go on. No fingerprints, no name, no identification numbers. Only a vague description.”

“So this Miss Ku, the player of the kayagum, we led you to,” So asked, “she has been killed? And this nursing student?”

“Yes.”

“It seems that death follows in your wake, Agent Sueno.”

I didn’t answer.

“For our services there will be a price.”

“It’s in your interest to stop this man, too.”

“It was,” he said, staring at me, “when it was thought that we might have been responsible for the death of Lance Corporal Whitcomb. But with these new deaths, the trail of evidence will lead away from us. We are satisfied now. Our operation is secure.”

I thought of telling him that if he didn’t help me I’d bust his entire syndicate wide open. That I’d put everything I’d learned about the slicky boys into a report for the eyes of the 8th Army Commander, he’d assign a task force to the problem, and we’d put the slicky boys out of commission for good. But I knew it was futile. So’s contacts ranged too widely. Even if the 8th Army honchos listened to me, Herbalist So would just keep his head down and when the staff changed at 8th Army and another crisis arose that seemed more important, he’d swing right back into normal operation. And, of course, there was always the possibility that in order to avoid the inconvenience, he and his boys would decide to drop me below the ice floes bobbing in the Han River.

Despite what he said, however, I knew he wanted to help. A murderer on the loose would cause everyone to be nervous. Him, 8th Army, the Korean National Police. It couldn’t be good for his business. But I had insulted him. That had to be overcome.

“Yes,” I said softly. “Your operation is secure. But, still, I need your help. What Can I do to get it?”

He studied me without replying. I kept my eyes down, my hands folded in my lap.

Maybe it was my imagination but I thought I heard a sigh of approval coming from the shadowy men surrounding us.

Herbalist So’s voice spread out clear and smooth amidst the clattering rain.

“Our assistance will require two things.”

“Name them,” I said.

“A favor, at an unspecified future date.”

“What sort of favor?”

Herbalist So spread his fingers. “Only time will tell. When we need one, Agent Sueno, we will call on you.”

I thought about it: the trouble helping the slicky boys could land me in. I also thought of the Nurse. Her slashed body, the life drained out of her beautiful face.

I nodded my head. “You’ve got it. What’s the second condition?”

Herbalist So leaned back slightly in his chair. Overhead, the rain grew louder. “That will require a seibei.”

I looked up at him. I knew what a seibei was. I’d seen it done in documentaries about ancient Korean life but I’d never heard of a foreigner being required to do it. But then I realized that although we Americans saw it as a form of degradation, Herbalist So thought of his offer as a compliment. Maybe some sort of an initiation. After all, if I was going to be doing favors for him in the future, I was, in effect, becoming a member of his organization. A slicky boy myself. But more important, if I turned him down, I would be insulting him again. I not only wouldn’t receive his help, I would be lucky to get out of here in one piece.

“You honor me,” I said, almost choking on the words.

Herbalist So barked some quick commands. I was still too stunned to understand exactly what he said, but the shadows came out of the rain and became men. One of the men rushed into the teahouse and came back with a straw mat. He placed it on the dirty cement of the patio. I stood up and someone told me where to stand, just off the edge of the mat. A cushion was placed on the other end of the mat and Herbalist-So rose from his chair, slipped off his shoes, and sat down cross-legged on the cushion. The men backed away. All was quiet. They were waiting for me to begin.

I wasn’t sure exactly how it went but I supposed they’d forgive me as long as I got the substantial portion of the ceremony correct.

A seibei is a method of showing respect from inferior to superior. At New Year’s it was performed by the oldest son to his parents. Even a man who was seventy years old would bow before his mother or father if they were still alive.

I thought of the other instances in the history of the East and the West, when this sort of formality had caused so much trouble. Like when the British envoys of Queen Victoria had refused to prostrate themselves before the Chinese Emperor.

It’s a fine way to act if you have gunboats to back you up. I didn’t.

I slipped off my shoes and knelt on the edge of the pad. Still holding my upper body straight I shuffled forward until I was only a few feet from Herbalist So. Slowly, I bent forward at the waist and placed both my hands, palms flat, on the mat in front of me. I lowered my forehead until it touched the ground between my fingers and thumbs, then raised myself again. I repeated the movement three times. When I was finished, I squatted back, hands resting on my thighs.

“Well done,” he said. “But you forgot the chant.”

He spoke some Korean words of supplication for me. I didn’t understand them, they were archaic language, but I repeated them as best as I could.

Finally, So nodded. Satisfied.

So I’d lowered myself to a common thief. A Korean one, at that. Most GI’s would swear that they’d never do such a thing. But most GI’s bubbled over with racial hatred and an inflated sense of pride that came from being part of a country that had been on the top of the heap for over a century. Such things didn’t bother me. I was from East L.A. I’d been fighting my way up from the bottom all my life. Herbalist So had power. A lot more than I did. In certain areas, more than the Commander of 8th Army. He deserved respect. This little ceremony didn’t bother me any more than standing at attention in a military formation and saluting some potbellied general with stars on his shoulder.

Herbalist So began to speak.

“Already, our minions are watching the village for the man you seek, Agent Sueno. But he seems to be intelligent and resourceful. We don’t expect to capture him with such crude methods. As far as your print shop is concerned, that will be checked tonight. Tomorrow you will be contacted with the results.”

“Where?”

“Wherever you are.”

“Who will contact me?”

“Whoever we designate. Keep an open mind, Agent Sueno.”

“I will.”

Herbalist So nodded. The meeting was over. 1 stood up, put my shoes back on, bowed once more, and made my way out through the tiny tea shop. There were still no customers. And no one serving tea.

At the bottom of the hill I saw a familiar figure, wrapped tightly in a flowered raincoat. The Chinese girl. The same one I had seen inside the slicky boys’ dungeon.

She held out her umbrella for me.

“lrri-oseiyo,” she said. Come this way.

I wasn’t about to argue with her.

She led me by the hand to a tiny, immaculately clean yoguan, tucked back in an alley I’d never seen before. She paid for the room and, to my surprise, accompanied me down the creaking hallway. Once we were alone she told me to take off my clothes. It was an order she didn’t have to repeat. She took me into the bathroom and scrubbed me down and rinsed me and dried me and soon had me lying naked on the warm sleeping pad under a silk comforter.

After washing herself, she turned off all the lights except for a soft red bulb in the entranceway and slipped into the bed with me.

She was slim and soft and completely naked. And as sweet as any woman has a right to be.

This woman, with her perfect features and her hairless, unblemished skin, and her supple body like a willow bending in the wind, seemed to be another species altogether from us regular human beings. She seemed too perfect. Too smart. Too gentle. Too dreamlike.

I still think of the night I spent with the Chinese woman as something that happened to me while floating in a world untouched by hatred or fear or cruelty or death.

Of course, she was being paid for her work. That took some of the edge off. Not much.

Before drifting off to sleep, I realized that working with Slicky King So wasn’t half bad.

In the morning, the Chinese woman woke me. She held a breakfast tray, hot turnip soup, steamed rice, roasted mackerel. I washed my face and sat down on the floor to eat. As I wielded my wooden chopsticks, I noticed an envelope on the edge of the tray. When I reached for it she grabbed my hand with her soft fingers.

“Monjo pap mokku, kudaum ei ilkoyo.” Eat first, after that, read.

I did as I was told. She had risen from bed early, and her hair was up and braided and she wore her bright red silk chipao with its high collar and the short skirt riding up above her round knees.

The turnip soup and the rice and the mackerel were delicious. I was hungry and finished it quickly. She cleared the bowls, asking me if I wanted more. I told her not to bother. She handed me the envelope.

Inside was a piece of blank paper with a neatly printed series of numerals.

“RCP’s,” she said.

Ration control plates. The numbers that had been on the phony ration control plates the print shop had embossed for the killer.

Also inside the envelope was a small black-and-white photograph, and a list of four names and serial numbers that had appeared on bogus military identification cards. Each name was associated with one of the ration control plates. When a customer approaches the door of the PX or commissary, an attendant checks his ID card and RCP to make sure everything matches.

I studied the photograph. Short, light brown hair. A square face with a crooked jaw. A nose that had been broken somewhere along the line, tight lips, lifeless eyes. The Chinese girl looked down at the photo and shuddered.

He seemed like any normal GI-but mean.

I twisted the photo so the light from the naked bulb above us would hit it more clearly. Tiny scars, barely visible, ran along his cheeks and the ridge of his nose. There were others on his chin and at the side of his jaw, extending back toward his ears.

I handed the photo to the Chinese woman, tracing the scars with my finger. She nodded, very solemn.

“Orin i ddei, nugu deiryosso,” she said. When he was a child, someone beat him.

She had to be right. It was obvious that no one would’ve been capable of whipping him that badly and leaving so many scars once he reached adulthood.

That’s all I needed. A vicious, abused mongrel. The eyes in the photograph didn’t look particularly intelligent, but that could be deceiving. His actions so far had been swift, brutal, and cunning.

I didn’t want to leave, but the sun would be coming up soon and I had a lot of work to do. I kissed the hands and lips of the Chinese woman, trying to convince myself that she was real. She bowed as I left.

I strode out of the yoguan, her gentle fragrance still lingering about me, the killer’s face clutched in my fist.