The Ville Rat

– 10-

The next morning, after leaving Captain Prevault’s quarters before dawn, I returned to the barracks to catch a little more shut-eye and ended up arriving at the CID office a few minutes late. Lieutenant Mendelson left us an urgent message saying that she wanted to talk to us before the Threets court-martial tomorrow. We figured that she mostly wanted to make sure we hadn’t come up with anything new, which we hadn’t, so we didn’t bother calling her back. Staff Sergeant Riley wanted to know where we were off to, but we figured the less the honchos knew, the better.

We drove the jeep over to the 21 T Car motor pool and gassed up. Then we backed it into the garage and Ernie convinced a Korean mechanic to check the lube order. While we waited, we entered the operations office, Ernie flashed the high sign at the dispatcher’s desk, and we continued on back to the windowed cubicle of the warrant officer-in-charge, Chief Milton, who was on the phone, as was his wont.

“Okay, Colonel,” he said. “Got it. Eagles plus six.” He jotted something in a leather notebook in front of him and set down the phone and looked up at us.

“George,” he said. “Ernie. What can I do for you?”

Chief Warrant Officer Milton ran not only the operational arm of the 21st Transportation Car Company, but also the most exclusive bookmaking operation in 8th Army. His clients included some of the highest-ranking officers in the command, and it was even rumored that the US ambassador occasionally put down a bet. Making book here in the motor pool was convenient because Milton could pay drivers to pick up cash from the losers and deliver fat envelopes to winners. We didn’t bother to bust him because it wouldn’t do any good. He had too many connections with the highest muckety-mucks in 8th Army. Besides, betting on football was something all red-blooded American males did. It wasn’t seen as a crime. As a matter of fact, if a soldier didn’t take an interest in pro football, he’d be written off as either effeminate or, worse yet, downright unpatriotic. Personally, I found the spectacle of a bunch of overpaid brutes banging into one another less than interesting. As a child, I’d played football and greatly enjoyed it. But in high school, when the adults got involved and tried to turn it into a religion, for me, it lost its charm.

We sat in chairs opposite the chief’s desk. He stared at us quizzically, perhaps sensing that we weren’t our usual calm, collected selves.

“I heard about the shit somebody tried to pull over in Samgakji,” he said. He stared at the bandage on my head. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. We need information.”

He toyed with a pencil. “How can I help you?”

“The poker game at the Far East District Compound,” Ernie said. “Ever been there?”

“Nice operation. Very professional. A lot of big-shot Koreans happy to get away from the KNPs.”

“Afraid they’ll get busted?” I asked.

“No. Those arrests you see on TV are only for show. Usually, the KNPs are paid off and nobody’s the wiser. People only get busted when they don’t pay up. On compound, a high roller only has to worry about the four-percent rake. Life is easy.”

“Do you join the game often?”

“No. Poker’s not my thing.”

“You’re not much of a gambler, are you, Chief?”

“I work too hard for my money.”

Running a book wasn’t gambling. The odds were set by how much money was coming in on either side of a bet. Regardless of which team won or lost, the smart bookmaker always made his vig, the cut, which amounted to about 10 percent.

“The Far East game’s closed down,” I said.

He lifted an eyebrow. “It is?”

“Yes. We were there last night.”

“Why’d they close it?”

“We’re not sure yet. But we believe somebody’s nervous about something more than gambling.”

“Who runs the game?” Ernie asked.

The chief shrugged. “I don’t want to mention any names, but for years it’s been like an institution. A way for the civilians running the compound to socialize with the movers and shakers who get things done. Contractors, financiers, people like that. They like to relax like anyone else.”

“But somebody’s making a lot of money.”

The chief shrugged again, doing his best to distance himself from whatever was happening at the Far East District Compound. “The money’s parceled out,” he said, “to the Korean help, to the GIs who look the other way, even for landscaping to make the compound look more beautiful. Some of it even goes to an orphanage.”

“Sounds like a charity.”

“For years it’s been harmless.”

“How about the women brought in as hostesses?”

“There used to be a couple of gals to serve the drinks and the food. Nice-looking gals.”

“Did they provide other services?”

“Not that I knew of. People were there to gamble. If they wanted to get laid, they’d go to a whorehouse.”

“So you hadn’t heard anything about the game coming under new management?”

“No.”

The phone rang. The chief raised his finger and lifted the receiver. “Motor pool,” he said. After listening to a muffled voice on the other end, he covered the receiver and said, “I have to take this.”

Ernie and I rose, thanked the chief, and left.

Outside, in front of the maintenance garage, Ernie asked, “Should we arrest Campione? Sweat him?”

“He’s sweating now,” I replied. “Besides, something tells me he might not know much. Just because he or some of his pals were taking a cut from a poker game, that doesn’t mean he knows about the sale of a kisaeng.”

“It went on right beneath his nose.”

“Right. But maybe he didn’t want to know. And even if he does know, he won’t say anything. Not right away.”

“Like only if it’s part of a plea bargain, which could take a long time to set up.”

“Right. We need information now.”

The confrontation at the NAF had proven that we were on the right track, but we would lose the trail if we didn’t act quickly.

“So what’s our next move?”

“There’s one guy out there who wanted to give us information. The Ville Rat.”

“Great idea. But how in the hell are we going to find him?”

“We need a lead.”

“There’s a keen observation.”

“And when it comes to information on a black marketer, there’s one guy who can give it to us.”

Ernie thought for a moment. Then he turned to me. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

When the jeep was ready, we showed our dispatch at the 21 T Car main gate and hung a right on the MSR. At the Coulter Statue intersection, Ernie took another right and headed for Itaewon.

Haggler Lee was the most notorious black marketer in Itaewon. As huge as his warehouse was, it was hidden from view amongst the maze of two- and three-story hooches and apartment buildings in the teeming neighborhood that surrounded the main drag of nightclubs and bars in Seoul’s red-light district of Itaewon. The winding pedestrian lanes were so narrow and convoluted that if you didn’t know where you were going, you could easily get lost. But we knew where the warehouse was because we’d been there before. Many times. At the huge wooden double door, Ernie grabbed the heavy metal knocker and banged on teak.

It took five minutes, but a small rectangular entranceway in the much larger door creaked open. A wrinkled face peeked out.

“We’re here to see Haggler Lee,” Ernie said.

The old woman opened the trapdoor wider and we ducked through into a poorly lit, dungeon-like warehouse. After barring the door with a metal rod, the old woman led the way, plastic shoes scraping on cement. We passed dusty bins filled with various pieces of military clothing and then neat rows of stacked C rations. Finally, we reached a somewhat tidier area with refrigerators still in plastic sheeting and air conditioners and fans in colorful boxes emblazoned with both English and Japanese lettering. Atop a raised wooden kang, Haggler Lee sat in the lotus position on a flat cushion. In front of him, incense burning, the fat belly of Kumbokju, the Korean god of plenty, glowed. We kicked off our shoes and stepped up on the varnished wooden surface.

Haggler Lee’s eyes popped open.

“George! Ernie! So good to see you.”

He was a youngish man with a soft, baby-like face and dark hair combed straight over a round skull. Beneath his nose, a black mustache quivered. I figured him to be about forty, but he dressed like what GIs would call a papa-san. He wore the traditional white pantaloons and embroidered silk vest of a man who’d long since passed retirement. Looking older was something many Koreans strived for; they thought it gave them gravitas and respect in society, so unlike in the States, where old age was rated one step below a communicable disease.

“Sit, please,” he said, motioning toward two cushions opposite him. Then he clapped his hands and a few seconds later a young woman in a flowing chima-jeogori appeared, carrying a stainless-steel tray. She served us tea in porcelain cups with no handles. Haggler Lee lifted his with two hands and saluted us. We all drank. “Now,” he said, setting down his cup. “What can I help you with?”

“Maeul ui jwi,” I said.

His eyes stared at me blankly.

“Maeul ui jwi,” I repeated.

“Oh,” he said, “you’re speaking Korean. Sorry. I was expecting English.”

Haggler Lee’s English was excellent, although sprinkled with GI slang. His language skills had been honed by running the largest black-market operation in Itaewon. GIs, but more often their Korean wives, brought him literally tons of imported goods and foodstuffs. In return, he paid them double what they cost in the military PXs and commissaries, a boon to financially strapped military families. Then Haggler Lee took those goods and provided them wholesale to Korean retailers. As a result, he had extensive contacts amongst the purveyors of illicit items at the Korean open-air markets at both the South Gate and the East Gate in Seoul.

He said the phrase again. “Maeul ui jwi. The Ville Rat.”

“Right,” I said. “Do you know him?”

“Not personally.”

“But you’ve heard of him?” Ernie said.

“Oh, yes. Our paths have never crossed, but certainly I’ve heard of him.”

“What’s his angle?” Ernie asked.

Silk rustled as Haggler Lee shrugged. “Special order,” he said.

“Such as?”

“Apparently some black GIs like certain refreshments that aren’t so popular with white GIs.”

“Like malt liquor?”

“Precisely,” Haggler Lee replied. Then he pursed his lips, as if sucking on a lemon. “Awful stuff,” he said.

“You tried it?”

“Once. Of course, I might not be the best judge. I don’t even like beer.”

“You sell enough of it.”

“That’s business.”

Ernie and I had never bothered to bust Haggler Lee for black marketeering. In order to have jurisdiction, we’d have to catch him in the act of purchasing something from an American soldier or an American dependent. Even if we did, since he’s a Korean citizen, we’d have to turn his prosecution over to the KNPs. They would hold him for maybe an hour or two, fine him a few thousand won, and then let him go; all of which would be a futile exercise. Instead of alienating him with such a pointless charade, we used him instead for the information he could provide in more important cases. His vast business connections made him a great resource-but a resource we didn’t bother to tell 8th Army or the provost marshal about.

“Our knowledge is,” I said, “that the Ville Rat specializes in Colt 45 malt liquor and imported cognac, selling them to the black nightclubs since they’re popular with the black GIs.”

Haggler Lee nodded.

“What is he,” Ernie asked, “a GI or a civilian?”

“I believe,” Haggler Lee replied, “he was once a GI. His current status, I wouldn’t know.”

“Do you know where he was stationed?”

Haggler Lee shook his head sadly, as if bitterly disappointed that he couldn’t help us. Ernie asked him something that fell more into his area of expertise.

“Where does he get his merchandise, this Colt 45?”

Haggler Lee shrugged again, more elaborately this time. “I’ve wondered that myself. But I don’t know. They don’t sell Colt 45 in the Class Six. Cognac, yes, but not malt liquor.”

“He has to import it somehow,” I said.

“Yes. Maybe he has a contact at the Port of Inchon or the Port of Pusan.”

“Some customs official who looks the other way?”

“Maybe. And he’d need a merchant ship to haul the stuff in.”

“Expensive,” I said.

“Very.

“But he sells the Colt 45 for a thousand won a can.”

“Not possible,” Lee said, “if he’s smuggling it in.”

“So he has another source,” I said.

Lee nodded. “He has to.”

“Any ideas?”

Haggler Lee sipped on his tea, then set it down again. Then he raised his head and stared first into my eyes, then into Ernie’s. “Look to yourselves,” he said.

“Ourselves?”

“Yes. You Americans are the only ones who can bring things into Korea for free.”

By free, he meant all transportation costs paid by the US government, not by an individual. And no customs duties paid to the ROKs. That speculation left us pretty much where we started. The Central Locker Fund didn’t import Colt 45, so who else would? I tried a different angle.

“How can we find the Ville Rat?”

“Be there when he makes deliveries.”

“We tried that in Samgakji.”

“Someone must have known you were coming. Did you advertise?”

“We were there the day prior, asking questions.”

“That would do it. When you barge in asking questions about black-market items, it’s reported up the line. Didn’t you know that?”

We did, but we hadn’t realized exactly how steadfast these reporting requirements were.

“You must be more careful.” Haggler Lee polished off his tea. “Better if you know his movements in advance.” We waited. He placed his laced fingers on his flat stomach and leaned back contentedly. For the information he was about to impart, we’d have to pay. “There’s a shipment,” he said, “of Seven Dragon wall clocks. Handmade in Red China, then shipped to Hong Kong, where a new manufacturing label is slapped on.”

“So they’re legal for the US military to purchase.”

“Precisely.” He smiled, seemingly at the beauty of it all. Fighting godless Communism was one thing, making a buck was another.

“Seven dragons,” Ernie said. “That’s good luck, isn’t it?”

“Very. They go on sale in your main PX on Tuesday. They’ll be rationed, one per customer. By the end of the day, the entire shipment will be sold out.”

“And the Korean wives who buy them will bring them out here to you.”

“Not all,” Haggler Lee said, smiling, “but most.”

“You’ll pay double for them?” I asked.

“Triple. Top dollar.”

“And you’ll sell them for more than that.”

“Handmade in China, seven dragons, long life and good fortune. What self-respecting household can afford to be without one?”

“What do you want in return?” I asked.

“Can you make sure none of my customers will be busted for black marketing on that day?”

Ernie and I were usually on the black-market detail. We were the only CID agents who had the nerve to follow black marketers into the back alleys of Itaewon and bust them in the act of actually exchanging cash for merchandise. If we didn’t bust them, nobody else would.

“Depends on what we get in return,” Ernie said.

“What you get,” Haggler Lee said, “is the Ville Rat.” He smiled more broadly. “How would you like to find him tonight?”

Ernie and I both held our breath. Finally, I ventured, “Where would that be?”

“It’s Wednesday. He always makes his deliveries in Songtan-up on Wednesdays.”

“You know this, how?”

Haggler Lee looked slightly offended. “What kind of businessman would I be,” he said, “if I didn’t keep track of the competition?”

The young woman in the silk dress breezed into the room and swept up the teapot and the cups. Ernie told Haggler Lee that if the information panned out, he had a deal.

“Pan out?” he asked.

“If the information is good,” Ernie replied.

“Oh, it’s good.”

Then he told us which clubs the Ville Rat would deliver to first.

Songtan-up was known to the GIs as “Chico Village” for some unfathomable reason. Maybe they thought Chico Village sounded cool, but to me, songtan was a much more evocative name. It literally means pinewood charcoal, which was perhaps one of the main products the area produced in days gone by; up is merely the geographical designation meaning town.

Songtan-up presses against the main gate of Osan Air Force Base, the largest US air base in Korea. In addition to the two or three thousand airmen stationed at Osan, Songtan sees a large influx of US Marines from Okinawa who are given rest-and-recreation leave and hop on military C-130 transports that fly them from their little island in the South China Sea to the exotic vacation spot of Osan Air Force Base on the Korean peninsula. Most of the marines stay in the extensive transient barracks on base, which only sets them back about five bucks a day. The marines bring a lot of tourist dollars into the Songtan bar district-but also a lot of strife.

Our first stop was the Blue Diamond Club. It was walking distance from the front gate of Osan Air Force Base. The pedestrian exit was narrow, one GI at a time with identification and, if necessary, pass or leave orders had to be shown to the Air Force Security Police before a GI was buzzed out into the wonderful world of Songtan. From there he was greeted by vendors pushing carts, old women acting as pimps for much younger girls, and, at night, a sea of flashing neon: the Zoomies Club, the Dragon Lady Bar, the Suzy Wong Nightclub, the Airman’s Hideaway, and about three dozen others at various walking distances from the big arch over the two-lane road welcoming the world to Osan Air Force Base.

Officially, the United States Air Force didn’t condone segregation, certainly not on base. But off base, their control was limited. One of the first things every GI new to Songtan learned was that when you walked out the front gate, if you were black, you turned right, into the crowded neighborhood that housed most of the bars and eateries that catered to black airmen. If you were white, you continued straight down the main drag to the larger and much more numerous bars and nightclubs. In between sat the shopping district, with its sporting goods stores, tailor shops, and brassware emporiums, as well as the central open-air Songtan Market. This middle ground was frequented by everyone, but when it came to the bars and eateries, the racial division was strict. Even the visiting marines picked up on it somehow: the black marines turned right and the white marines continued straight on.

After showing our dispatch to the security patrol, Ernie and I parked the jeep just inside the main gate. Then we walked back out the pedestrian exit, flashed our IDs and, once outside, took a right down a narrow lane. About twenty yards farther on, a small neon sign read the blue diamond club. It was a narrow room with a long bar on the right, a few tables on the left, and an excellent sound system. If the customer kept walking through the bar, he’d reach the far door of the club that led out into the next street over, which made the Blue Diamond a shortcut from one block to the next. The light was dim and there were no customers in the place when we walked in. A lone barmaid sat on a stool, reading a comic book and listening to a romantic Korean ballad on the sound system. It was not yet four in the afternoon, and she seemed surprised when she looked up and saw us. Maybe because we were early; more likely because we were white.

“I’m thirsty,” Ernie told her. “But I want something strong. What kind of beer do you have?”

She listed off the usual suspects: OB, Crown, and a couple of canned beers purchased illegally off the compound: Falstaff and Carling Black Label.

“How about malt liquor?” Ernie asked.

The girl stared at him blankly.

“Colt 45,” he said.

She nodded and shuffled to the next cooler over. She had to find her keys and click open the padlock and rummage around inside, but finally she came up with a sixteen-ounce can of Colt 45.

“Don’t open it,” Ernie said. “How many cans do you have?”

Again she stared at him blankly. Apparently, her English wasn’t too good. I said, “Kuangtong meit-kei isso?”

She leaned into the cooler, stood back up, and held up three fingers. Three more cans.

Ernie slid the can back to her and said, “Ahn mogo.” I don’t want it.

Puzzled, the girl placed the unopened can back into the cooler and watched as we walked out the far side of the bar. We checked three more joints, all at the recommendation of Haggler Lee. Two were completely out of Colt 45 but promised to have more in the evening. One had six cans left and said they hadn’t been selling well lately. I asked if most of their customers were black or white. The barmaid told me that lately most of their customers had been white, which would explain the lack of Colt 45 sales-and hopefully portend well for racial integration, but I wasn’t holding my breath.

Ernie and I sat at a table in a chophouse that straddled the wedge on the main road that divided the black and the white districts of Songtan. We sat next to the front plate-glass window so we could keep an eye on the entrance to the Blue Diamond Club. I ordered kuksu noodles with small clams drowned on the bottom. Ernie ordered the same.

“So when do you figure the Ville Rat will show up?” Ernie asked.

“I’m not sure. But as soon as we see that one of the clubs has a new supply of Colt 45, we’ll know he’s in the area.”

“What if he doesn’t make the deliveries himself?”

“I believe he does. Remember what the old lady up in Sonyu-ri said, the one who owns the Black Star Nightclub. She said the Ville Rat was popular with the black GIs.”

“But somehow he found out that we were looking for him in Samgakji and he tried to have us killed.”

“Maybe it wasn’t him.”

“Then who would it be?”

“I don’t know. But from what we’ve learned so far, it seems the Ville Rat is just a former GI who’s making a living here . . .”

“An illegal living.”

“Yeah. An illegal living, but he’s not pulling down a ton of money. Is that enough to have somebody murdered?”

“You never know,” Ernie said, toying with his chopsticks. “Some GIs hate the CID.”

“But somebody not only paid those two guys to steal the garlic truck; they also knew how to contact professional killers, all on short notice.”

“We don’t know that they were professional.”

“No, but they probably were. So everything points to the hit being ordered by somebody making big bucks, somebody with connections to the Korean underworld.”

“They also sent Campione and the Far East District GIs after us.”

“No, those guys were amateurs. They weren’t out to kill anyone-they were out to frighten us, to protect their turf.”

“So you think somebody bigger than the Ville Rat is watching us?”

“They’re trying to. Which means that the stakes here are more than just a few cases of Colt 45.”

“Like what?” Ernie asked.

“Remember what Haggler Lee said. ‘Look to yourselves.’ He believes that the Colt 45 is being shipped in via the US military procurement process.”

“But Burrows and Slabem just audited their books.” Then he went quiet, staring at the noodles hanging off the polished wooden chopsticks in his hand.

“They’re brownnosers,” I said. “They wouldn’t have reported anything wrong if it stared them in the face.”

“They received a reward for that audit. It took them over a month.”

“What does Eighth Army reward people for?” I asked.

“For not making waves.” He dropped his chopsticks into his bowl and leaned toward me. “You think Burrows and Slabem purposely covered something up?”

“No. I don’t believe that at all. What I believe is that they didn’t look too hard. They took whatever horseshit the Non-Appropriated Fund honchos handed to them and treated it as if it were a set of commandments from on high.”

“So,” Ernie paused, letting it sink in, “what’s really happening is that somebody is ordering stuff off the books and selling it on the black market.”

“Yes. Think about it. The US taxpayer covers the cost of shipping the merchandise from the US or Japan or Europe or wherever it comes from. It’s brought into Korea with no customs duties or taxes, and then you sell it to the locals at whatever markup you can get away with.”

“But they don’t steal the merchandise from the government.”

“No, that would be too obvious. They pay for it, then sell it for double or triple what they pay for it.” I paused, too excited to eat. “And the Colt 45 might be just crumbs falling from the table.”

“Crumbs the Ville Rat licks up and uses to make a living.”

“Yeah.”

“But why him? Why would anyone risk the integrity of a larger operation just to allow some lowlife like the Ville Rat to make a few bucks?”

“He’s out of the army now, but where did he work when he was on active duty?”

“You think maybe he’s got something on somebody and he used that to force them to cut him in on the action?”

“Maybe.”

“But if we find evidence, the whole thing will fall apart. Which is why they sent the garlic truck after us.”

“And what about him? If we’re in danger, wouldn’t he be too?”

“Maybe whoever’s running this operation never saw the need to use violence before. But now they see the Ville Rat as a loose cannon. If they’re willing to murder a CID agent, they’d certainly be willing to snuff out a nobody like the Ville Rat.”

“Do you think he knows that?”

“He should, if he’s smart. He must’ve heard about Samgakji. Gossip spreads through the GI villages faster than smallpox.”

Ernie shoved his bowl away.

“Let’s get out there and find him.”

I slurped down the last of my noodles, stood up, and followed Ernie out the door.

We checked the Blue Diamond and all the other bars we’d visited before, but even though the night shift had come on and GI customers were starting to filter in, none of them had yet increased their inventory of Colt 45. One of the barmaids admitted to us that the guy who usually brought it was supposed to have come in earlier but hadn’t shown. I asked her to describe him to us, claiming we wanted to buy a whole case from him, and she relented. Skinny white guy, always wore loud shirts, reddish hair, teased and puffed out so he looked like a soul brother.

Ernie and I stood in the shadows beneath the awning of Kim’s Sporting Goods, enjoying the cool evening breeze, watching both white and black GIs stream out of the front gate of Osan Air Force Base. Down both lanes, off to the right and straight on, neon flashed an inviting promise: fun, drinks, women.

“Maybe he’s dead,” Ernie said. “Maybe we’re too late. Maybe after they burned the garlic truck, the two assassins went after him.”

“Maybe.”

“So then what do we do?”

I sighed. “We write it all down, everything we’ve learned, and then we ask permission from the provost marshal to reopen the NAF audit.”

“Are you nuts? They’d have to admit that they gave awards to the wrong guys.”

“So maybe we should do the inventory on our own.”

“If we knew what we were looking for, that would make sense. But there must be a mountain of documents at the Comptroller’s Office, and other places. It would take us weeks of checking and rechecking and comparing purchase orders to inventories to shipping documents and delivery invoices.”

“Maybe.”

“What do you mean maybe?”

“Maybe we could figure out a way to do it faster than that.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. I have to think about it.”

At the front gate, some of the GIs were carrying out cases of beer or soda or large bags of commissary or PX purchases. They were probably going to their hooch or their yobo’s place, and they didn’t want to walk. For them, a line of Hyundai cabs had queued up at a taxi stand. But the number of GIs willing to pop for the fare were few and far between. Most of them walked. One of the cabs pulled away without a customer, which was unusual after waiting so long. Maybe he was tired of this shit and decided to go home. But the night was young . . . All these thoughts drifted idly through my mind as I thought about how a scam to import Colt 45 without it showing up in the regular inventory would work. How many people would be involved? Who would have to be paid off? How high would it go? It was certainly not worth the few bucks the Ville Rat was pulling down.

And then the cab’s engine roared and its headlights blinked on and the blinding light was speeding straight for us. Ernie shouted, “Hey!” and shoved my shoulder, and just before the speeding cab reached us, something dark flew out of the night. Whatever it was, it was heavy and compact; it twirled and then slammed into the speeding windshield of the cab. On impact, the cab jogged to the right just enough so I had time to dive blindly to my left, landing headfirst in a bin of soccer balls. Tires screeched and the wall behind me shuddered and the car’s glass exploded into a thousand shards. I covered my head.