The Ville Rat

– 13-

I should’ve figured it wouldn’t be that easy.

Luckily, Ernie did figure. He was still out of sight, hidden in the dining room. I knew he had a .45 in a shoulder holster beneath his jacket. I kept my hands out to my sides. Softly, I said, “What do you want me to do?”

“Call your partner.”

The man speaking behind the flashlight in one hand and the shotgun in the other was Rick Mills, master sergeant (retired) of the US Army and current executive director of the 8th US Army Central Locker Fund. He sat in a high-backed padded chair, wearing pajamas, slippers, and a silk smoking jacket embroidered with what looked like flying dragons.

“Easy, Mills,” I said, “you’re in enough trouble.”

“Me?” He barked a laugh. “Looks like you two are the ones in trouble. Breaking and entering. You have a warrant?”

“We don’t need search warrants in Korea.”

“Not on base. But you’re off base now.”

He was right about that. Ernie and I had no jurisdiction in Sodaemun and no legal justification for entering his home. Our justification was hot pursuit. We had reason to believe that women were being held against their will here, raped, and even murdered. Whether it would stand up to legal scrutiny-we hadn’t been worrying about that. And at the moment, I was more worried about Rick Mills’s shotgun.

“Lower the barrel of the shotgun,” I said. “I’m not armed.”

“How about your partner?”

“We’re just here to look around,” I said, “not hurt anyone.”

“Look for what?”

I told him.

“Kisaeng?” he said. “Here in my house?”

I told him about the murdered woman near Sonyu-ri.

“Oh, Chirst,” he said. “You don’t think I had something to do with that? I’ve been accused of every crime Eighth Army has on the books, but not that one. Your brothers at the CID have been after me for years, figuring that since I handle a bunch of liquor, I must be black marketeering. But they never found anything because I haven’t done anything.”

“Why should we believe that?”

“Look around. Do I need more money? Do I need to risk losing my job and my work visa? My wife bought up more shit than you can believe in the years after the Korean War. Dirt cheap. As the Korean economy grows, my wealth grows with it. Why would I want to sell illegally on the black market and risk everything? And why in the hell would I want to lock up kisaeng here in my house? If I want a kisaeng, I’ll go to a frigging kisaeng house.”

Ernie shouted, “Drop the gun, Mills!”

“You drop yours, dammit! This is my house.”

Ernie didn’t reply. I was worried he’d start firing. After all, the barrel of the shotgun was still pointed directly at me. If Mills pulled that trigger, my guts would be spilling out like a bowl of raw octopus.

“Okay, Mills,” I said. “You’re saying you’ve got nothing to hide. So prove it. Let us search the house.”

He thought about that.

“You’ve got no right.”

“No. We don’t have the right. But if we search and find out we were wrong, then we’ll leave you alone.”

Mills pondered that. Then he said, “I want more than just being left alone.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to do something for me.”

“What?”

“I want you to find the son of a bitch who’s doing this to the Central Locker Fund.”

“You mean ordering stuff off the books?”

Mills stiffened. “I have no direct knowledge of that.”

“But you know something.”

He didn’t answer.

“I understand,” I said. “It’s been going on for years, maybe decades, the discrepancy in inventory, ordered by people with more power than you. But you didn’t profit from it and you made sure that you had no fingerprints on it, so if it ever blew up, you wouldn’t be caught up in it. Is that it? Do I have it right?”

He didn’t answer, just sat immobile.

“I’ll assume I do,” I said. “But then somebody came along who wanted to expand the ordering beyond what it had been in the past. Instead of just providing expensive imported booze to the rich and powerful, maybe to Korean politicians directly, or to legitimate importers who could move the stuff in bulk, somebody threw in a few orders of something else. And they started selling it around GI villages, making a quick buck, not a fortune, but a nice pile of change. Especially if you’re used to living on the paycheck of a noncommissioned officer.”

Mills stared at me impassively, neither confirming nor denying.

“You remember what it was like to be a noncommissioned officer, Mills. You remember what it was like to be broke three days before payday.”

Finally, he spoke. “It’s been a long time.”

“So, am I right? The honchos had a good thing going, running two sets of books at the Central Locker Fund, selling the booze wholesale or using it for gifts to the people at the top, pocketing some of the money but using lots of it to expand their own power. Pay off the right people, renovate the right buildings, contribute to the right charities. And then some lowlife punk comes along and endangers the entire setup. Am I right, Mills?”

Ernie dove into the room.

Startled, Mills swiveled the shotgun and fired.

I leapt face-first into the carpet. The second round of the shotgun didn’t go off.

I looked up. Ernie was kneeling on the carpet, holding his .45 in front of him with both hands. “Drop it, Mills!”

Rick Mills stared at him in horror. Then he let loose of the shotgun and allowed it to slide harmlessly to the floor.

Mills insisted that we search his entire house.

“I don’t want any rumors starting,” he said, “that Rick Mills is holding women hostage in his mansion.”

We did search, thoroughly, tapping on walls, even borrowing Mills’s crowbar and pulling back paneling that seemed to have been installed in recent years. There was in fact a basement and an attic, but no dungeon. During the entire search, Mills escorted us through the house, switching on lights. Like a proud host, he pointed out heirlooms that his wife had acquired, impressing us with the appraised value of artwork and antiques.

I searched for writing brushes and other implements used in calligraphy but didn’t find any. At one point, I tossed a porcelain doll to him. He caught it with his right hand.

“What’s that all about?” he asked.

“Nothing. Who’s that?” I pointed to a framed photograph on a linen-draped table.

Rick Mills moved toward the photo, lifted it with both hands, and stared at it longingly. “My wife,” he said. He handed it to me. A stunning Korean woman with high cheekbones and piercing black eyes stared back at me. She wore what appeared to be a traditional Korean dress, but made of felt. Though the photo was black-and-white, I imagined the felt to be dark blue. She sat on an ornately carved chair, and leaning against her full skirt was a stringed musical instrument.

“The komungo,” Mills said. “One of the first ancient Korean instruments. She studied it for years.”

“How’d you meet her, Mills? You were just an NCO.”

He shrugged. “People were desperate in those days, even the daughters of the landed classes. Desperate enough to hang out with a guy like me.”

“You married up,” Ernie said.

“Very much so,” Mills replied. “She saved my life, putting a stop to all the drinking and carousing.” Then he waved his hands. “And made me rich.”

“How long has she been gone?”

“Almost five years now. My mourning period is almost over.”

“Koreans mourn that long for a wife?” I asked.

“Not usually. But I am. See that temple out back?”

I nodded.

“I made a vow,” Rick Mills said. “One I won’t break.”

We continued searching the house, finding nothing out of line. When we were done, Mills shook our hands. “Am I clean?” he asked.

“Clean,” I said. “Unless you’re keeping them off-site.”

He frowned.

“You were about to tell me something, something about what it was like when you were an NCO living from paycheck to paycheck.”

“It’s unfair,” he said.

“What’s unfair?”

“It’s unfair to assign an NCO to the Central Locker Fund. They see so much wealth around them and there’s bound to be temptation. I’m not sure why personnel insists on assigning one to us. We could just as easily hire a Korean National.”

“They want to keep their hand in,” Ernie said.

“I suppose that’s it. They just want to remind themselves, and maybe me, that the Central Locker Fund is, after all, a creation of the US Army.”

“So that’s what you wanted to tell me?” I said. “That it’s unfair to assign an NCO to the Central Locker Fund.”

“That’s part of it.”

“What’s the other part?”

“Demoray,” he said.

“What about him?”

“I don’t trust him. He’s erratic and impulsive. You saw how he blew up at that worker when you were at the Central Locker Fund.”

“Not that unusual for the NCO Corps,” I said.

“No. But you’ve never asked him a question.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, when you ask a question, you expect an answer. That’s what NCOs do, answer questions honestly and directly. Maybe a pause for a few seconds to think about it, but with him the pause can last minutes.”

“What does he do during those minutes?”

“Sometimes he takes off his cap and rubs his head. Other than that, nothing. He’s just completely silent. As if he’s suddenly become the sphinx.”

I’d heard that before. Long, unexpected silences in the middle of calligraphy lessons.

“Is he interested in Korean culture?” I asked.

“That’s what they tell me, and if he wasn’t so weird with the silences and explosive at other times, the Koreans would give him a lot of respect. But they don’t, because they don’t trust him. He’s too erratic.”

“What exactly do you suspect him of?”

“I’ll deny it if anyone asks officially, but I’ve suspected him for a long time of moving stuff on the side.”

“Off the books?”

“Yes. He takes long trips to the Port of Inchon. I believe he’s developed a contact there.”

“Someone who can get the stuff through customs.”

“Yes. Easy enough as long as the inspector can at least pretend that it’s military materiel.”

“What’s he been moving?”

“I don’t know for sure.”

“What do you suspect?”

Mills paused. “Malt liquor,” he said.

“Colt 45?”

“Right. And California brandy. Stuff that can be substituted for cognac.”

“Do you have proof?”

“I haven’t looked for proof.”

“You want to keep your fingerprints off it,” I said.

Mills didn’t answer.

“Where does Demoray live?” I asked.

“Supposedly at the Nineteenth Support Group senior NCO barracks. But I’ve heard he has a place off-post.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know exactly. Maybe somewhere in Itaewon.”

Ernie and I drove to the Itaewon Police Station. A sleepy-looking desk officer looked up at us as we entered, surprised at first, but his face then returning to resigned resentment. I showed him Inspector Kill’s calling card. It was printed in English on one side and hangul on the other. I told the duty officer to call him. He stared at me wide-eyed, disbelieving. I showed him my badge and told him again. He lifted the phone. After many rings somebody answered. I could hear the word yoboseiyo. Hello. When the duty officer started talking, I realized that he hadn’t called Inspector Kill at all, but rather Captain Kim, the commander of the Itaewon Police Station.

I snatched the receiver from his hand.

“Captain Kim,” I said, “we have to find someone here in Itaewon. Lives are at stake.” His English was not nearly as good as Mr. Kill’s, so I repeated what I’d said in Korean. He asked what I wanted him to do. “We have to go through rental records,” I told him, “find a GI named Demoray who rented a home here in Itaewon.”

There was a long silence. Then he asked me in English, “Do you know what time it is?”

Actually, I didn’t. All I could think of since I’d stared into the barrel of Rick Mills’s shotgun was death. My own death and the death of Miss Hwang on the banks of the Sonyu River and the death of the little kisaeng. I looked around. It was dark outside. No traffic.

“Myotsi?” I asked the duty officer. He looked at his wristwatch. “Yoltu-shi iship oh-bun.” 12:15 a.m.

“Okay,” I said into the phone. “This morning, at first light, I need a detail hitting every bokdok-bang, Korean real estate broker, to check their records and find the hooch rented by a GI named Demoray.”

And then it dawned on me. He might’ve rented the place using a false name. The Korean real estate agent wouldn’t care, as long as he was paid in cash.

Captain Kim didn’t commit himself. He said we’d talk about it when he came in to work this morning. Suddenly, I felt foolish. We didn’t have time to find Demoray the regular way, with shoe leather and traditional police work. I had to figure out a way to find him now.

Ernie and I walked up the main drag of Itaewon, now lined with dark neon: The UN Club, the Lucky Seven Club, the Seven Club, the King Club. A few yards off to our left, I knew, up Hooker Hill, was the Grand Old Opry Club, Sam’s Place, and beyond that, down the steps in front of the movie theater, the 007 Club. Lonely yellow street lamps guided our way.

“He’s out here somewhere,” Ernie said.

“Yeah, and if you were a demented son of a bitch with plenty of money and you wanted to rent a place where you could hide women you’d purchased from human traffickers, where would you go?”

“I’d go to someplace isolated.”

Itaewon was the opposite of isolated. It sat in a southern suburb of a city of eight million people. Behind the main drag of nightclubs, the hooches were jammed up like poker chips in a pile.

“So if you don’t have isolation,” I said, “where else can you hide?”

“I don’t get you,” Ernie replied.

“Think of Edgar Allen Poe. ‘The Purloined Letter.’”

“You read too much,” Ernie said in disgust.

“If you can’t hide something away from others of its kind, you hide it in the midst of a multitude of its kind.”

“So you hide abused women,” Ernie said, “amongst other abused women.” He thought about it. “In a whorehouse.”

“Not just any whorehouse. But the worst of the worst.”

We turned up Hooker Hill.

We walked through the lonely back alleys of Itaewon, searching for lights inside windows, but there weren’t any. Occasionally we paused and listened. No shouts, no whimpering, just silence. Methodically we walked up and down the hills, turning toward the whorehouses we’d heard about, realizing that we didn’t know where they all were, but still everything was silent.

Finally, we stopped.

“Maybe he doesn’t live in Itaewon,” Ernie said.

“Maybe not. In the morning we’ll ask Inspector Kill to organize a task force to search for Demoray.”

“What did Mills say about Sonyu-ri again?”

Before we left, I had the presence of mind to ask him about his Non-Appropriated Fund operation up north near Camp Pelham, outside of Sonyu-ri. He told me that for years some of the Korean businessmen in the area had been hosted at the meikju changgo, the beer warehouse near Camp Pelham, to a poker game sponsored out of the illicit funds from the Central Locker Fund.

“That was Demoray’s job?”

“Yes. He transported kisaeng up there to serve the food and drinks.”

“One of them escaped,” I told him, “and was killed for her effort.”

Mills shook his head, truly repentant. “It’s gotten out of hand,” he said. “I knew it would one day.”

By the time we left, I almost felt sorry for him, but not enough to stop me from deciding to turn him in. Rick Mills had known what was going on and could’ve saved a life if he’d reported it.

Ernie studied the quiet Itaewon night. “Let’s try one more alley. If we don’t find anything, then we might as well go back to the compound.”

I agreed with him. We stalked up the narrow pedestrian lanes, brick and stone walls on either side, observing the moonlit night, listening for any sound. Nothing.

Finally, we gave up and returned to Ernie’s jeep and drove slowly toward Yongsan.

“There’s one last place we can try,” I said.

Ernie groaned again.

“Eighth Army Billeting,” I told him.

The duty NCO wasn’t happy to be rousted out of his cot. He was a thin man with a heavy five o’clock shadow and a sweat-stained green T-shirt behind the dog tags chained to his neck. We flashed our badges. He rubbed his eyes.

“Somebody rob a bank?” he asked.

“Demoray, Master Sergeant,” Ernie said.

The guy looked up at him and silently turned and pulled out a metal drawer from a filing cabinet that lined the back wall. He shuffled through folders and asked, “D-E-M?”

“Right,” Ernie replied.

They guy stopped, pulled out a folder, and said, “Building N402, Room Five.”

“Where’s that?”

“On Main Post. In the row behind the JUSMAG Headquarters.” Joint US Military Advisory Group.

“Thanks.”

We ran back to the jeep.

As we suspected, Demoray wasn’t in his room. We pounded on the door so loudly that one of the NCOs down the hall, still dressed in skivvies and a T-shirt, creaked opened his door and asked what the hell we thought we were doing.

“Do you have a key to Room Five?” I asked, flashing my badge.

“No. The maid keeps ’em around.”

“Where?”

He barged past us to the small kitchen, sparingly but routinely equipped with a refrigerator and gas stove. From a cabinet above the sink, he pulled down an MJB coffee can and tossed it to us.

“You figure it out,” he said, and stormed down the hallway back to his room.

The can was jammed with keys. Ernie handed them to me as I tried each one, and finally the door to Room 5 creaked open. I switched on the light.

The bunk was regulation size and tightly made up with an army blanket with the embroidered “U.S.” centered neatly. There were no dirty clothes on the floor and no dust atop the wall locker; I would’ve thought Demoray was a fastidious guy if I didn’t know that 8th Army senior NCOs paid only thirty bucks a month for laundry and maid service. I used the keys Palinki had given me to pop open the wall locker and Ernie searched under the bunk and in the foot locker, but we found nothing that could give us a hint as to Demoray’s whereabouts. Only neatly pressed uniforms, highly polished footgear, and a drawer full of green army socks.

“Waste of time,” Ernie said.

I didn’t argue with him. There was a photo propped atop the dresser drawer. It was of a much younger Demoray, still sporting hair, wearing his Class A uniform and staring blankly into a camera. I showed it to Ernie.

“His basic training graduation photo. Why would he keep that?”

“Maybe it reminds him of a time when he was innocent.”

I slipped the photo out of its frame and folded it into my jacket pocket. We left the room, closing the door and not bothering to lock it behind us.

“I hope somebody rips him off,” Ernie said.

“He can afford it.”

Halfway down the dark hallway, I stopped.

“What?” Ernie asked.

I shone my flashlight on a bulletin board covered with pins and squares of multicolored paper of various sizes. They were duty rosters and notes to people who might stop by and a safety announcement from the 8th Army Fire Station. In the upper left corner, a neatly printed three-by-five card had been pinned in a prominent position.

I took it down. “Look at this one,” I said.

“Yeah, what about it?” Ernie replied.

“Brush strokes. Not written with a pen like the rest of these.”

“What’s it say?”

“It’s an ad for some stereo equipment. Cheap. ‘See Demoray in Room 5.’”

“Not much of a clue.”

“Except for the writing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look how neat it is.”

Ernie studied the card closer. “Yeah, pretty clean.”

“Almost artistic,” I said.

“Yeah. So what?”

“Did you see any writing brushes in his room?”

“No. Maybe we missed them.”

“We didn’t miss them.”

“So he keeps them someplace else.”

“At his hooch off-post.”

“Right.” Ernie thought about that. “A lot of good it does us. It doesn’t tell us where his hooch is.”

“No, but it does tell us something-he’s our calligrapher.”

After a few hours’ sleep, we were back at the 8th Army CID Office.

“You’re late,” Riley said. “The provost marshal wants to talk to you.”

“Where is he?”

“Already gone to the morning chief of staff briefing. But he’s mad as hell about you two barging in on the Eighth Army Comptroller’s Office like that. He wants you both standing tall, right here, when he returns.”

“Can’t,” I told Riley.

“What the hell do you mean, can’t?”

“We have a murder investigation to conduct. Somebody’s life could be in danger.” Like the little kisaeng. But I didn’t tell him that. The less Eighth Army knew, the better. Less of an excuse for them to micromanage. Ernie and I started walking away.

“Where the hell do you two think you’re going?” Riley shouted, red-faced.

“To see Mr. Kill,” I told him.

He waved his forefinger at us. “Your ass will be in the wringer.”

“It’s been there before,” Ernie said, not looking back.

When we arrived, the Itaewon Police Station was swarming with cops. Mr. Kill was already in conference with Captain Kim. After a few minutes, Mr. Kill came out and said, “No luck at the bokdok-bangs.” The local real estate brokers who routinely dealt in the rental of apartments and small hooches.

I showed him the photograph of Demoray.

“This will help,” he said. I explained that Demoray was much younger then and completely bald now. He handed the photograph of Officer Oh, who marched away with it toward the detail of cops waiting outside.

“There’s one person who knows where Demoray lives-the Ville Rat. Ernie and I are going to look for him.”

“He’s elusive.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

Before we left Itaewon, we stopped at Haggler Lee’s. He confirmed what I suspected: on Thursday, the Ville Rat would be making his largest delivery of the week to the numerous all-black clubs outside of the 2nd Infantry Division headquarters at Camp Casey, in the city known as Tongduchon. East Bean River.

After spending an hour fighting our way north through Seoul traffic, it took another hour to reach the outskirts of Tongduchon; not because of the road conditions, but because of the long waits at the three ROK Army checkpoints. As you left Seoul and approached the Demilitarized Zone, they became more prevalent, but each time our CID emergency dispatch got us through. When we reached the sign that said welcome to tongduchon, Ernie found a parking spot on the edge of the bar district and we hoofed it the rest of the way.

Ernie and I’d been to the Black Cat Club before. Nobody remembered us fondly, least of all the few black GIs playing pool in the dimly lit main hall. They glared at us, as if we only had bad news to bring. When we sat at the bar, Ernie ordered a brown bottle of OB. I asked the barmaid for a Colt 45.

She popped open Ernie’s bottle and then stared at me quizzically. “You white GI. Why you order Colt 45?”

“A friend of ours made a delivery. Maeul ui jwi.”

“Oh, he told me most tick you come.”

“He told you we would come?”

She reached in the cooler and pulled out the Colt 45. “Yeah,” she said, “two white GIs from Seoul.”

“When did he bring this in?” Ernie asked, pointing at the Colt 45.

“Maybe one hour ago,” she said.

“Where is he now?”

She shrugged her slender shoulders. “How I know?”

A few of the GIs were staring at us, realizing we were interrogating the barmaid. Since they were eavesdropping now, I flipped through my mental rolodex until I found a safe topic. A possible mutual acquaintance.

“Where’s Brandy?” I asked.

Her eyes widened. “You know Brandy?”

“Yes. Yeitnal chingu,” I said. Old friend. We’d met Brandy on a previous case we had up here in Tongduchon. She’d been a lot of help to us and, in return, we later helped her out of a jam she’d gotten herself into concerning a jealous GI. Anyone who looked at her would realize immediately why the GI was jealous. Brandy was one of the finest-looking women in the village.

Three GIs approached, two of them with pool cues in their hands. “Yo! You messing with our girlfriend? You messing with the Black Cat Club?”

“Nobody’s messing with nobody,” I said.

“The hell you ain’t. You be asking a bunch of dumbass questions.”

“Like I said, nobody’s messing with anybody.”

“Then why don’t you take your honky-ass selves outta this place where you ain’t wanted?”

Like a brown missile, a beer bottle flew past my ear. It missed me and smashed into the face of the guy talking. Ernie shot past me on my left and rammed the heavy barstool into the raised forearms of the guy who’d thrown the bottle. I leapt forward and jerked a pool cue from the hands of one of the surprised GIs and started swinging. The two guys still standing backed off. The few other customers in the bar just stared.

“Where’s Brandy live?” I shouted back at the barmaid.

She fiddled with the locks behind the bar and said in Korean, “Out back. I’ll show you.”

The three enforcers of racial purity didn’t follow.

Brandy slid back the oil-papered door and stared at us in surprise. Her hair still radiated from her head in a dark bouffant Afro, but her eyes were even wider than I remembered. Since we’d last seen her, she must’ve handed over more of her hard-earned money to a plastic surgeon.

“Geogie,” she said. “Ernie. Long time no see, short time how you been?”

“Yeah, long time, Brandy. You still sexy.”

She struck a pose with her hand on her hip and said, “Gotta be.” Then her round face turned serious. “You look Ville Rat.”

“Yes,” I answered. “Is he still here?”

“No. He go.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. But he say you gotta go someplace.”

“Where’s that?”

“Inchon.”

“Inchon? Where in Inchon?”

“I don’t know. Anyplace. He say you figure it out.”

“Inchon’s a big city,” I said.

Brandy nodded. “No soul brothers there.”

“So the Ville Rat won’t be able to sell Colt 45.”

She nodded again.

“So what’s special about Inchon?” Ernie asked.

“How I know?” Brandy was impatient now, fiddling with a pack of PX-purchased cigarettes. “You go find out.” She waved her hand dismissively.

A group of black GIs burst out of the back of the Black Cat Club. They glared at us ominously. Three of them held pool cues and one held a blood-soaked handkerchief to his nose.

“Thanks for the info, Brandy,” I said.

“Ain’t no bag,” she replied.

Ernie and I hustled out the back gate.

“Inchon,” Ernie said.

“That’s what Brandy says.”

“But why would the Ville Rat want to go there? Like Brandy said, there’s no black GIs stationed in Inchon.”

“Hardly any GIs at all. Just that small transportation unit.”

We were driving through country roads. The sky was overcast, and streams of water and mud occasionally crossed the blacktop. Ernie slowed when we passed through villages lined with brick homes thatched with straw.

“This road will get us to the Western Corridor,” he said. “I take the Reunification Highway south from there, but what’s the best way after that?”

“Before we hit Seoul, we turn right toward Wondang.”

“More country roads,” Ernie said.

“Maybe. But we’ll miss the outskirts of the city. Less traffic.”

Ernie sped around a cart piled with turnips. A tired horse shied away, his grey-streaked rump whipped listlessly by an old man in a broad-brimmed hat.

“How does the Ville Rat expect us to track down a single hideout in Inchon?”

“I guess he thinks we’ll figure it out.”

“Why’s he being so secretive?”

“If everything collapses, he doesn’t want to be fingered as the guy who blew the whistle on the Central Locker Fund operation.”

“You mean if our investigation collapses because Eighth Army doesn’t take these allegations seriously.”

“It could happen.”

“And the same crooks would be back in charge of the Non-Appropriated Fund.”

“They’re in charge now.”

“But a woman’s life is at stake.”

“According to Mr. Kill, other women have disappeared and nobody’s done anything about it.”

“We didn’t know.”

“Somebody knew.”

“And that’s who the Ville Rat’s afraid of.”

“Right. They could turn on him next.”

“Not if we catch them.”

“No. But the Ville Rat’s hedging his bets.”

“You think he’ll be here?”

“Not a chance. If we take down Demoray, the Ville Rat will want to be as far away as he can.”

“Inchon is a big city. Where do we look?”

“The port,” I said. “Where the booze comes in.”

Ernie nodded. Made sense to him.

Like so many complexes in the Republic of Korea, the main row of warehouses along the Port of Inchon had been constructed by the Japanese. That is, during the colonial period, the warehouses were designed and built under their auspices, although I’m sure the bulk of the labor force was Korean. For over a mile, two- and three-story brick warehouses lined the wharf. All of them had at one time been occupied by the US Army. Inchon was the main port for bringing in supplies to the city of Seoul during and after the Korean War. However, in recent years, a four-lane highway had been built to the much larger Port of Pusan and the transshipment point had changed. Consequently, most of the warehouses in Inchon had been turned over to the Korean government. They in turn had parceled them out to private Korean enterprises. As such, the warehouses run by the US military were down to about a half dozen, all of them huddled on the northern end near the buildings housing the 71st Transportation Company.

Ernie and I cruised down the row of buildings.

“Demoray wouldn’t want to operate too close to the military,” I said.

“But he has to be near the warehouse that processes the shipments for the Non-Appropriated Fund.”

On our way to Inchon, the sun had set into the Yellow Sea and small red bulbs glowed atop the double doors of the brick warehouses that stretched away for almost a mile.

“So which one?” Ernie asked.

“Can’t read the signs from here,” I said.

Ernie pulled up to the gateway. The Korean contact guard pretended to read our emergency dispatch, but I don’t think he understood the jumble of red stamps and printing. I flashed my CID badge and told him impatiently that we only needed to park somewhere safe for a few minutes. Relieved to hear Korean, and to be given an excuse for letting us in if he needed one, he waved us through.

Ernie parked the jeep out of sight behind a wooden trash bin. He padlocked the steering wheel and, with my trusty flashlight in my pocket, we got out to walk. Mostly, we stayed in the shadows reading the signs, searching for something that indicated we’d be near either 8th Army Non-Appropriated Funds or the operations of the Central Locker Fund. But not all of the warehouses were clearly marked. The signs were old and faded, and I was beginning to believe that they hadn’t been updated in quite a while.

A night watchman approached us. When he came closer, I could see in the glow of one of the red bulbs that he was Korean. I could also see that an M1 rifle was slung over his right arm. I greeted him and asked, “Where are the Eighth Army warehouses?”

We could’ve flashed our CID badges and probably been all right, but we didn’t even need to do that. American officers had become so much a part of the daily working life of Koreans over the years that most of them never questioned our motives. He pointed toward the end of the row. I thanked him and nodded slightly, and he returned my nod and continued his rounds. Between the warehouses and the wharf was a long expanse of about twenty yards of blacktop. Canvas-covered pallets were laid out like square checkers on a board. Ernie started pulling up the canvas and checking the writing on the boxes underneath. Finally, he stopped and called me over.

“Look,” he said.

I shone my flashlight on the cardboard boxes beneath the canvas.

“Falstaff,” I said.

“Our favorite,” Ernie replied. “Need we go further?”

“Yes,” I said. We went down a row of pallets, lifting canvas, seeing all kinds of imported American beer: Pabst Blue Ribbon, Schlitz, Miller High Life. What we weren’t seeing was Colt 45.

I switched off the light and studied the warehouses around us. “Anything?” I asked.

Except for the dim red bulbs, all was darkness. Behind us, the smell of the sea crept across the blacktop, picking up the scent of burnt diesel before seeping into our nostrils. Nothing moved. We listened.

“Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“It sounded like a moan.”

“Where?”

“Over there. That fenced area.”

A smaller building, like an administration annex for the warehouses, was separated off by itself. Surrounding it was a four-foot-high cement-block wall topped by chain-link and, above that, rusted concertina wire. Staying as far from the glow of the dim light as possible, we approached the fence.

Then we heard it again, a faint moan, almost like the sighing of the wind.

When we reached the fence, we glanced at one another, coming to an immediate unspoken agreement. Ernie crouched, cupped his laced fingers in front of me, and I stepped my right foot up into his hands. I grabbed the top of the fence and pulled as he hoisted me over. I slid over as quietly as I could and, once on the other side, slid as unobtrusively as I could along the edge of the fence and unlatched the small gate. Ernie slipped through, closing the gate behind him.

A small courtyard was lined with what appeared to be rusted moving equipment. The front door of the small building was made of heavy wood. We slipped quietly through the darkness.

And then we heard a scream.