“Where’s your partner?” I said.
“He had to go on sick call.”
“Got the clap again?”
“No. A skin condition.”
Burrows swiveled his crane-like body and ambled down the hallway towards the first sergeant’s office. I think he wanted to get there before us.
Riley said, “Yeah, okay,” and slammed the phone down. ‘The truth is that those wires Slabem was hooked up to got overheated and he was engaged in an intimate conversation with some suspect at the time and was unable to turn them off or get the hell out of there, and as a result he was burned and his entire porky body looks like it was toasted in a wrap-around waffle iron.”
“Sueсo! Bascom!”
The first sergeant was bellowing from down the hall.
Burrows passed us on our way in, smirking.
“What’s this I hear about you two guys not being out at the commissary or PX doing your job on the black-market detail like I told you to do?”
“It ain’t true, Top,” Ernie said. “We been staking out the commissary steady since you told us we were off Lindbaugh.”
“Don’t be bullshitting me, Bascom.”
“No way, Top.”
“What about it, Sueсo?”
‘The commissary, Top. I don’t care what Burrows says.”
“How many arrests did you get?”
‘Things have been a little slow out there. They should pick up on payday.”
“Don’t give me that shit! I don’t know what you two guys have been up to, but you better not be poking your noses into what don’t concern you, and you’d better get on the stick and get out there and get me some black-market arrests… or I’ll have your ass! You got that?”
Ernie and I nodded.
“Now get out of my office and get to work on the job that the Army’s paying you to do. And don’t let me hear about any more screwing off.”
Miss Kim had her head down as we left; Riley winked. Burrows had disappeared.
Ernie made the jeep’s engine roar. We were in just the right mood to see Strange.
“What’s he doing during his off-duty hours?” I asked.
“Bohler? That old tight ass? Gets some strange, I guess.”
“With who?”
Strange popped his bubble gum. “With whoever he can pick up. He’s got two stars. It shouldn’t be too difficult.”
“Does he ever hang out in the ville?”
“I haven’t seen him out there. But I’ve heard of a couple of guys who have.”
‘They’ve seen him running the clubs?”
“No. Not runningthe clubs. He wouldn’t stoop so low. He sort of sneaks around, you know, with his escorts.”
“His escorts?”
“Yeah. Those Korean guys who want to take good care of him.”
“Like who?”
“Like that guy out there who runs one or two of the clubs.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know. He’s a smooth character, expensive.”
“How often does he go out there?”
“Very rarely.”
“Does he have any regular hangouts? Places where we might be able to spot him?”
“No way.”
“Well anyway, thanks, Strange. Thanks for the information.”
‘The name’s Harvey.”
“Yeah. Sorry, Harvey. See ya.”
“Have you gotten any lately?”
“Not lately. I’ve been busy.”
“Pity.”
“Yeah.”
Tinkling glassware and the smell of freshly sliced lemon. If we hadn’t been in the Eighth Army Officers Club I would have been enjoying myself. It was your typical luncheon: honeyed ham with a pineapple ring and cherry on top, a baked potato wrapped in tinfoil, and succotash. We didn’t eat. Of course, we hadn’t been invited anyway. We stood off to the side, trying to stay out of the way of the waiters and the red-faced officers sliding over to the bar to belt down quick ones.
Someone clanged a spoon against a water glass. The room got quiet.
“We are here today to honor…”The speaker droned on. Finally, to a round of halfhearted applause, Major General Bohler was introduced. He was lean, like a gnawed sparerib, and the graying hair on the side of his head had been all but shaved away. The top of his pate glistened in the light, as if it had been oiled. He grinned. A wide toothy grin under square-lensed glasses.
His voice was raspy and thin. As if he were trying to soothe you before he cut your heart out.
The luncheon was in honor of the great improvements that had been made at the Korean Procurement Agency. Money had been saved. The taxpayers’ interests protected. And great new edifices had been built to the glory of the Eighth Imperial Army. A series of Korean gentlemen, employees of KPA, received plaques and certificates of appreciation, bowing and shaking General Bohler’s hand as they received their rewards. Bulbs flashed. And then Lindbaugh was on the stage, his chubby neck bulging out over his too-tight collar and tie. His moist-lipped grin revealed little gray teeth. Like a ferret. And then Mr. Kwok was on the stage. He was muscular and swarthy and seemed to take command of the room with his physical power. He didn’t bow to General Bohler but kept his face impassive and shook his hand and accepted the big burnished copper plaque, emblazoned with little metal flags of the United States and Korea. Engraved words recorded forever the great contributions he had made to mankind and the cause of peace in Northeast Asia.
I looked at the barrel-chested officers along the bar. Some of them chuckled quietly to one another. I longed for a belt. Instead I went into the latrine and spit.
We were in the jeep at the base of the hill below General Bohler’s quarters.
It was cold but there was no snow. There hadn’t been any precipitation for over a week, since the night Miss Pak died.
The snow that was left on the ground looked like lumps of stale icing on mass-produced pastry. A thin sprinkling of soot lay atop it.
The frozen snow and the evergreen trees and the naked elms began to disappear as the sun went down. Soon all we could see were a few pale yellow bulbs serving as porch lights.
We waited an hour. Nothing. So we decided to shake things up. We got out of the jeep and walked up the steep winding driveway. I carried my clipboard again. The two gate guards were smoking and joking but got quiet when they spotted us.
“Where’s Mr. Jung?”
“Just a moment.” The radio squawked.
Within about thirty seconds a stout, middle-aged Korean man in neatly pressed khakis appeared. We flashed our IDs.
‘The report of inspection on the day shift is not going to look very good. So far, your men are doing somewhat better.”
“We are particularly alert at night.”
“The day shift is important, too.”
“Yes.”
“Would you please show us around the perimeter?”
“Yes.”
We followed him along the chain-link fence but I kept my eyes on the house. The big Lincoln sedan was gone. The old sarge must have the night off. Inside, no one seemed to be moving.
The perimeter guards snapped to attention as we approached.
“What time do you expect the general to go out tonight?”
“He’s already left.”
“What?”
“Yes. He got off early from work today. Very unusual for him. He changed clothes and was gone before the sun went down.”
“Where was he going? Do you know?”
“No.”
“Was he alone?”
“Yes. And on foot.”
The security chief didn’t seem to be too worried about it. There is no terrorism in Korea. No kidnappings. No Red Brigades. The society is too well controlled. What they are worried about is a direct attack on specific targets by North Korean commandos. Thus, the heavy security at the general’s quarters and the Eighth Army Headquarters itself.
“What time did he leave?”
“Just a few minutes before the sun went down.”
We walked back down the hill to the jeep. I cursed myself for not getting here earlier. But who would have thought that a workaholic would cut out early from work?