“I told Han not to take those corners so tight.” He was speaking mostly to himself but occasionally he glanced over at Rick Mills, who was glaring at him. “He comes barreling out of the warehouse just as I’m turning in and I didn’t see him, and I sure as hell didn’t have time to stop.”
Then he looked at Ernie and then at me. He pointed a long, bony finger.
“It’s your fault. If you hadn’t been here, I never would’ve needed to come over. Didn’t we just finish one freaking CID inspection?”
“That’s enough, Demoray,” Mills said. “Get this mess cleaned up. And then get over to the dispensary and check on Mr. Han. I want a full report by noon.”
Demoray stared at him for a moment, moist blue eyes blaring indignation. He rubbed his head again, tilting back his cap. Then he turned, throwing his arms up in the air in exasperation, shaking his head, and stalked away.
Mills turned to us. “He’s a good man, usually. Just very emotional.”
“And he drives too fast,” I said.
Mills nodded sadly.
Ernie poked through the broken bottles. “Why was he so worried about us?”
“He’s very protective of the operation here.”
“That’s a good thing.”
Mills sighed. “It can be.”
– 7-
“Had any strange lately?”
We were at the 8th Army snack bar. Men and women in uniform jostled with Department of the Army Civilians and balanced trays of food from the serving line, wedging themselves into booths and tables that filled the massive Quonset hut. I’d bought myself a mug of coffee, Ernie was having tea, and the man we knew as Strange, a sergeant first class in the US Army, sipped on a straw that stuck out of a plastic cup.
“Before we get to that, Strange,” Ernie said, “what’ve you got for us?”
“The name’s Harvey.”
“Right, Harvey. I forgot.”
Strange was a pervert. Ernie and I weren’t. At least, we didn’t think we were. And the only reason we associated with Strange was because he was the NCO in charge of the Classified Documents section at 8th Army Headquarters. A pervert who had access to the most sensitive military secrets. In addition to that, he was a gossip. He thrived on other people’s stories; he knew almost everyone at the 8th Army head shed and he eavesdropped on every conversation he could. And he was discreet. Most of the time people hardly knew he was there. Like the proverbial fly on the wall. As a result, he was an invaluable source of information for Ernie and me. The catch was that in exchange for his secrets, Ernie had to tell him about the strange he’d gotten recently. That is, new sexual conquests. I doubted that Strange had ever had a sexual conquest in his life, but he sure liked hearing about them.
Strange looked sharp. His thinning brown hair was combed straight back and he wore sunglasses even though the only light in the snack bar was from the overhead fluorescent bulbs. A plastic cigarette holder dangled from his lips, with no cigarette in it.
“I’m trying to quit,” he’d tell anyone who asked, although I don’t think anyone had ever actually seen him smoke. Oddly, he swiped imaginary ashes from the neatly pressed sleeves of his starched khakis. Strange glanced around the room, making sure we weren’t being watched. Then he leaned forward. “The Gunslinger,” he whispered.
“The what?” Ernie asked.
“Not so loud. The Gunslinger. That’s what this is all about.”
“What’s all about?” Ernie asked.
“This case you’re working on.”
“Which one?”
Strange seemed exasperated. He blew air into his straw, making the soda at the bottom bubble. “The one about the dolly up north. The one you found in the river.”
“Who’s the Gunslinger?” Ernie asked.
Strange grimaced. “Don’t you know nothing?” He glanced around the room again. “The Gunslinger is the two-star general who runs the Second freaking Infantry Division. Real name’s Kokol. Army Digest even ran an article on him. Changing the whole culture of the Division. Gung-ho rallies, karate classes, the whole works.”
“Yeah,” Ernie said. “So?”
“You still don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what?”
“Eighth Army’s got a case of the big ass. Division is getting all the publicity. The honchos here in Seoul don’t get squat.”
“So they’re hoping the murder, and the Threets case, will bring him down a notch.”
“Exactly.” Strange grinned. It was a difficult thing to watch. Greasy lips formed into a bowl-shaped gash. Somehow, out of that mess, he continued to talk. “The honchos are out to get him, and to do that they’re using you.”
Ernie sipped on his tea. “So the honchos are jealous of each other. So what? They’re always jealous of each other.”
“Not like this.”
“What do you mean?”
“If they get rid of Kokol, they’re thinking of sending your boss, Colonel Brace, up there as Division XO.” Executive Officer.
I set my coffee down. “He’d get a star?”
“That’s right.” Strange’s smile seemed to have reached his ears. “Brigadier general, a shiny silver star on his shoulder, handed to him on a plate.”
“So that’s why the Division MPs have been messing with us,” I said.
Strange smiled even more broadly, enjoying his superior knowledge. “You’re like two white mice scurrying between tomcats.”
Ernie didn’t like the analogy. “What do you know about Colt 45?”
Strange’s smile drooped. “The weapon?”
“No, the malt liquor.”
“Rotten shit.”
“I’m not asking for your culinary opinion. If someone wanted to buy some and sell it down in the ville, where would they get it?”
“How in the hell would I know?”
“So find out.” Ernie started to stand. Like a shot, Strange reached out and clutched the back of his hand.
“Hey, what about our deal?”
“No stories today, Strange.”
“The name’s Harvey.”
“Okay, Harvey. Telling us that one general’s jealous of another doesn’t tell us nothing. We need some real dope, not bullshit.” He pointed his forefinger at Strange’s nose. “Find out how to get ahold of some Colt 45. Who could do that? How? Then you’ll get a story.”
Strange grimaced, and then the grimace turned to anger. Reluctantly he loosened his grip on Ernie’s hand. As we left, he blew more bubbles into his cup, louder this time. Outside, Ernie rubbed his hand where Strange had touched him.
“Christ,” he said. “The Eighth Army honchos are using us against the general in charge of the Second Infantry Division?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Who woulda thunk it?”
“Anybody who knew them.”
At the 8th Army JAG office, Second Lieutenant Peggy Mendelson was not pleased. She slid my report across the desk.
“Are you sure you want to submit this?” she asked.
“I already have,” I answered.
“Hearsay, that’s all it is. And accusations made by the accused. Who’s going to believe Threets? He’d say anything to get out of being sent to Leavenworth.”
“If you want corroboration,” Ernie said, “we’ll get you corroboration.”
“No.” Lieutenant Mendelson said it too fast. Then she composed herself. “We’re not going to start an investigation into alleged homosexual activity by an experienced NCO based on the word of a soldier accused of aggravated assault.”
“Why not?” Ernie asked. He was slouched in the grey vinyl chair across from Peggy Mendelson’s desk, enjoying her discomfort.
She slid a carved glass paperweight from one side of her desk to the other. “The command is interested in the shooting and only the shooting. It was a flagrant case of assault, reflecting poorly on unit cohesion and esprit de corps.”
“Piss-poor leadership,” Ernie said.
Peggy swiveled her head. “Exactly.”