“PX,” she said. “He buy PX.”
She was lying and I was about to call her on it when something heavy slammed onto the bar. A sledge hammer. That’s what I thought at first. But then I turned and looked. An angry black GI held a pool cue aloft, threatening to use it again.
“You don’t mess with the Kit Kat Club. You arra? You don’t mess with Mama and you don’t mess with the brothers.”
He was a burly-looking character with a broad face and angry eyes. The rest of the GIs in the bar were slowly approaching at his rear to back him up.
I held up my hands in surrender, palms facing forward.
“All right,” I said. “Just a health and welfare inspection.” I came out from behind the bar and Ernie joined me. We pushed our way through the small crowd, staying on the opposite side of the pool table from the guy with the pool cue, and were about halfway to the door when one of the GIs said, “Health and welfare inspection, my ass.”
An eight ball slammed against the door in front of us.
We hurried outside, but before we exited Ernie turned and waved and gave the patrons of the Kit Kat Club a slight bow.
Out on the street, Ernie said, “Nice fellows.”
“A little territorial,” I replied.
The next bar was called the Aces High Club. It was smaller but had piped-in jazz and a longer bar with a few booths along the wall. Three or four older business girls sat in the booths, smoking and gossiping, but interrupted their talk long enough to gape at us as we walked in. The bartender was a young man wearing a white shirt, black bow tie, and black vest. Ernie ordered an OB. I surprised the bartender when I said, “Colt 45.”
“No have,” he said.
“Why not?” I asked. “I thought everybody have.”
“Most tick have.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow we get, maybe.”
The black market in Korea is so widespread that no one bothers to deny its existence.
I settled for an OB and waited for one of the business girls to approach. Within five minutes, two of them did. Ernie horsed around with them, getting them laughing, and when they asked us to buy them drinks, I mentioned the lack of Colt 45. The girls looked concerned, anxious that I wasn’t pleased. For a moment they chatted between themselves in rapid Korean. I followed most of it and picked out the words “maeul ui jwi.”
Then one of them turned to me and said, “Tomorrow have.”
“What time?”
That stumped her. “Tomorrow daytime, anybody bring Colt 45. Tomorrow night you come Aces High, have.”
I decided not to press them, not right now. I didn’t want to spook whoever was bringing the Colt 45 tomorrow.
Ernie and I finished our drinks, thanked the girls, and left them mumbling that we hadn’t bought them a drink. I told them we’d see them tomorrow. I don’t think either of them believed it. Of course, neither did I.
Prior to the Civil Rights Movement, the US Army ignored segregation and prejudice within its ranks, pretending it didn’t exist. Now, because of mandates by Congress, Equal Employment Opportunity training had been established, but the effects of race riots only a few years ago and what the black GIs saw as the bias of the predominantly white officer corps meant that nerves were still rubbed raw. As such, most of the black GIs treasured their time off compound, where they could get on down with the Korean girls and commiserate with their brothers. And they weren’t real happy when white GIs burst through their porous little bubble and stepped into their world.
Ernie and I tried three more clubs, keeping a low profile, not wanting to piss off the black GIs any more than we had to. At each club, I mentioned the name maeul ui jwi.
“What’s it mean?” Ernie asked.
“A rat of the village.”
“The Ville Rat,” Ernie replied.
“Right.”
We managed to locate two bar owners, three waitresses, and two business girls who gave me a description of him: skinny, curly red puffed-out hair, a wispy mustache. His clothing was strictly nonregulation: slacks and leather boots and brightly colored shirts with starbursts and swirls.
“Migun?” I asked. Is he an American soldier?
The response was unanimous: He was, but he’s not now. Bit by bit I gathered that the Ville Rat made his money by selling malt liquor and imported cognac to the bars in Samgakji and elsewhere. He traveled from GI village to GI village, selling his wares, showing up on a set schedule to replenish supplies. He was white but he sold to the bars that catered to black GIs. Most of the bars charged 1,500 won for a can of Colt 45, three bucks, which was a hell of a lot. So not many GIs bought it. But there were a few who did. Maybe because it reminded them of home. Maybe because they wanted a little more kick than beer offered without having to drink so much that they’d put on weight.
I tried to find out what the bar owners paid the Ville Rat for each can, but they were evasive. Black marketeering was widespread but still a crime. I figured they probably paid a thousand for it. The Ville Rat would want twice what he paid for it, standard remuneration on the black market. So maybe he paid a dollar for it, sold it to the bar owner for two and they in turn sold it to their customer for the equivalent of three US dollars, or 1,500 won.
I wasn’t sure of any of this, but the economics made sense. Nobody sold what they purchased out of the military PXs or commissaries without receiving at least twice what they paid for it, and sometimes more. The catch was that the Ville Rat wasn’t buying the Colt 45 out of the PX or the Class VI store because 8th Army’s Central Locker Fund didn’t carry it.
Ernie and I strolled down the main drag of Samgakji. Groups of GIs standing near the front of nightclubs stopped talking as we approached and glared at us. Clicking loudly on his ginseng gum, Ernie raised a hand in greeting, as if they were old friends. No one returned the gesture.
“So where does the Ville Rat buy the Colt 45 and the cognac?” Ernie asked.
“If he’s not in the army anymore,” I said, “he doesn’t have a ration card, so he can’t buy the cognac out of the Class Six.”
“And the Colt 45?”
“He can’t buy that anywhere,” I said. “There’s no demand for it amongst Koreans, so no one imports it.”
“Do we know that for sure?”
“Okay,” I admitted. “Maybe we don’t. But we do know about the customs duties and the transportation costs. You buy a can of Colt 45 from a wholesaler in the States, you pay maybe fifty cents for it. Then you have it shipped overseas and then you pay the customs duties.”
Ernie whistled.
“Right. By then it costs you at least two bucks. Maybe more.”
“And two bucks, a thousand won, is what he’s selling the Colt 45 to the bar owners for.”
“Right. He’d lose money on the deal.”
Ernie thought about that. “So maybe he’s like Johnny Appleseed, just spreading joy around the world.”
A brown bottle hurtled out of the sky, missed my head by a few inches, and crashed to the pavement. I ducked. Ernie turned and ran toward the dark alley where it had come from. He halted when he looked down the narrow pedestrian lane and saw no one there. Across the street, a pack of black GIs stood in front of a juke joint. Music blared out of the bar in a sinuous, thumping rhythm. A single bulb illuminated their faces-all of them sweaty, flushed, lined with glee, greatly enjoying our anxiety.
Fists clenched, Ernie glared back at them.
I grabbed his elbow and pulled him away.
“Shit heads,” he said. That seemed to make him feel better.
When we hit the road that led back to the compound, a blue KNP sedan blocked our way. A dapper Korean man in an overcoat stood next to the vehicle. The dim yellow bulb of the street lamp illuminated his face: Mr. Kill.
He motioned for us to get in. We did. He sat up front, next to his driver and full-time assistant, Officer Oh. As usual she wore the official KNP female uniform: low-cut black oxfords, navy blue skirt, neatly pressed baby-blue blouse, and a pillbox cap with an upturned brim pinned to her braided hair.