I’d hit virtually every mom-and-pop retail establishment in Samgakji. It was more than an hour past lunchtime and I was hungry. I strolled down the road. Ernie was still there sitting on a wooden stool, leaning against a splintered wooden plank, his eyes half-closed and his fingers laced across his belly.
One eye popped open. “Anything?” he asked.
“Not yet. Maybe the Ville Rat’s not coming today.”
“Maybe he heard we were asking questions about him.”
“Maybe.”
Ernie stood up. “Anyway, tonight we’ll find that poker game the little kisaeng told us about.”
“Yeah,” I agreed.
“So let’s go get some chow. We can always stop by here tonight, see if a delivery was made.”
I agreed and we started to walk down the lane back toward the compound. From behind us, I heard the low growl of an engine. Probably another produce truck, I thought, but the engine noise grew louder and started to scream. Or it might’ve been a woman screaming. Either way, Ernie said, “Watch out!” and, startled, I leapt toward the far side of the road.
It was the wrong choice. I turned in time to see a three-wheeled garlic truck heading right for me. People up the road were shouting and cursing and leaping out of the way. Inside the cab sat two men with dark hair who, from this distance, appeared to be Korean. The truck was piled high with garlic. Behind me in either direction, a brick wall ran for more than ten yards. The truck was too close and moving too fast for me to make it to the end. The driver was hunched over the wheel, staring right at me. He wasn’t stopping. And he was already bouncing the side of his truck against the wall. Within seconds, if I didn’t do something, he could crush me, leaving my blood and guts smeared against the brick like a giant squashed bug.
Ernie shouted something I didn’t quite catch, then stepped out into his side of the road, about five yards closer to the truck, and waved both arms in the air. The truck jogged toward him momentarily, but Ernie leapt back into the safety of one of the pedestrian lanes and the driver swerved back in my direction. I started to run but realized I couldn’t make it past the wall in time. I was vaguely aware of the roar of the engine and the shouts of bystanders and the screams of high-pitched voices, but I was also resigned to the fact that I wasn’t going to make it. Either this truck was completely out of control or, more likely, this guy driving the garlic truck was out to get me. Either way, I was about to be roadkill on the side of a dirty brick wall.
Ahead, a low-hanging tile jutted from a roof. Someone had left a few wooden crates, still strewn with wilted green leaves, shoved against the brick wall. I had an idea. Building up all the strength I could muster, I charged toward the crates. The truck was only a few yards behind me now. Using my left foot, I stepped up onto them, feeling them give way and shift beneath my weight, but their support was just enough to help me leap upward toward the curved edge of the overhanging tile. I grabbed hold with both hands and ran up the side of the wall, catching a foothold on some jutting brick and pulling myself up as I did so. The truck was just below me now and crashed wildly along the edge of the brick, grinding metal and emitting a hideous screech. I kept pulling myself up, trying to arch my stomach skyward to get myself out of the way, but I couldn’t pull myself high enough, and something slammed into my spine. I realized it was the top of the cab of the truck, and the shock of the impact was enough to make me lose my grip. I tumbled backward, the truck still moving forward and scraping crazily along the brick, and then the piled garlic was beneath me, but the truck kept moving forward and I was rolling toward the rear, tumbling through mounds of flaking garlic as I did so. The engine roared louder than ever, and the next thing I knew I was falling. Ernie ran past me toward the truck, but just as I glimpsed him I hit the ground with a thump, hundreds of solid little garlic bulbs cushioning my fall. I watched the rear of the truck speeding away, crushed crates careening in front of it, Ernie lunging madly after it, and then something flew through the air and cracked into my skull. I passed out.
When my eyes popped open, Ernie was grinning down at me.
“Didn’t know you could climb so fast,” he said.
I shook my head. “Neither did I.” I tried to sit up.
Ernie placed his hand on my chest. “Lie down. The medics are on their way.”
I lay back down.
“What about the truck?” I asked.
“It’s gone. Don’t worry, you’re safe.”
Suddenly, I realized I was angry. I wanted to find and prosecute the guy who tried to kill me. “Did you get the license plate number?” I asked.
“I did better than that,” Ernie said. He grinned again and reached to the ground and lifted something up, twisting it to show it to me. It took a second for my eyes to focus, then I realized what it was. A dented and rusty piece of metal with numbering on it. Ernie’d done better than jot down the license plate number. He’d ripped the whole thing clean off the back of the truck.
“You guys smell like shit!” Riley screamed. “Get the hell out of my admin office.”
“Go plow a minefield,” Ernie told him.
The medics had checked me out at the scene, given me some vision tests, and asked me a few questions like who’d won the World Series last year and things like that. The specialist four in charge said he thought I was okay, but standard operating procedure said I should go to the 121 Evac Hospital. But by then I felt okay. Ernie’d helped me dust off most of the garlic leaves and I sat on a stool in the open-fronted store with a can of guava juice that the owner insisted I drink. When I tried to pay, he waved off the money.
Ernie didn’t seem enthusiastic about driving me over to the 121 Evac emergency room and sitting around all day waiting for the results of a bunch of damn tests, so I told the medics that I’d go on sick call tomorrow, which seemed to satisfy them. On our walk through Samgakji my legs were a little wobbly, but I believe that was more from fear than from the lingering effect of a concussion. We climbed in Ernie’s jeep and drove back to the 8th Army CID office, where we were greeted so warmly by Staff Sergeant Riley.
Miss Kim held a lace-edged handkerchief to her nose and studied me with a worried expression. “Byongwon ei kaya-ji,” she said. You should go to the hospital. By speaking Korean, she was purposely excluding Riley and Ernie from our conversation.
“Nei-il,” I told her. Tomorrow.
She accepted my decision but still seemed worried about it.
Colonel Brace entered the admin office, something he rarely did. Riley shouted “Ten-hut!” and stood at rigid attention. Ernie and I were already standing.
“At ease,” Colonel Brace said. Then he approached me. “You all right, Sueno?”
“Fine, sir,” I replied.
He sniffed the air. “You smell like garlic.”
“So Sergeant Riley was just pointing out.”
“According to the MPs, you were hit by a truck full of the stuff?”
“I wasn’t actually hit. I managed to get out of the way.”
“Good. What were you two doing in Samgakji anyway?”
Ernie told him about our lead on a guy who had apparently witnessed the murder of the woman found dead near the Sonyu River. He left out all the stuff about black marketeering. No need to confuse him.
“That’s the one up by Camp Pelham?” Colonel Brace said.
Ernie nodded.
“Good. Keep working that. And this Threets thing-stay close to Lieutenant Mendelson. I don’t want you two bogarting out on your own.”
“We’re just reporting the facts as we find them, sir.”