Using our flashlights, Ernie and I searched each of the drums. At the far end, one was full of nothing but shards and plenty of ripped green felt. Ernie pointed to one of the chunks of varnished wood.
“Corners. It was probably in the shape of an octagon. A gutter for chips, green felt on the inside.”
“A poker table,” I said. “But why’d they chop it up?”
“And recently, too,” Ernie said. “They must pick this trash up at least twice a week.”
For years I’d been seeing trash trucks winding their way through various military compounds in Korea, never paying them much mind.
“So whoever chopped up this poker table did it today. Or maybe yesterday.”
“Why?” Ernie asked. “What set them off? They could’ve been having poker games in that room for years.”
“And whoever was hosting them was making serious money.”
The usual house rake was one chip out of every twenty-five. That was a fat 4 percent of every dollar bet, and in a typical high-stakes game, thousands of dollars would cross the green felt, with the house pocketing big money.
Gambling was illegal in Korea, except in the handful of casinos the government has authorized for tourists only. Private games were strictly prohibited. Korean television news is full of stories of locals being busted for illegal gambling and perp-walked in front of the klieg lights. But here on the Far East District Compound, conveniently located in the heart of downtown Seoul, the Korean National Police had no jurisdiction. The only law enforcement we’d seen so far in this little enclave of Americana was Sergeant Campione with his duty nco armband.
“This might’ve been going on for years,” Ernie said.
I stared at the shards. “So why stop now?”
Footsteps scraped on asphalt. We turned. Across the lot, approaching through the harsh rays of the overhead floodlight, a group of men approached. One of them was Campione, apparently off duty now, wearing baggy blue jeans and a sweatshirt with a drawing of a bulldog and the words northern new jersey state stenciled beneath the canine’s drooping jowls.
There were ten men behind him, all of them looking grim. But what most caught my attention was what Campione held in his hand: a short-handled axe, its blade glistening in the harsh light.
I stared fixedly at the axe blade, but shook off my fear. When you’re outnumbered and outgunned, the best strategy is to go for the bluff.
“Sergeant Campione,” I said, as the men approached. “Good. I was just about to go looking for you.”
I pulled my CID badge out of my pocket and held it over my head in the glare of the floodlight. Showing a confidence I didn’t feel, I strode toward the men, raising my voice. “I’m Agent Sueno of the Eighth Army Criminal Investigation Division. This is my partner, Agent Bascom. I’m glad you’re gathered here, because all of you are going to have to be interviewed.”
The men stopped. I glanced at the axe. Campione still clutched it tightly in his grip.
“You’ve got no right,” he said. “This is the Far East District Compound, not Eighth Army. You’ve got no right to mess with us.”
I slipped my badge back into my pocket and held both hands up. “I know what you’re thinking. One inspection just finished, and now another. But we’re going to keep this one short and sweet. All we want to know is who was involved with the illegal gambling that was going on here. That’s all. After we know that, we’ll leave you alone.”
The men glanced at one another, murmuring sullenly.
“What game?” Campione said. “We don’t know what you’re talking about.”
From the darkness behind me, something large flew out of the night. It arched toward Campione and then crashed in front of his feet.
“How about this, Campione?” Ernie shouted.
Everyone stared at the chunk of wood that had just landed on asphalt. It was a corner chunk of the poker table, with a clear indentation for holding chips and what amounted to almost a square yard of green felt.
Ernie stepped forward. “You should’ve chopped finer,” he said, gesturing toward Campione’s axe.
A voice in the crowd said, “Why don’t you get off our compound?”
Another voice said, “Yeah.” And then a chorus joined in, cursing us and moving forward en masse. Ernie and I backed up. Somebody picked up the chunk of wood and lobbed it into the air. It landed with a thump on the hood of Ernie’s jeep.
That did it.
He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a .45 automatic. He brought the charging handle back with a clang. Before I could stop him, he fired a round into the air. The men leapt back. He leveled the weapon.
“You first, Campione. Drop the axe!”
When Campione didn’t respond, Ernie fired a round past his head, the lethal slug zinging into the night and exploding on the high brick wall about ten yards away. Some of the men crouched.
“Stay where you are!” Ernie shouted, but by now the discipline of the mob had broken and individual GIs were slinking off into the shadows. Soon they were running. Campione stood alone now, the axe fallen to the asphalt, holding his open palms off to the side of his head.
Ernie leveled the pistol at him.
“Ernie,” I said.
“I’m tired of this shit,” Ernie shouted. “First they try to run you over with a garlic truck, then they send this fat slob to come at us with a freaking axe. It stops now!”
“Ernie,” I said.
He breathed deeply, sighed over the .45, and then, taking another deep breath, lowered the pistol until it pointed at the ground.
“Did you run that poker game, Campione?” I said.
“No way. None of us enlisted men are allowed in there.”
I stepped toward him. “But you knew about it?”
“I didn’t know about nothing.”
“But you knew about the girls being brought in. You saw them, when they were driven through the gate.” He shuffled nervously. “And somebody told you to chop up that poker table. And you did what you were told.”
His face flushed red. “Okay, so we got it good here. No duty other than our regular jobs and gate guard. None of that military horseshit.”
“Good enough that you were willing to chase us off,” Ernie said, “with an axe.”
Campione looked away.
“How much did you make from the poker game?” I asked.
“We didn’t make nothing.” Campione’s eyes were moist, burning into mine. “Who do you think runs this compound? A sergeant E-5? No chance. The DACs run this freaking compound.”
Department of the Army Civilians.
“Like who?” I asked.
“Like I don’t know. There’s Mister this and Mister that and they pretty much keep to themselves. We’re the worker drones, you know, us and the Koreans. And at night they leave us alone except for one or two things that go on in the offices or in the Central Locker Fund warehouse, and it ain’t none of our business, you understand.”
“Bull,” Ernie said. “You’re getting your cut. That’s why you tried to chase us away. You know the deal. Keep the bosses safe and they’ll take care of you.”
For once, he didn’t have a smart-mouth answer. I motioned to Campione to get lost. He did, moving quickly for such a big man.
I told Ernie I’d drive. He didn’t object. Still holding his weapon, he climbed in the passenger side. I grabbed the big chunk of splintered poker table and tossed it into the backseat. Maybe it would come in handy as evidence, or at least we could use it to put pressure on somebody. Then I slid in behind the steering wheel, started the engine, shoved it into gear, and drove slowly out of the Far East District Compound.
I dropped Ernie off at the barracks and kept the jeep, taking a drive through the dark 8th Army compound. A moonlit smattering of snow guided my way. The CID office was abandoned this time of night, with only a yellow firelight glowing over the front door. I used my key to let myself in and walked down the long hallway to the admin office. Inside, I switched on a green lamp over the wooden field table I usually used to write my reports, but this time I set the typewriter aside. From my inner pocket, I pulled out the poem Mr. Kill had given to me. It was the complete text, in both Korean and English, of a poem done in the three-line lyric sijo style by Hwang Ji-ni, one of the most famous kisaeng of the sixteenth century. A fragment of the poem had been found in the sleeve of the murdered kisaeng up in Sonyu-ri.