“Right. We need information now.”
The confrontation at the NAF had proven that we were on the right track, but we would lose the trail if we didn’t act quickly.
“So what’s our next move?”
“There’s one guy out there who wanted to give us information. The Ville Rat.”
“Great idea. But how in the hell are we going to find him?”
“We need a lead.”
“There’s a keen observation.”
“And when it comes to information on a black marketer, there’s one guy who can give it to us.”
Ernie thought for a moment. Then he turned to me. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
When the jeep was ready, we showed our dispatch at the 21 T Car main gate and hung a right on the MSR. At the Coulter Statue intersection, Ernie took another right and headed for Itaewon.
Haggler Lee was the most notorious black marketer in Itaewon. As huge as his warehouse was, it was hidden from view amongst the maze of two- and three-story hooches and apartment buildings in the teeming neighborhood that surrounded the main drag of nightclubs and bars in Seoul’s red-light district of Itaewon. The winding pedestrian lanes were so narrow and convoluted that if you didn’t know where you were going, you could easily get lost. But we knew where the warehouse was because we’d been there before. Many times. At the huge wooden double door, Ernie grabbed the heavy metal knocker and banged on teak.
It took five minutes, but a small rectangular entranceway in the much larger door creaked open. A wrinkled face peeked out.
“We’re here to see Haggler Lee,” Ernie said.
The old woman opened the trapdoor wider and we ducked through into a poorly lit, dungeon-like warehouse. After barring the door with a metal rod, the old woman led the way, plastic shoes scraping on cement. We passed dusty bins filled with various pieces of military clothing and then neat rows of stacked C rations. Finally, we reached a somewhat tidier area with refrigerators still in plastic sheeting and air conditioners and fans in colorful boxes emblazoned with both English and Japanese lettering. Atop a raised wooden kang, Haggler Lee sat in the lotus position on a flat cushion. In front of him, incense burning, the fat belly of Kumbokju, the Korean god of plenty, glowed. We kicked off our shoes and stepped up on the varnished wooden surface.
Haggler Lee’s eyes popped open.
“George! Ernie! So good to see you.”
He was a youngish man with a soft, baby-like face and dark hair combed straight over a round skull. Beneath his nose, a black mustache quivered. I figured him to be about forty, but he dressed like what GIs would call a papa-san. He wore the traditional white pantaloons and embroidered silk vest of a man who’d long since passed retirement. Looking older was something many Koreans strived for; they thought it gave them gravitas and respect in society, so unlike in the States, where old age was rated one step below a communicable disease.
“Sit, please,” he said, motioning toward two cushions opposite him. Then he clapped his hands and a few seconds later a young woman in a flowing chima-jeogori appeared, carrying a stainless-steel tray. She served us tea in porcelain cups with no handles. Haggler Lee lifted his with two hands and saluted us. We all drank. “Now,” he said, setting down his cup. “What can I help you with?”
“Maeul ui jwi,” I said.
His eyes stared at me blankly.
“Maeul ui jwi,” I repeated.
“Oh,” he said, “you’re speaking Korean. Sorry. I was expecting English.”
Haggler Lee’s English was excellent, although sprinkled with GI slang. His language skills had been honed by running the largest black-market operation in Itaewon. GIs, but more often their Korean wives, brought him literally tons of imported goods and foodstuffs. In return, he paid them double what they cost in the military PXs and commissaries, a boon to financially strapped military families. Then Haggler Lee took those goods and provided them wholesale to Korean retailers. As a result, he had extensive contacts amongst the purveyors of illicit items at the Korean open-air markets at both the South Gate and the East Gate in Seoul.
He said the phrase again. “Maeul ui jwi. The Ville Rat.”
“Right,” I said. “Do you know him?”
“Not personally.”
“But you’ve heard of him?” Ernie said.
“Oh, yes. Our paths have never crossed, but certainly I’ve heard of him.”
“What’s his angle?” Ernie asked.
Silk rustled as Haggler Lee shrugged. “Special order,” he said.
“Such as?”
“Apparently some black GIs like certain refreshments that aren’t so popular with white GIs.”
“Like malt liquor?”
“Precisely,” Haggler Lee replied. Then he pursed his lips, as if sucking on a lemon. “Awful stuff,” he said.
“You tried it?”
“Once. Of course, I might not be the best judge. I don’t even like beer.”
“You sell enough of it.”
“That’s business.”
Ernie and I had never bothered to bust Haggler Lee for black marketeering. In order to have jurisdiction, we’d have to catch him in the act of purchasing something from an American soldier or an American dependent. Even if we did, since he’s a Korean citizen, we’d have to turn his prosecution over to the KNPs. They would hold him for maybe an hour or two, fine him a few thousand won, and then let him go; all of which would be a futile exercise. Instead of alienating him with such a pointless charade, we used him instead for the information he could provide in more important cases. His vast business connections made him a great resource-but a resource we didn’t bother to tell 8th Army or the provost marshal about.
“Our knowledge is,” I said, “that the Ville Rat specializes in Colt 45 malt liquor and imported cognac, selling them to the black nightclubs since they’re popular with the black GIs.”
Haggler Lee nodded.
“What is he,” Ernie asked, “a GI or a civilian?”
“I believe,” Haggler Lee replied, “he was once a GI. His current status, I wouldn’t know.”
“Do you know where he was stationed?”
Haggler Lee shook his head sadly, as if bitterly disappointed that he couldn’t help us. Ernie asked him something that fell more into his area of expertise.
“Where does he get his merchandise, this Colt 45?”
Haggler Lee shrugged again, more elaborately this time. “I’ve wondered that myself. But I don’t know. They don’t sell Colt 45 in the Class Six. Cognac, yes, but not malt liquor.”
“He has to import it somehow,” I said.
“Yes. Maybe he has a contact at the Port of Inchon or the Port of Pusan.”
“Some customs official who looks the other way?”
“Maybe. And he’d need a merchant ship to haul the stuff in.”
“Expensive,” I said.
“Very.
“But he sells the Colt 45 for a thousand won a can.”
“Not possible,” Lee said, “if he’s smuggling it in.”
“So he has another source,” I said.
Lee nodded. “He has to.”
“Any ideas?”
Haggler Lee sipped on his tea, then set it down again. Then he raised his head and stared first into my eyes, then into Ernie’s. “Look to yourselves,” he said.
“Ourselves?”
“Yes. You Americans are the only ones who can bring things into Korea for free.”
By free, he meant all transportation costs paid by the US government, not by an individual. And no customs duties paid to the ROKs. That speculation left us pretty much where we started. The Central Locker Fund didn’t import Colt 45, so who else would? I tried a different angle.
“How can we find the Ville Rat?”
“Be there when he makes deliveries.”
“We tried that in Samgakji.”
“Someone must have known you were coming. Did you advertise?”
“We were there the day prior, asking questions.”