“That would do it. When you barge in asking questions about black-market items, it’s reported up the line. Didn’t you know that?”
We did, but we hadn’t realized exactly how steadfast these reporting requirements were.
“You must be more careful.” Haggler Lee polished off his tea. “Better if you know his movements in advance.” We waited. He placed his laced fingers on his flat stomach and leaned back contentedly. For the information he was about to impart, we’d have to pay. “There’s a shipment,” he said, “of Seven Dragon wall clocks. Handmade in Red China, then shipped to Hong Kong, where a new manufacturing label is slapped on.”
“So they’re legal for the US military to purchase.”
“Precisely.” He smiled, seemingly at the beauty of it all. Fighting godless Communism was one thing, making a buck was another.
“Seven dragons,” Ernie said. “That’s good luck, isn’t it?”
“Very. They go on sale in your main PX on Tuesday. They’ll be rationed, one per customer. By the end of the day, the entire shipment will be sold out.”
“And the Korean wives who buy them will bring them out here to you.”
“Not all,” Haggler Lee said, smiling, “but most.”
“You’ll pay double for them?” I asked.
“Triple. Top dollar.”
“And you’ll sell them for more than that.”
“Handmade in China, seven dragons, long life and good fortune. What self-respecting household can afford to be without one?”
“What do you want in return?” I asked.
“Can you make sure none of my customers will be busted for black marketing on that day?”
Ernie and I were usually on the black-market detail. We were the only CID agents who had the nerve to follow black marketers into the back alleys of Itaewon and bust them in the act of actually exchanging cash for merchandise. If we didn’t bust them, nobody else would.
“Depends on what we get in return,” Ernie said.
“What you get,” Haggler Lee said, “is the Ville Rat.” He smiled more broadly. “How would you like to find him tonight?”
Ernie and I both held our breath. Finally, I ventured, “Where would that be?”
“It’s Wednesday. He always makes his deliveries in Songtan-up on Wednesdays.”
“You know this, how?”
Haggler Lee looked slightly offended. “What kind of businessman would I be,” he said, “if I didn’t keep track of the competition?”
The young woman in the silk dress breezed into the room and swept up the teapot and the cups. Ernie told Haggler Lee that if the information panned out, he had a deal.
“Pan out?” he asked.
“If the information is good,” Ernie replied.
“Oh, it’s good.”
Then he told us which clubs the Ville Rat would deliver to first.
Songtan-up was known to the GIs as “Chico Village” for some unfathomable reason. Maybe they thought Chico Village sounded cool, but to me, songtan was a much more evocative name. It literally means pinewood charcoal, which was perhaps one of the main products the area produced in days gone by; up is merely the geographical designation meaning town.
Songtan-up presses against the main gate of Osan Air Force Base, the largest US air base in Korea. In addition to the two or three thousand airmen stationed at Osan, Songtan sees a large influx of US Marines from Okinawa who are given rest-and-recreation leave and hop on military C-130 transports that fly them from their little island in the South China Sea to the exotic vacation spot of Osan Air Force Base on the Korean peninsula. Most of the marines stay in the extensive transient barracks on base, which only sets them back about five bucks a day. The marines bring a lot of tourist dollars into the Songtan bar district-but also a lot of strife.
Our first stop was the Blue Diamond Club. It was walking distance from the front gate of Osan Air Force Base. The pedestrian exit was narrow, one GI at a time with identification and, if necessary, pass or leave orders had to be shown to the Air Force Security Police before a GI was buzzed out into the wonderful world of Songtan. From there he was greeted by vendors pushing carts, old women acting as pimps for much younger girls, and, at night, a sea of flashing neon: the Zoomies Club, the Dragon Lady Bar, the Suzy Wong Nightclub, the Airman’s Hideaway, and about three dozen others at various walking distances from the big arch over the two-lane road welcoming the world to Osan Air Force Base.
Officially, the United States Air Force didn’t condone segregation, certainly not on base. But off base, their control was limited. One of the first things every GI new to Songtan learned was that when you walked out the front gate, if you were black, you turned right, into the crowded neighborhood that housed most of the bars and eateries that catered to black airmen. If you were white, you continued straight down the main drag to the larger and much more numerous bars and nightclubs. In between sat the shopping district, with its sporting goods stores, tailor shops, and brassware emporiums, as well as the central open-air Songtan Market. This middle ground was frequented by everyone, but when it came to the bars and eateries, the racial division was strict. Even the visiting marines picked up on it somehow: the black marines turned right and the white marines continued straight on.
After showing our dispatch to the security patrol, Ernie and I parked the jeep just inside the main gate. Then we walked back out the pedestrian exit, flashed our IDs and, once outside, took a right down a narrow lane. About twenty yards farther on, a small neon sign read the blue diamond club. It was a narrow room with a long bar on the right, a few tables on the left, and an excellent sound system. If the customer kept walking through the bar, he’d reach the far door of the club that led out into the next street over, which made the Blue Diamond a shortcut from one block to the next. The light was dim and there were no customers in the place when we walked in. A lone barmaid sat on a stool, reading a comic book and listening to a romantic Korean ballad on the sound system. It was not yet four in the afternoon, and she seemed surprised when she looked up and saw us. Maybe because we were early; more likely because we were white.
“I’m thirsty,” Ernie told her. “But I want something strong. What kind of beer do you have?”
She listed off the usual suspects: OB, Crown, and a couple of canned beers purchased illegally off the compound: Falstaff and Carling Black Label.
“How about malt liquor?” Ernie asked.
The girl stared at him blankly.
“Colt 45,” he said.
She nodded and shuffled to the next cooler over. She had to find her keys and click open the padlock and rummage around inside, but finally she came up with a sixteen-ounce can of Colt 45.
“Don’t open it,” Ernie said. “How many cans do you have?”
Again she stared at him blankly. Apparently, her English wasn’t too good. I said, “Kuangtong meit-kei isso?”
She leaned into the cooler, stood back up, and held up three fingers. Three more cans.
Ernie slid the can back to her and said, “Ahn mogo.” I don’t want it.
Puzzled, the girl placed the unopened can back into the cooler and watched as we walked out the far side of the bar. We checked three more joints, all at the recommendation of Haggler Lee. Two were completely out of Colt 45 but promised to have more in the evening. One had six cans left and said they hadn’t been selling well lately. I asked if most of their customers were black or white. The barmaid told me that lately most of their customers had been white, which would explain the lack of Colt 45 sales-and hopefully portend well for racial integration, but I wasn’t holding my breath.
Ernie and I sat at a table in a chophouse that straddled the wedge on the main road that divided the black and the white districts of Songtan. We sat next to the front plate-glass window so we could keep an eye on the entrance to the Blue Diamond Club. I ordered kuksu noodles with small clams drowned on the bottom. Ernie ordered the same.