The Ville Rat puffed on his cigarette again. “The same guy who’s supplying me.”
“Through the Class Six?”
He nodded.
“But off the books.”
He nodded again.
“You used to work for them,” I said, “when you were in the army.”
“It was different then,” he said, setting down his cigarette and leaning toward me. “Nobody was getting hurt. Just some extra supplies ordered into the country. It had been going on for years before I got here. Harmless, they told me. A fund was set up to ease the way of the US Forces in Korea, to make the politicians happy; provide money for projects on compound that couldn’t be done through normal appropriations. Things like tennis courts at the officers’ club. A new air conditioner for the Defense Youth Activities Center. Things like that.”
“They even helped orphans,” I said.
“They did. They really did. Jackets during the winter, toys at Christmas; at one of them, they even paid to have a new well dug.”
“Who was in charge?”
“People high up. Way up.”
“Generals?”
The Ville Rat frowned. “Not them, they come and go. Civilians. They’re the ones who stay here. They’re the ones with the contacts in the ROK government.”
“Department of the Army Civilians,” I said. “DACs?”
He nodded.
“Civilians like Rick Mills?”
“I don’t know. I never saw him involved directly.”
“But he runs the Central Locker Fund,” I said. “He had to know.”
The Ville Rat didn’t contradict me. I continued.
“But now the operation is threatened, so they’re willing to kill me and they’re willing to kill you. Your supply chain has been cut.”
He spread his thin fingers.
“So give me their names. We’ll bust this thing wide open.”
“It won’t do any good. They’re too high up. If they have to, they’ll sic the Korean government on you.”
I thought of Mr. Kill. Did he have the power to protect us? Probably not.
“So if you didn’t want to help, why did you contact us up north? Why did you throw that can of malt liquor at the taxicab?”
“I want to stop him.”
“Stop who?”
“Stop the guy who’s caused all this trouble. The guy who screwed everything up. The guy who murdered Miss Hwang.”
“We can do that,” I told him. “All I need is a name.”
He acted as if he hadn’t heard me. “The worst part is, he has a new girl.”
“A new girl like Miss Hwang?”
“Yes. His own servant. His own kisaeng.”
“She’s in danger too, then.”
“I’ll say.”
I grabbed his hand. “You need to give me a name.”
“They’ll kill me.”
“You have to tell me. There are lives at stake. Yours, mine, this young woman who’s being forced into being someone’s private kisaeng. If you won’t talk here,” I said, “then you’re leaving me no choice. I’ll take you in.”
Roughly, I jerked him toward me and reached for the handcuffs clipped to the back of my belt. Without warning, the Ville Rat jerked back violently. I kept my grip, but maybe because of the pounding I’d taken lately, I suddenly became dizzy. Ernie grabbed me and reached across the table for the Ville Rat. But by then the other GIs were on their feet, shoving Ernie and forcing me backward. I pushed back.
That did it.
Somebody threw a punch and then somebody else shoved and a table fell over and bottles crashed to the ground, and then Ernie was against the wall, reaching for his .45. He pulled it out and shot one round into the ceiling. The Ville Rat reeled backward into the crowd. I lunged for him, but missed and then was held back by a half-dozen hands.
A whistle shrilled at the front door. Barmaids screamed and helmeted Korean National Police pushed their way into the bar, formed into a phalanx, using heavy black batons to shove the enraged marines out of the way.
Punches rained down on me. I crouched and grabbed a knocked-over cocktail table and used it as a shield. The crowd rushed toward the back door and soon the KNPs held the central ground in the club. Ernie was still waving his .45 in the air, but the GIs were gone now, making their way out of the Blue Diamond as fast as they could move.
And the Ville Rat was gone with them.
I motioned for Ernie to put away his pistol. Wide-eyed, he stared around the empty barroom. When he realized we were safe, he switched the safety on and tucked the .45 back into his shoulder holster.
“Where’s the Ville Rat?” he asked.
I pointed toward the back door. We followed the retreating crowd and with a patrol of KNPs spent the next hour searching for him. No luck. The Ville Rat had lived up to his name. Like a clever rodent, he’d disappeared.
Early the next morning, I left a note on Staff Sergeant Riley’s desk for him to check with his contacts at 8th Army Personnel and find out the names and ranks of all GIs assigned to the Central Locker Fund in the last few years. I left him a physical description of the Ville Rat. Then Ernie and I, both in green dress uniforms, marched over to the JAG office.
Lieutenant Margaret Mendelson seemed relieved to see us. “There you are. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. Have you got anything new on the Threets court-martial? Anything more about Sergeant Orgwell?”
“Not a thing,” Ernie said smiling.
“Good. You screwed things up enough as it is.”
My mind flew back to Private Threets’s accusations of sexual assault by Sergeant Orgwell, which could well have been his motive for the shooting on the firing range. Not a good motive and certainly not a justification, but at least a mitigating factor that might become important when it came time for sentencing. None of which the army wanted to hear. The 8th Army honchos’ attitude was clear. A low-ranking enlisted man shot a senior NCO in broad daylight in front of his entire unit. The answer was simple. Throw him in the federal pen and toss away the key. Don’t muddy the waters with accusations of homosexuality and sexual assault. That just embarrasses everybody.
“Get over to the courthouse,” Lieutenant Mendelson told us. “Bob Conroy is waiting for you.” Threets’s less-than-veteran defense counsel. Before we left, she added, “And don’t talk to anybody.”
Which was good advice, and advice that we would’ve followed if we hadn’t been stopped ten yards in front of the courthouse entrance by none other than Major General Frederick R. Kokol, the commander of the 2nd Infantry Division, the man known to journalists everywhere as the Gunslinger.
He stood with his hands on narrow hips, hawk nose pointed at us, pearl-handled revolvers grip-forward, hanging from either side of his web belt. He wore fatigues-not the dress green uniform that everyone else wore to court-martial-but he was the Gunslinger and he didn’t have to follow the usual rules of military decorum. The fatigues were starched and cut in front with a razor-like crease. His white-laced jump boots gleamed with ebony polish.
“You,” he said, pointing at us like Uncle Sam in a recruiting poster. “You’re the two who started this shit.”
Ernie and I both saluted. He didn’t return the salute, so we dropped our hands. A worried-looking captain stood behind him, apparently his aide. Behind him stood a senior NCO, probably his bodyguard and driver, less worried, smirking and enjoying the show.
“So what have you got to say for yourselves?” the Gunslinger asked.
“We didn’t start anything, sir,” Ernie told him, keeping his voice calm and, for once, reasonable. “The shooting at the firing range is what started it.”
“But you made it worse. Now the men in the unit are upset because, according to you, a poor black man is being attacked by a white man. My soldiers who used to see nothing but the color green are now seeing themselves as black and white. You,” he said, pointing again, “you’re dividing my division!”
I’d heard enough. “It was divided before we got there,” I said.