“Including women,” Mr. Kill said.
“Yes, including women.”
Officer Oh slammed on the brakes. We all jerked forward. The brake lights of a taxicab glowed red just millimeters in front of our front bumper. Officer Oh turned to Inspector Kill sheepishly and said, “Mianhamnida.” I’m sorry.
I noticed she didn’t apologize to me or Ernie.
Ernie and I knew we were facing a mountain of trouble. The audit of all 8th Army Non-Appropriated Funds, including the Central Locker Fund, had been closed without serious anomalies. The Department of the Army Civilians who ran the funds, including Mr. Wilbur M. Robinson Sr., were firmly entrenched in their jobs, some of them having been here for decades. They had money, contacts in the private sector, and influence with both 8th Army and the Korean government. Rick Mills himself, it was said, lived in a mansion in an old part of Seoul; a part of the city that hadn’t been totally destroyed by the Korean War.
We needed inside information. Ernie called Strange. He met us just after evening chow at the 8th Army snack bar.
“Don’t ask me if I’ve had any strange lately,” Ernie said, pointing his finger at Strange’s nose. “I’m in no mood for it.”
We were both feeling the stress, not only of the Threets court-martial fiasco but also of the vested interests we were about to go up against. We were close to something and it wasn’t going to be pretty. On the other hand, we had to move fast, very fast, because the life of the little kisaeng was hanging in the balance. She’d been a sweet child, harmless, and I suppose Ernie and I were both affected by the thought of what some men were capable of doing to the innocent. We’d seen evidence of that on the banks of the Sonyu River.
I brought a tray with two cups of coffee and one mug of hot chocolate, with two marshmallows, the way Strange liked it. As he pulled the steaming concoction close, Strange smirked, enjoying being the center of attention and maybe enjoying our desperation even more.
As he slurped the first marshmallow down his gullet, I leaned toward him. “What do you know about Rick Mills?”
“Mr. Brainiac. Survived the soap-opera politics of Eighth Army all these years. Still sitting pretty.”
“He’s rich?”
“Like King Midas. Retired from the army as master sergeant fifteen years ago, now he’s a GS-freaking-fourteen, pulling down big bucks. Just after the war, he and his Korean wife bought a mansion on half a hillside and paid soybeans for it. Now it’s worth a fortune. Smart yobo. She built on the extra land and rents out apartments.”
“Is he crooked?”
“Everybody says so.”
“What do you think?”
“I think he doesn’t have to be. Not for the money. But for the politics of it, that’s different.”
“To keep his position as honcho of the Central Locker Fund, he probably has to play ball with things he’s not too happy with.”
“Could be.”
“And his wife,” Ernie asked, “does she live in that mansion with him?”
“She used to.”
“What do you mean?”
“She died, about three years ago.” He slurped down the second marshmallow.
“How’d she die?”
“Ugly scene,” Strange said. “Fell off one of the stone parapets. Cracked her skull.”
“Parapets,” Ernie said. “Like in a castle.”
“Yeah, like where he lives.”
“Did the KNPs investigate?”
“Of course. Called it an accident. Too much champagne.”
My experience was that most Korean women, and Koreans in general, didn’t like champagne, or any kind of wine. When they drank alcohol, it was usually whiskey, since it had social cachet and because it reminded them of harsh Korean liquors like soju. When something had a fruity taste, they expected it to be sweet, not bubbly and sour.
“So what does he do now,” I asked, “now that his wife is gone?”
“Hides out in his castle. Maybe takes some dollies up there.”
“Do you know anybody who’s been there?”
“All of the honchos have been there. Before his wife died, he loved to throw parties.”
“But not now.”
“Not now.”
“What else do you know about Rick Mills?” I asked.
“He’s a smart guy. They say he loves poetry.”
“What kind of poetry?”
Behind his opaque glasses, Strange’s eyes seemed to widen. “The kind that rhymes.”
“You mean like old-fashioned poetry?”
“What do you mean, ‘old-fashioned’?”
“Skip it,” I said. “Does he have any other hobbies?”
“He gets a haircut every night.”
“Every night?” Ernie asked, astonished.
“Yeah, and a manicure. Not everybody in this world is a slob.”
“Who you calling a slob?”
I waved Ernie back. “Strange, where does he get his hair cut?”
“The name’s Harvey.” He stared resentfully at Ernie.
“Right, Harvey,” I said. “Is it on post?”
“Yes, at the Top Five Club.”
“He’s a GS-fourteen,” I said. “He could go to the barbershop at the officers’ club.”
“I guess he’s still an NCO at heart,” Strange said. “Besides, there’s some sweet dollies working at the Top Five Club.”
“Is that where you get your hair cut?”
“I have my hair cut in private.”
“By who?”
“By me.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t like anyone touching me.”
“You just like to hear about it,” Ernie said.
Strange glared at him. “Had any strange lately?” he asked.
From inside the foyer of the Top Five Club on Yongsan Compound North Post, we watched Rick Mills enjoy his early evening haircut and manicure. He lay back like a pampered potentate while the Korean male barber and his attractive female assistant attended his hair, his shave, and the shape and length of his fingernails. When he finished, the barber flicked the white coverlet and helped him put on his coat. Both the barber and his assistant bowed and Rick Mills handed them a short stack of bills which made them smile and bow even deeper. We hurried outside and waited out of sight when Rick Mills stepped out onto the broad porch and his driver swooped over to pick him up in his black Hyundai sedan. We ran to Ernie’s jeep and followed at a safe distance, winding through traffic all the way across town to an elegant neighborhood in an area of Seoul known as Sodaemun-ku, the Great West Gate district.
The driver pulled up in front of a granite-walled stairway and Rick Mills got out.
On the far side of the block, Ernie parked the jeep.
Stone blocks slanted upward about twenty feet.
“It is like a castle,” Ernie said.
We were out of the jeep now, reconnoitering. A flagstone stairway climbed two flights up to a heavy metal door embedded in a granite wall.
“We could go up and push the buzzer,” Ernie said.
“And if he doesn’t let us in?”
“He’d be smart.”
“Right. And if he has any women trapped inside there, he definitely won’t let us in.”
To get behind Rick Mills’s castle, we had to abandon the narrow pathway that fronted the thick retaining wall, climb back into Ernie’s jeep, and drive all the way around to the far side of the hill upon which it sat. When the roads going up became too narrow, we parked the jeep. Ernie padlocked the steering wheel to the chain welded to the floor and we started walking. Korean men in suits carrying briefcases on their way home late from work, schoolchildren clad in black with heavy book bags hunched atop their shoulders, and old women with bundles balanced on their heads all passed us and stared.
“Not many kocheingi come up here,” Ernie said. He used the Korean word for “long nose.”
Finally, we reached a Buddhist shrine at the top of the hill. Inside, incense burned, illuminating with its tiny flame the metal robes of a calm-faced Buddha.
“Bow,” I told Ernie.
“You bow.”
In the end, neither of us bowed. Probably a mistake. Instead, we edged our way around to the back of the shrine and hoisted ourselves up onto the top of a brick wall. It was dirty, but we sat on it, staring down at the panorama below.