Ernie trotted down the hill. I stayed on the other side of the narrow road, keeping my eyes open.
As the truck driver started the engine and rolled forward, Ernie hopped up on the running board, holding up his badge.
“CID. You’re under arrest. Pull over now!”
The slicky boys must all have attended the same training session. They knew that with American rules of evidence, if you escape, and you destroy the tangible proof of your crime, it is much harder to convict you. The driver here made the same move the driver at Camp Market had.
He stepped on the gas.
This time, though, Ernie was already aboard the truck.
I ran after them, shouting. “Chong ji!” Halt.
They didn’t listen.
The truck careened down the hill. The red brake lights sparkled to life at the bottom of the incline, but only for an instant. The driver jammed the gears and plowed forward, into the heavy afternoon traffic.
Ernie was still holding on. I couldn’t be sure but it looked as if he were trying to claw his way over the driver.
When I hit the bottom of the hill, I could still see the truck. The traffic was heavy, as usual on an afternoon in Seoul. Our jeep was parked two blocks away. Too far away to be of any help now. I kept running after the truck, pushing through the crowds.
Ernie punched the blue-capped honcho. The driver was trying to help his boss but couldn’t do much because he had to keep his eyes on the swirling flow of traffic. The guys squatting in the back seemed confused at first. Then they started to move forward. One of them clutched a short crowbar.
Shit! Even if they didn’t get the best of Ernie, one false move and someone could fall off the truck and be crushed beneath the wheels of the oncoming herd of kimchi cabs.
I wished I had a pistol. Korea is a country with complete gun control. Only the police and the military are allowed to possess weapons. Seldom do we carry arms on a case. Busting a guy for stealing a toaster didn’t seem to require heavy armament, but after dealing with these slicky boys for half a day, I was starting to reconsider.
The traffic ahead opened up and the truck zoomed forward. By now, Ernie had rolled the honcho out of the way and had managed to lift up the front seat. The truck was bouncing wildly, and by cursing and threatening and using the vinyl-covered seat as a shield, Ernie somehow kept the irate deliverymen at bay.
He raised a stainless steel toaster aloft in the air. Suddenly, he tossed it forward and the deliverymen flinched. The toaster bounced once on the back of the cab and caromed off into the cars behind. It hit a bumper and bounced back, hit another and started being kicked around like a soccer ball.
Undaunted, the guy with the crowbar moved forward but Ernie flung the blender at him. It hit his shoulder, flew off into the traffic, and the crowbar clattered after it.
After that, Ernie unleashed his entire arsenal: the iron, a radio, a makeup mirror, the coffeepot. All the appliances crashed into the pavement and were smashed to smithereens.
Cab drivers slammed on their brakes, tires squealed, men cursed.
Up ahead the traffic bunched up and the truck slowed.
Ernie leapt off the truck running, stumbled, hit the pavement with his shoulder and rolled, and finally came to a halt.
I plowed through the pedestrian traffic, knocking people over, ignoring their curses. Ranting, I finally reached him.
“You crazy son of a bitch!” I shouted.
Ernie ignored me and glanced back at the escaping truck. The driver gunned the engine and pulled quickly away. The men in the back growled and slammed their fists into open palms. Ernie watched them fade into the distance.
“Fuck you too,” he said softly.
I knelt down. “Are you out of your gourd? Jumping on a moving truck like that?”
He fingered his head. “No. My gourd’s still here.”
“And your shoulder?”
He rotated it. “No problem.”
“Hey,” I said. “No arrest is worth that much risk.”
“They didn’t get their damn toaster, did they?”
He swiveled toward the road. A half dozen cab drivers had pulled over and were examining the damage to their headlights and grillwork. One of them picked up the dented iron, chattered away to his comrades, and pointed at us.
“Time to fade into the alleys,” Ernie said.
“Yes,” I said, helping him up. “Let’s do that.”
12
We checked the KNP liaison office on compound and had them contact Lieutenant Pak at the Namdaemun Precinct. The homicide investigation downtown had stalled. All leads resulted in nothing so far and they were beginning to discount any thought that the murder of Lance Corporal Cecil Whitcomb might have been a mugging gone wrong.
“They’re counting on you,” the Liaison Officer told us sourly.
Although it was still midafternoon, we purposely avoided the CID office and slid on back to the barracks. In my room, my soiled blue jeans still lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, and they still reeked of field manure.
I sighed and picked them up and carried them down to the latrine. Using hand soap, I washed them as best I could. After wringing them out, I returned to my room and dried them on the radiator.
“The guy wants money,” Ernie said.
“How much?” I asked.
“Twenty thousand won.” About forty dollars. “Just enough to cover his expenses while he sneaks out of town. He’s quitting anyway.”
“Can we trust him?”
“Shit, I don’t know. But it’s the best lead we have so far. A contract security guard. Pissed at the slicky boys. It’s our shot at catching one of them in the flesh.”
We were in my room. Ernie had stopped by and I sat on my bunk in my skivvies. We were both watching my blue jeans dry on the clanging radiator.
Ernie’s houseboy had gone on strike against him, too. The word was out, apparently promulgated by the slicky boys. No Korean workers on-compound were to help Ernie or me in any way. A not very subtle message: Leave us alone!
I had never realized how far the influence of the slicky boys reached, but we were starting to find out.
A trickle of smoke slithered its way into my nose.
“Shit! The jeans!”
I turned them over. They were singed by the radiator, Little black lines across the butt.
“Don’t sweat it,” Ernie said. “Nobody looks at your butt anyway.”
“Only your girlfriends.”
“Hey!”
“Okay,” I said. “Do you think we can write the twenty thousand won off our expense account?”
“Maybe Riley can find a way.”
“Yeah. He’s a genius at that sort of thing. What time is the meeting set up for?”
“Zero one hundred tonight. We pay the guy the money and he leads us to the slicky boy.”
“How does he know the slicky boy is going to strike tonight?”
“It’s set up. The medic who provides the medicine works on a rotating shift. He’s on duty tonight. He steals the shit out of the one-two-one Evac Hospital, leaves it at a prearranged place, the slicky boy climbs the fence and retrieves it, then climbs back out and turns it over to his fence. Sweet deal.”
