The manager came in.
“Ration Control’s here to pick up the cards.” He smiled. “I hope you’re about finished.”
“Yeah, we’re finished.”
Finished for good, I thought.
Ernie walked out into the main part of the PX, put his hands on his hips, gazed around, and walked back in.
“Goddamn shoppers,” he said. “Don’t they ever get tired of it?”
The PX manager looked at him as if he were a bona fide madman.
“Maybe we ought to go through the new cards,” Ernie said.
“What?”
“You know, the cards that have been anviled this morning. The ration control plate guy’s packing them up now.”
“But he’s in a big hurry,” the PX manager said. “He has to make rounds of all the outlets.”
“Come on,” I told Ernie.
At the row of cash registers we found a guy in fatigues. His armband said “Ration Control” below the 8th Army red-and-white cloverleaf patch.
He was a Spec 4, and after I showed him my CID identification and loomed over him for a few seconds he docilely brought the new cards back into the room.
We leaned over the table, working, and suddenly Ernie stiffened his back.
“Goddamn,” he said. “I got one! The son of a bitch was just in here!”
I snatched the card from his fingertips and compared the number to my list.
“You’re right. It was him.” I turned to the PX manager and pointed to a code number in the upper left of the card. “Which cashier was this?”
“Fourteen. I don’t know. I’ll have to look it up.”
Number Fourteen turned out to be a middle-aged Korean woman who’d been a PX employee for years, and when we pulled her off the cash register and escorted her back into the office, she was not only worried but her hands were shaking.
I handed her the card. Two cartons of cigarettes and a hundred dollars of miscellaneous items had been marked off.
“Do you remember this sale?”
She gazed at it a few seconds, then shook her head. I pulled out the photograph.
“How about this man?”
“Yes,” she said. “I think so. Very big man. He wear hat.” She reached up to her ears and jerked down, as if pulling on a cap.
“Did he say anything to you?”
“No. Just buy and go.”
“Have you ever seen him before?”
She shook her head again. “I don’t think, so.”
We checked with the ID card checker at the front door, but he didn’t remember the man at all.
“Looks like we screwed up royally,” Ernie said.
“But he’s still nearby,” I said. “If you wanted to make as much money as you could-fast-on the black market, where would you go next?”
“The package store.”
“And then?”
“The commissary.”
Without any good-byes we were out the door, jogging across the brown grass of the parade field, heading toward the little building that sold GI’s in Pusan all the duty-free booze they could drink.
There was only one cashier at the package store and not much traffic. He recognized the photograph immediately.
“He go. Maybe thirty minutes.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. PX taxi wait for him.”
“What did he buy?”
“Here.” He pulled put the ration control card and showed it to us. Four quarts of Johnnie Walker Black Label. The most expensive brand the store carried, and a full ration for the month. Also two cases of beer and two cases of soft drinks.
“Where’s the commissary?”
The man pointed and we were out the door.
A row of black Ford Granada PX taxis stood in front of the Hialeah Compound Commissary. We checked to see if any of them were already loaded with goods and waiting for a customer to return, but none were.
I showed the drivers the photograph of Shipton. But nobody recognized him or remembered a cab waiting for a fare. Either Shipton hadn’t arrived yet or we’d missed him completely.
Ernie kept watch outside while I went in. Without bothering to check with management, I interrupted each one of the Korean cashiers right in the middle of her work, flashed my badge, and showed her the photograph. Each woman shook her head until I reached aisle number seven.
“Yes,” she told me. “He go. Maybe fifteen, twenty minutes ago.”
“Did he say where?”
Her forehead crinkled. “No.”
“Let me see his card.”
“No can do.”
The ration control punch cards here were dropped into locked metal boxes with two padlocks on the top. If they operated like they did in Seoul, the Ration Control representative would have the key to one lock and the store manager would have the other.
“What did he buy?”
“Everything.”
“Everything?”
“Every ration item. Also a lot of oxtail and bananas.”
Prime black market stuff.
“Did he say anything? Anything at all?”
“No. He very quiet. Pay cash.”
“Any hundreds?”
Bills of fifty dollars of higher have to be recorded on a sheet of paper with the serial number listed and the name and social security number of the presenter. Another of the unbelievable steps 8th Army takes in their attempt to stop black-marketing. Not that it works.
“No,” the cashier said. “just twenties.”
“Did you see a cab outside waiting for him?”
She shook her head emphatically. “No way. I’m too busy for that.”
She glanced down the line of waiting shoppers and my eyes followed her. The women behind loaded carts stared at me with dull, resentful eyes.
I smiled, waved at them, and ran out the door.
Ernie stepped out of the shadows.
“Shipton’s already been and gone,” I said, “with a big load. Only thing to do now is try to find the taxi.”
I jumped into the cab on the end of the line and told the driver to get his dispatcher on the radio. The little box clicked and buzzed and when a Korean voice came on the line, the driver handed the mike to me, pointing at which button I should push.
“This is Agent Sueno,” I said. “Criminal Investigation Division. Do you speak English?”
“Yes,” a crackling voice said tentatively.
“We’re after a man who picked up a PX cab, probably at the main PX. Then he went to the package store and then the commissary. He is a big man, light brown hair, and wearing a wool cap.”
