Jade Lady Burning (9 page)

The guy who was making the complaint was an American, of course, hired from the States, and judging from his manic drive to get everything straightened out, he probably was on his first tour in the Far East.

I figured Top mainly wanted Ernie and me in the office as witnesses, so the guy couldn’t make accusations against him later. Most of this sort of work was done by Burrows and Slabem, but they were out at the Yongsan District Police Headquarters, monitoring the ROK activities on the Pak Ok-suk murder case. They were the experts at handling this KPA kind of situation. Not me and Ernie.

I read over the complaint. Routine. Korean businessmen were turning in bids on U.S. government contracts. Okay so far. But the Americans required three bids from three different companies on each contract. The businessman making the bid, of course, already had a connection with one of the Korean career bureaucrats within KPA so he knew exactly how much money was budgeted for a particular project. What he did was get three different stationery letterheads and put in three bids, ostensibly from different companies, and each signed by a different executive, with all three bids hovering right at or just below the budgeted appropriation.

The bidding was open to competitors, but through the network of Korean power brokers they would be warned off if they seriously tried to butt in. It was a syndicate, in effect, milking the American government. Nothing new. They’d been doing it for years.

And the work they did was not shoddy. It was efficiently produced and, for the most part, brought in on time. That’s why the U.S. Army lived with the system. It got results. Of course, they still went through the charade of all the regulatory purchasing requirements. The Koreans didn’t mind this. They liked paperwork: It produced jobs. And they understood the need to save face. Over the years there’d been a number of attempts to reform the system but in the end the Koreans had always patted the petulant American reformer on the head as he headed back to the States.

The American who was complaining this time only knew that someone was turning in three bids under three different cover companies and that the guy was buddies with one of the Koreans in the agency who let out the contracts. He saw only what looked like corruption to him. He didn’t see the cultural machinery that had evolved over four thousand years that kept disputes to a minimum and allowed for the smooth running of a society.

I had no plans to explain all this stuff to the bean counter or to the first sergeant. I would just keep my mouth shut and go through the motions, which was all, I figured, Eighth Army really wanted me to do. Mainly, I wanted to get back to the murder of Miss Pak Ok-suk and I didn’t need to waste a lot of time on some silly diversion.

The first sergeant plodded down the hallway in his big wingtips and peeked in the door of the Admin Section.

“Bascom. Sueño. Come on down to my office.”

Miss Kim stopped her typing and gave Ernie a goodbye look. He got up, adjusted the buttons on his jacket, and marched down the hallway after the first sergeant. I followed.

In his office, the first sergeant introduced us to Mr. Tom Kurtz. We all sat down: the first sergeant behind his desk, me and Ernie sort of off to the side, looking at Mr. Kurtz, seated in front.

“What can we do for you, Mr. Kurtz?” the first sergeant said.

“I thought Inspectors Burrows and Slabem would be here.”

“They’re on a high-priority case and I’m afraid I couldn’t pull them off it.”

“Ah, well. They were so helpful and so concerned about getting to the bottom of the corruption at KPA.”

Kurtz was young, like maybe just out of college, with curly brown hair and a tailored blue suit covering his frail body. He kept pushing his glasses back up his pug nose.

He bent forward, as if to confide in us. “You know I can’t stand working with people who aren’t totally honest. I don’t know how Eighth Army could have allowed the situation to deteriorate so much. I’ve recommended that a few of the people who work for me be fired, but all that happens is they get transferred, sometimes into better jobs, and the people who take their places are no better than the ones that left.”

Kurtz sat up in his chair. “But I’m not here to complain. Not this time. I’m here to thank you for all your help. Since I put in my complaints and your investigation started, things have really changed for the better at the Korean Procurement Agency.”

I had been starting to doze off but this woke me up. A little anyway.

“For the first time we’re getting real competition during the bidding for contracts. Just last week an entirely new company won a major contract to build a recreation center at Camp Carroll down in Waegwan. And it wasn’t just one of those shifting-letterhead deals either. I met the man who got the contract. He was delighted to be doing work, for the first time, for the U.S. government. What convinced me that the whole thing wasn’t some sort of sham was how upset my Korean employees were at the whole thing. And that’s not the only contract that has gone to new vendors. The winds of change are sweeping through KPA and I have you gentlemen to thank for it.”

“Just doing our job,” the first sergeant said. “You played a big role in this, too, Mr. Kurtz.”

The first sergeant didn’t want all the blame.

“No, no, no.” Mr. Kurtz waved off the compliment. “It’s you fellows. And especially Inspector Burrows and Inspector Slabem. Please give them my thanks.”

“Write them a letter of appreciation, for inclusion in their personnel folders.”

“I’ll do that, said Kurtz enthusiastically.

That’s Top. Always looking out for his troops—when it doesn’t cost him anything.

Kurtz got up, we shook hands all the way around, and he left.

Ernie and I stood, grinning.

“What was all that?” I said.

“I haven’t a clue. Go on,” Top said. “Get out of here. Get back to work.”

We clomped down the hallway. Ernie was chuckling but all I could think about was that there must be something terribly wrong at the Korean Procurement Agency. All that money wouldn’t have slipped away without a fight.

But that worry belonged to Burrows and Slabem. I put it out of my mind and tried to figure how I could find the elusive Kimiko, as we drove off toward the ville.

Itaewon during the daytime is sleepy and wonderful. We found a back alley parking spot for the jeep, Ernie chained the steering wheel, and we wandered up the street, past the shuttered shops, the noodle stands, and the black gaping maws of the few clubs that had their doors open this early.

An old woman accosted us. “You want nice girl?”

“No thanks,
mama-san.
I only want bad girls. Nice girls always make me feel guilty afterwards.”

We pushed past her and headed up the hill towards the hooch where Pak Ok-suk had been murdered. The burnt-out room was surrounded by white police tape.

The landlady squatted in front of a large pan filled with laundry, occasionally reaching up to the rusty old pump handle to draw more water.

“
Anyonghaseiyo
,” I said.

She looked at us, took off her rubber gloves, and stood up.

“We’re looking for Kimiko.”

The woman twisted her head towards Kimiko’s room. “She hasn’t come back.”

I walked towards the room. The woman followed. Ernie stayed back, next to the gate.

I slid back the paper-covered latticework door. There was a small plastic armoire in one corner, some rolled-up bed mats, and a six-inch-high makeup table with a small mirror and about twenty pounds of multicolored goop in various bottles. I took off my shoes, entered, and rummaged around. There were a few dresses hanging next to a couple of empty hangers. No wallet. No money. A few spaces on the makeup table were vacant, as if some small jars of this or that had been plucked up. I turned to the landlady.

“She hasn’t been back?”

“No.”

“Not since Captain Kim talked to her?”

“No.”

I put my shoes back on and thanked her. Ernie and I bent over as we ducked through the small door in the gate.

Kimiko had disappeared after being interrogated by the chief of the Itaewon Police Box concerning the murder of Pak Ok-suk. She had added nothing to Captain Kim’s investigation and she had not been identified as a suspect. And she still wasn’t, as far as I knew. Why had she taken off? Maybe because she had information that she didn’t want to divulge. Also, why had Captain Kim allowed her to go? Maybe because he, too, didn’t want any information she had to be divulged.

Or maybe I was wrong. Maybe she knew nothing and had merely gotten spooked and left the ville to ply her trade elsewhere. Maybe.

We walked up the hill towards the Roundup. If anybody knew where to find Kimiko it would be Milt Gorman.

Gorman had been living in Korea since returning from a tour in Vietnam. He and his Korean Army buddy had set up a couple of small joints on the outskirts of Itaewon, expanded their operation, sold them, and used the money to renovate an old building and open the biggest country and western club in Korea, right in the heart of Itaewon. On the side, Gorman did a little import and export, but most of his money came from selling the beer and the hoopla and the little taste of home to the lonely country boys from the States. Most of the CID agents assumed that he was crooked. I knew he wasn’t. He was one of the most honest men I’d ever met.

The Roundup was dark and it took our eyes a while to adjust. We heard the slap of playing cards before we could see them.

The little girl behind the bar stopped her cleaning long enough to serve us a couple of beers. We wandered over to the table. It was Milt Gorman and three other old reprobates, Army retirees with nothing better to do on a Wednesday afternoon than play pinochle for a penny a point, ten cents a set. All four men were riffling through their cards and crinkling their eyes. Pinochle gets expensive at those prices.

“George! Ernie!” Gorman looked back to his cards. “What brings you enforcers of the law out to Itaewon at this hour of the day? And drinking on duty yet.”

We sat down at a couple of bar stools near the card table. Beer, sandwiches, and ashtrays competed for space with the stacked playing cards and the score sheet next to Gorman’s elbow.

I said, “We came to talk to you, Milt.”

“Shoot! What can I help you with?”

A young woman shuffled out of the latrine. She emptied the ashtrays, checked the beer bottles, and asked everyone if they wanted another. She got a couple of grunts in reply and, carrying the refuse, scurried off to the bar. She had a nice tight little figure and wore the brief blue uniform of the waitresses at the Roundup. Must be nice to afford such attractive help for your personal card games.

I waited until the woman disappeared behind the bar.

“I’m looking for Kimiko.”

Milt snorted. The other old guys looked up from their cards, mildly interested.

“You want what?” Milt said.

“Kimiko.”

He took a sip of his beer. “You and Ernie can do better than that. Unless you’re getting into perversions that are just not becoming to men as young as you two. For these old farts”—Milt waved his arm around the table—”I could understand. But not you guys.”

“We’re not looking to get laid, Milt. We’re looking for information— concerning the murder.”

All four lowered their cards and the table got quiet.

Milt spoke: “And you think Kimiko might have it?”

“She knew her. Worked with her, you might say. And she lived right next door to the hooch where the murder took place.”

“Haven’t the KNPs already checked her out?”

“Yes, they have.” I was going to be patient but I wasn’t going to go away. Ernie sipped his beer and kept his eye on the door and the young waitress who was refilling the beer order.

Milt sighed, put his cards down, and got up from the table amidst a round of grumbling. “Come on over here, George. We got to talk.”

I followed Milt through the rows of tables and across the small dance floor. At the far wall, he ducked through a small door that led into the deejay’s room and I popped through after him. The sky was suddenly purple, and the universe was full of small blinking lights. Milt fondled the headphones and looked away from me. Otherwise we’d have been belly to belly. How could that deejay stand working in here eight hours a night, spinning that cowboy crap?

“George, the last few weeks have been some of the craziest I’ve seen since I’ve been in Itaewon. Somebody’s trying to muscle in. I don’t know who, but all the Korean bar owners are nervous.”

I paused to think about it. “What about the guys the bar owners pay for protection?” I said.

“They’ve been pretty calm so far. But they’ve got to be on edge, too. They don’t want to be replaced, any more than the bar owners do.”

“Who’s trying to replace them?”

“I don’t know for sure. Some sort of consortium, with connections of its own. I’ve never met any of them, thank God, but the one name I’ve heard bandied about is Kwok.”

“Kwok?”

“Yeah. Mr. Kwok.”

“He’s leading the move on Itaewon?”

“As far as I can tell.”

“How about you, Milt? Are you all right?”

“Yeah. No sweat. I’m small potatoes. And an American to boot. Besides, my partner’s family has its own pull around here. We’ll be all right.”

“What’s all this have to do with the murder?” I said.

“I’m not sure. All I know is the gossip I hear from the Koreans. The word is that the police aren’t going after the case as hard as they usually do. They’re not too anxious to find out who really killed that little girl.”

“Why?”

Milt shrugged. “Somebody is lacking enthusiasm.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. Maybe somebody involved in what’s going down around here.”

I shook my head. “How did this little girl, just in from the country, get caught up in all this shit?”

“Hell if I know, George. The citizens out here don’t really want to talk about it. And they’re not too excited about hanging a GI for it. I know the Korean papers and TV are playing that up big, and the general populace is all pissed off about it, but here in Itaewon people know better.”