Ping-Pong Heart Read online

  Also by Martin Limón

  Jade Lady Burning

  Slicky Boys

  Buddha’s Money

  The Door to Bitterness

  The Wandering Ghost

  G.I. Bones

  Mr. Kill

  The Joy Brigade

  The Iron Sickle

  The Ville Rat

  Nightmare Range

  Copyright © 2016 by Martin Limón

  All rights reserved.

  Published by

  Soho Press, Inc.

  853 Broadway

  New York, NY 10003

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Limón, Martin.

  Ping-pong heart / Martin Limón.

  ISBN 978-1-61695-713-1

  eISBN 978-1-61695-714-8

  1. Sueño, George (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Bascom, Ernie (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 3. United States Army Criminal Investigation Command—Fiction. 4. Americans—Korea—Fiction.

  5. Korea (South)—History—1960–1988—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3562.I465 P56 2016 PS3562.I465

  DDC 813.54—dc23 2015049369

  Interior design by Janine Agro, Soho Press, Inc.

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To Gabriel

  -1-

  Major Frederick Manfield Schultz appeared at the 8th Army Provost Marshal’s office red-faced and enraged.

  “She robbed me,” he said.

  I took the report, typing patiently as he explained.

  “I met her at the UN Club. We started talking, I bought her a drink. Then we went back to her hooch.”

  “What’s her name?” I asked.

  “Miss Jo.”

  “Did you check her VD card?”

  “I didn’t think to.”

  “It’s a good idea. If she’s a freelancer without one, we might have trouble finding her.”

  This made him even angrier. “She stole my money, dammit. I want it back.”

  Miss Kim, the statuesque Admin secretary, pulled a tissue from the box in front of her, held it to her nose, rose from her chair, and walked out of the office. We listened as her high heels clicked down the hallway.

  My name is George Sueño. I’m an agent for the 8th United States Army Criminal Investigation Division in Seoul, Republic of Korea. Reports of theft were routinely taken at the Yongsan Compound MP Station. But Major Schultz knew Colonel Brace, the Provost Marshal, and had gone to him directly with his complaint. Since he was a field grade officer, it was felt that allowing word of this incident to leak out to the hoi polloi of the Military Police would be detrimental to good order and discipline. So my partner Ernie Bascom and I—CID agents, not MP investigators—were given the job.

  Schultz told me that he’d left the UN Club with Miss Jo and they’d walked back to her hooch near the old oak tree behind the Itaewon open-air market. In her room, he handed her fifty dollars’ worth of crisp MPC, military payment certificates. She’d taken the bills, helped him off with his clothes and sat him down on the edge of the bed. Then she excused herself to use the outdoor byonso.

  “I waited and waited,” he told me, “until finally I got tired of waiting. So I slid open the door and looked out. Nothing. No light on in the byonso. I put on my clothes and went looking for her. She was gone. I pounded on the doors in the neighbors’ hooches, but they just pretended not to speak English.”

  “Maybe they don’t,” I said.

  This made him angry again. Full cheeks flushed red. Even beneath his blond crew cut, freckled skin burned crimson. “They live next door to a GI whore and they don’t speak English?”

  I shrugged. “So what’d you do?”

  He knotted his fists. “I was tempted to tear the place down, rip up her clothes, smash the windows, throw the freaking radio and electric fan out into the mud. But I figured if I did, she might slap a SOFA charge on me.”

  SOFA. The Status of Forces Agreement between the United States and the Republic of Korea. One of its provisions is to adjudicate claims made by Korean civilians against US military personnel for damages suffered at their hands.

  “It was almost midnight curfew,” he said, “so I just put on my clothes and left.”

  “Smart move,” I said.

  He nodded. “I tell you, though, if I’d gotten my hands on her . . .”

  We let the thought trail off.

  “Are you on an accompanied tour?” I asked.

  Unconsciously, he fondled the gold wedding band on his left hand. “No. The wife’s back at Fort Hood.” I continued to stare at him. “The kids are in school. We thought it was best not to move them.”

  I finished my typing, looked up at him and said, “Can you describe Miss Jo?”

  He did. But it amounted to the same bargirl description we heard from most GIs: brunette, petite, cute foreign accent. Ernie looked at me and rolled his eyes. I stopped typing and asked Major Schultz to accompany us to the Itaewon Police Station. He agreed, and the three of us walked outside to Ernie’s jeep.

  Once there, I conferred with the on-duty Desk Sergeant. After a few minutes, he ushered us into a back room, pulled out a huge three-ring binder and plopped it on a wooden table. The book contained information gathered by the Yongsan District Public Health Service and was accompanied with snapshots of every waitress and barmaid and hostess who was authorized to work in the Itaewon nightclub district.

  The girls are issued a wallet-sized card and are required to be checked monthly for communicable diseases. If they prove to be disease-free, the card is stamped in red ink. If they’re sick, they are locked up in a Health Service Quarantine Center and forced to take whatever drugs the doctor prescribes. GIs call the wallet-sized folds of cardboard “VD cards.” In official military training, soldiers are instructed to check that the card is up-to-date before having sexual relations. As you might imagine, few bother.

  After the Desk Sergeant left, Major Schultz flipped through a few dozen pages of the book until he found the section marked UN Club. He stopped and pointed.

  “That’s her.”

  I studied the picture. She wasn’t hard to look at. A face that could’ve belonged to a classic Korean heroine: a perfectly shaped oval with almond eyes and a clear complexion, and framed by straight black hair that fell to narrow shoulders. And maybe it was my imagination, but I thought she looked wistful, slightly ashamed at being photographed for a VD Card but resigned nevertheless to her fate. Next to the photo, written in hangul, were her name, date of birth, and National ID card number. I jotted down the info.

  Major Schultz rose from his wooden chair. “When do you expect to catch her?”

  “If she hasn’t left town, it won’t take long,” I replied.

  “It better not.”

  He turned and stalked out of the police station.

  -2-

  Ernie and I drove back to the CID office. Staff Sergeant Riley, the Admin Non-Commissioned Officer, sat behind a stack of neatly clipped paperwork.

  “Where’s Miss Kim?” I asked.

  “Why?” Riley replied. “She doesn’t work for you.”

  That was him. All charm.

  “She seemed shaken up listening to Major Schultz.”

  Riley shrugged and returned to his paperwork. Ernie ignored our conversation, picked up the morning edition of the Pacific Stars and Stripes, sat down, and snapped it open to the sports page. Tissue was still wadded atop Miss Kim’s desk and her full cup of green tea had grown cold.

  I went to look for h
er.

  I found her sitting on a wooden bench beside a small pagoda containing a bronze statue of the Maitreya Buddha. It had been set up years ago for the use of 8th Army’s Korean employees, of which there were hundreds on this compound alone. A small grassy area in front of the shrine was well worn from spirited games of badminton that were held every day during lunch hour.

  I sat down next to Miss Kim. “I’m sorry Major Schultz upset you,” I told her.

  She twisted her handkerchief, rolling pink embroidery around the edges. “It’s not him,” she said.

  “Then what is it?”

  She didn’t answer. About a year ago, she and Ernie had been an item. She’d taken the relationship seriously. Ernie hadn’t. He was tall, about six-foot-one, and had a pointed nose with green eyes that sat behind round-lensed glasses. Why women found him fascinating, I wasn’t sure. Maybe it was his complete I-don’t-give-a-damn attitude. Ernie’d served two tours in Vietnam, and having survived that, he figured every day was money won in a poker game; he spent them as such, taking any pleasure that came his way. When Miss Kim found out that he had other paramours, she dropped him flat. As far as I knew, she hadn’t spoken to him since.

  “If it’s not Major Schultz that’s bothering you,” I asked, “then what is it?”

  She shook her head, staring at the dirt in front of us. “Cruelty,” she said. “So much of it.”

  I patted her hand. She dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief. I’d known her for well over a year now. I occasionally bought her gifts from the PX: a flower, small bottles of hand lotion, the type of breath mints I knew she liked. I suppose I was trying to make amends for the sins of my investigative partner. When she didn’t continue, I said, “There’s something else bothering you.”

  She laughed but stopped abruptly. “You notice things, don’t you, Geogie?”

  “I try to.”

  “There is something,” she said.

  “What?”

  “It’s nothing, really.” She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “It’s just that when I walk home, after the cannon goes off, somebody keeps staring at me.”

  Miss Kim was tall and slender and dressed well, which attracted a lot of attention on a compound full of horny GIs.

  “Did he do anything?” I asked.

  “Not exactly. While I’m heading toward the Main Gate, he follows me. And lately he’s been walking up right beside me and when no one else is listening, he says things. Rude things. I ignore him, but he keeps doing it.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “Maybe two or three weeks now.”

  “Describe him to me.”

  She shook her head vehemently. “No. I don’t want trouble.”

  The Korean War had ended some twenty years ago. Seoul had been completely crushed, and only now was the Korean economy beginning to recover. A job on the American Army compound was considered an excellent employment opportunity, with good pay and job security. Miss Kim was afraid to jeopardize that in any way.

  Then she turned on the bench and stared at me. “Don’t do anything, Geogie. I can take care of it.”

  “Has this guy followed you off compound?”

  “No. He always stops just before we reach the Pedestrian Exit.”

  “At Gate Five?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Where there are more people.”

  She nodded, then reached out and squeezed my hand. “Thank you, though,” she said. Then she pointed at her nose. “I will take care of it.”

  We walked back to the CID office. Before we entered, she stopped and faced me again. “Promise you won’t do anything?”

  I nodded.

  She smiled and trotted up the steps.

  Before the cannon went off, Ernie and I found a hiding place amidst a grove of evergreen trees about twenty yards in front of the Pedestrian Exit at Gate Five. While we waited, just to pass the time, I needled him.

  “You sure screwed up your chances with Miss Kim,” I said.

  He shrugged. “There’s more fish in the Yellow Sea. Whole boatloads of them.”

  “Not many like her.”

  He peeked around his tree, grinning. “You sweet on her, Sueño?”

  “Sure, I’m sweet on her. Who wouldn’t be? So are you, or you wouldn’t be standing here in the cold, waiting to punch the sonofabitch who’s been bothering her.”

  Ernie unwrapped a stick of ginseng gum and popped it in his mouth. “Just out for a little fun,” he said.

  Which was probably true. Ernie loved conflict. The only time I saw him grin from ear to ear was when people were butting heads or, better yet, swinging big roundhouse rights at one another.

  At what the military likes to call close-of-business, exactly seventeen hundred hours—5 p.m. to civilians—the cannon went off. In front of the headquarters building, the Honor Guard was lowering the Korean, American, and United Nations flags. We both looked around. What we were supposed to do, what every soldier was supposed to do, was stand at the position of attention and salute the flag, even if it was so far away you couldn’t see it. Which was silly, but that’s the Army for you. In the distance, we heard the retreat bugle blasting out of tinny speakers. Since no one was watching, we didn’t bother to salute but remained slouched behind the pine trees. In less than a minute, the last notes of the electronic bugle subsided, and down the long row of brick buildings, doors opened and the first early-bird workers trotted down stone steps.

  “Free at last,” Ernie said.

  Within minutes, a line of mostly Korean employees formed at the Pedestrian Exit. We watched down the walkway that led toward the CID office. After three or four more minutes, Miss Kim appeared in the distance. Just two feet behind her right shoulder walked an American in civilian clothes.

  “There’s the son of a biscuit,” Ernie said. Like a hunting dog, his nose was pointed toward his prey.

  I studied the guy. He was young, like a GI, but he wore a cheap plaid suit, his face was narrow and pasty and his hair, reddish-blond and curly, was too long for Army regulation.

  “Is he a civilian?” Ernie asked.

  “Maybe.”

  To get a better look, Ernie stepped out from behind his tree.

  “Don’t let her see you,” I reminded him.

  He waved me off. “Don’t worry, Sueño. I got it.” He ducked back into hiding.

  Miss Kim was walking fast, clutching her handbag; her cloth coat buttoned tightly, her arms crossed in front of her chest. Her head was down, her face grim. The guy stared straight ahead, as if he weren’t talking to her directly but his mouth was moving, rapidly. His eyes were wide and glassy.

  “He’s getting his rocks off,” Ernie said.

  We were too far away to hear what he was saying, but gauging by Miss Kim’s reaction, it wasn’t good. The crowd surrounding them was of other Korean workers, and the guy appeared to be speaking softly enough that they couldn’t hear what he was saying. Only his intended audience, Miss Kim, was receiving the full benefit of his blather.

  Just before crossing the road that led to the Pedestrian Exit, the guy peeled off. As I’d hoped, he headed away from Gate 5, toward Main Post, using the sidewalk that passed the Moyer Recreation Center and the Main PX. Miss Kim disappeared into the flow of employees heading into the single-file line at the Pedestrian Exit.

  Ernie smiled broadly. The guy was heading toward us, still mumbling to himself. Ernie reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a set of brass knuckles.

  “All mine,” Ernie said, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Not out in the open,” I said. “Too many eyeballs.”

  We let the guy walk a few yards past us, and then we both scurried out of the trees and hustled close behind him.

  “You drop this?” Ernie said.

  The guy stopped and turn
ed, a confused look on his face. “Drop what?”

  “This,” Ernie said, and stepped close and slammed an uppercut into his gut. Air erupted from his mouth. As he bent over, I grabbed his shoulders and straightened him out, then shoved him toward the shadows among the pine trees. Once safely behind lumber, Ernie slugged him again.

  “Let’s see some ID,” Ernie said.

  As the guy continued to grimace and clutch his stomach, I reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. Ernie grabbed it from me and slid out our victim’s military identification card, handing it to me. Quickly, I used my notebook to jot down his name, rank, and service number. Fenton, Wilfred R., Specialist Four. Next, Ernie handed me the guy’s US Forces Korea Weapons Card. I read off the unit. “Five Oh First Military Intelligence Battalion. Headquarters Company.”

  “The Five Oh Worst,” Ernie corrected and slugged the guy again. “Civilian clothes, hippie haircut. What are you, some kind of spook?”

  “Counter-intel,” the guy said. Counterintelligence.

  “Caught any North Korean spies lately?”

  “A few.”

  “Bull.” Ernie slugged him again. “All you’ve caught is the clap.”

  When he recovered, Specialist Four Fenton pulled himself together enough to ask, “What’s this all about?”

  “It’s about you harassing innocent women,” Ernie told him.

  “I’m not harassing anyone.”

  “What’d you just say to that woman you were walking next to?”

  “What woman?”

  Ernie slugged him again.

  Fenton pressed his forearm against his rib. “I didn’t say anything to her.” Ernie pulled his fist back and Fenton flinched and said, “Nothing bad anyway.”

  Ernie let loose the punch.

  “What the hell do you want?” Fenton said.

  Ernie straightened him out and turned him toward me. I was six inches taller than him but leaned down close to his face, letting hot breath blast into his eyes. “We want you to stop pestering women who don’t want anything to do with you. Maybe that’s how you get your kicks, Fenton, but you’re through doing it on this compound. No more,” I said, pointing my forefinger at his nose. “You got that?”