As soon as I hit the headlights, I knew Frank had been wrong. When Dougail Gaunt left the garage, he hadn’t gone back for his bottle, he’d gone to hand the Ford over to Chrissie. If I’d had a clear view into that lunchtime bus, I’d have realized that she wasn’t on it. He’d kept her with him, all day. Then, for some reason — cards, booze, another woman — he’d decided to stay the night in Craignure.
She was a good driver. I’d had no intimation that they’d changed places until, closing up on the Ford as it prepared to negotiate that treacherous bend, I’d flicked the lights on as planned. Instantly, I’d seen her blonde head bent over the wheel and screamed my horror and despair into the dark night.
When I finally hit those switches again, it was too late.
When the lights went on, Chrissie was suddenly blinded by the glare from two powerful headlights blazing into her face. Where from? There was no mirror in the cab, there never had been. And the instinctive glance at the wing mirror I’d doctored would have convinced her there was nothing coming up from behind. So the instant, unequivocal message from her brain was not that she was being blinded by two headlights seen through a newly-fitted mirror, but that a heavy vehicle was hurtling head on towards her down that narrow hill. Instinctively, her foot jabbed the brake, her hands and strong young wrists jerked the wheel hard over.
The ice and the camber had done the rest.
Just as I’d planned it for murderous Dougail Gaunt.
I took out a handkerchief and went over to the wing mirror. It was shattered, and I knew that somewhere down in those pine needles lay shards of carbon-covered glass. I flashed the torch a couple of times, but there was no reflection — how could there be? — and I kicked at the pine needles with my stiff left leg and then gave it up and started back up the hill.
I felt bleak, and I felt empty. And all the way up that hill from blonde, dead Chrissie, my leg ached and I thought ahead to Craignure, and the job that was still to be done.
A Piece of Rice Cake
by Martin Limón
It seemed that half our blotter reports lately had something to do with gambling.
Maybe it was the beautiful autumn in Korea, when the green leaves of summer turn to orange and yellow and brown and people realize that they are heading for that long cold winter we call death.
“Take a chance! You only go round once.”
Not what Buddha or Confucius would have said, but this is the modern Korea and the rules are changing. And the GI’s stationed over here have got nothing better to do anyway than throw away their money.
I thumbed through the blotter reports. A Korean businessman busted in a poker game on the compound; an NCO Club bartender rifling the night’s receipts to cover his “flower card” losses; a GI collared running a shell game in the barracks.
And so when the first sergeant called me and my partner, Ernie Bascom, into his office and gave us our assignment, it didn’t come as much of a surprise.
“Somebody stole the football pool on the army and navy game over at the Officer’s Club.”
We stared in mock horror. Ernie spoke first.
“Has the 8th Army been put on alert?”
“Yeah, wise guy. On alert. This may not seem too serious to you two, but the 8th Army chief of staff is about to soil his shorts. ‘Besmirching the honor of the army-navy tradition,’ he said.”
Whenever they start talking tradition, honor, or country, look out for your brisket.
“How much money did he have invested?” I said.
The first sergeant sighed, took a sip of his lukewarm coffee, and ignored me.
“I’d put Burrows and Slabem on the case — they got more respect for the officer corps than you two guys — but they’re on a case out at ASCOM City right now. So all I got left is you two.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Top.”
“Don’t mention it.”
The first sergeant set down his coffee and smiled at us. There was a warning in that smile. Something about not screwing up.
“The pool money was collected by the bartender, Miss Pei...”
“A female bartender? On a military installation? I thought the union didn’t allow that.”
“Normally they don’t, but this is the Officer’s Club and the union honchos want to keep the 8th Army staff happy.”
“At the Enlisted Club, all we got to look at is that crusty old Mr. Huang.”
“You should have gone to Officer’s Candidate School.”
“Too late to become a brown-noser,” Ernie said.
The first sergeant shook his head. “All right, Bascom. And you too, Sueño. I don’t care what your personal feelings are about the Officer’s Club. This is a simple matter, and I want you to keep it that way. No nosing around for things that don’t concern you, and no mouthing off to those officers over there.”
Ernie pointed to his chest and mouthed a silent, “Us?”
“Yeah, you! Miss Pei is over there now, tending bar for the lunch crowd. At about thirteen hundred I want you to check it out and give me a complete report. Keep it simple, keep it neat, and don’t get yourselves into any trouble.”
“Piece of rice cake,” Ernie said. “Not to worry, Top.”
The first sergeant frowned as we got up and walked towards the door. All I could think about was the number of times I’ve gagged on a wad of thick chewy rice cake.
Terrible stuff.
Halfway down the carpeted hallway of the 8th Army Officer’s Club I was slapped with the familiar aroma of stale beer, sliced lemon, and liberally sloshed disinfectant.
Home.
Miss Pei was behind the bar, cleaning up and doing her post-lunch-hour inventory. There weren’t any officers left in the bar, as the chief of staff keeps the place closed during the afternoon.
Miss Pei stood up and looked at us as we approached. Her face was flushed, and she appeared nervous. It hadn’t been a good day. A wisp of straight black hair hung down across her forehead, and she brushed it back with her chubby hand and short brown forearm.
“You C.I.D.?” she asked.
“That’s us,” Ernie said. “Criminal Investigation Division, Yongsan Detachment.”
Miss Pei wore a neatly pressed white blouse and a red skirt. She was a very attractive young lady and I could see why the chief of staff preferred this young flower gracing his cocktail lounge to some old curmudgeon like Mr. Huang.
“All the money is back,” she said. “I made a mistake. There is no problem.”
We looked at her for a moment, not sure what to say, and then a tall thin American in a baby blue three-piece suit hustled out of the hallway and wound through the cocktail tables.
“George! Ernie! I tried to get in touch with you, but your first sergeant told me you’d already left. It was all a mistake. We found the money locked in the liquor cabinet and it’s all there and there’s nothing to worry about, but I’m glad you guys came anyway. Can I buy you a drink?”
“I thought the bar was closed?”
“For chumps. For you guys it’s always open.”
“I’ll take a beer,” Ernie said.
I shrugged. What the hell. It wasn’t often that Freddy bought anything. Not unless you had him over a barrel. I turned to Miss Pei.
“I’ll take a Falstaff.”
“Two Falstaff?” She held up two short stubby fingers. Ernie nodded.
I looked at Freddy. “How the hell did you get over here? They kick you out of the NCO Club?”
“Naw, nothing like that,” Freddy said. “That mush-for-brains Ballard was losing money here, so they sent me over two months ago. Already we’re back in the black. Made a profit of two thousand dollars last month, and we’re climbing.”