And besides, the Provost Marshal believed the 501st’s cover story. Fenton claimed to have been on his way up north to participate in a counterintelligence operation involving an espionage suspect, the details of which were classified. It was Ernie and me who’d blundered into the middle of things and messed up their plans. If the accident was anyone’s fault, it was ours.
Of course, Ernie and I knew it was a blatant assassination attempt that had happened to end with Fenton in a hospital bed and us standing over him. This was perhaps why Ernie pinched Fenton’s toe so viciously, though I also suspected it was for Miss Kim.
Full consciousness lit up his eyes. He pushed himself upright, frightened. “What do you guys want?”
“Don’t scream,” I told him. “We’re not gonna hurt you.”
“Not like you tried to hurt us,” Ernie added, smiling.
Fenton repeated himself. “What do you want?”
“We want information,” I said.
Reflexively, Fenton said, “I don’t know nothing.”
I ignored the statement, pulled up a chair, and started to talk in a low monotone. When Fenton tried to edge away, Ernie slapped him on the side of the head and pushed him back. Intimidated, Fenton sat like a schoolboy, giving me his full attention.
I explained what Nam had told us about working with Blood on the disposition of closed military bases. When I finished, I paused and allowed Fenton time to respond. He was still terrified. Ernie loomed over him, glaring, mumbling incoherently, as if the hatred he felt couldn’t be formulated into words. Fenton was probably afraid that Ernie would rip out one of the needles in his arm or, worse yet, punch him in the stomach and reopen his internal wounds.
Fenton glanced at Ernie nervously, then back at me. “So what? That don’t mean nothing.”
Some agent. He’d just confirmed what Nam had told us. Blood and Nam were indeed associates.
“I guess beating up a business girl in Itaewon doesn’t mean anything, either,” I said.
Fenton glared at me distrustfully, wondering what I was getting at.
“Major Schultz had a problem,” I continued. “A business girl in Itaewon ripped him off and was lying to everyone about his sexual prowess.”
“Or lack thereof,” Ernie added.
“So Captain Blood offered to help,” I said. “They went out to Itaewon together and slapped the girl around a little, to persuade her to shut the hell up. Blood was hoping that by becoming close buddies with Schultz, he might influence him to go a little easy in his inspection report.” Fenton frowned but didn’t contradict me. “But despite Blood’s best efforts,” I said, “Schultz wasn’t playing ball. He wasn’t going to ease up on his negative inspection report. Blood felt betrayed.”
Fenton looked away.
With his forefinger, Ernie poked him in the side of the head. “Are you listening to the man?”
Reluctantly, Fenton turned his gaze back toward me.
“So Blood killed him,” I said. “Or maybe it was you. One thing’s for damn sure, you’re the one who drove the body to Itaewon.”
Fenton reached toward the night table and in one swift movement threw something at me. I dodged and it missed me but liquid splashed everywhere, some of it spraying on my pant leg. It crashed against the far wall but didn’t break, and more liquid gushed out. Then I realized what it was: an Army-issue blue plastic water carafe. I bent over and picked it up while slapping moisture off my knee.
With both hands, Ernie grabbed Fenton’s head and dug in his fingers. Fenton pulled his arms free of the needles on hanging tubes and struggled to break Ernie’s grip.
A nurse ran into the ward. Captain’s bars were pinned to her neat white smock, and her nameplate said Schulman. Ernie quickly released his grip and stood away.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. When we didn’t answer, she said, “I don’t know what you two are up to, but visiting hours were over at eight. This man needs his sleep.” She glanced at Fenton. “And he shouldn’t be bothered while he’s recovering.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ernie said, stepping even farther from the bed.
“Well, vamoose!” she said, planting her hands on generous hips.
“We’re on our way,” I said. Then I turned and whispered in Fenton’s ear. “Think about it. If you spill what you know, you can cut a better deal for yourself.” When he ignored me, I decided to raise the stakes. I leaned in closer and said, “Nam told us about Commander Ku.”
We drove away from the 121st Evac through a sleepy South Post, and then we crossed the MSR and entered the Yongsan Compound Main Post.
“You think Fenton will rat on Blood?” Ernie asked.
“He’d be crazy not to,” I replied. “Taking a little money on the side is one thing. You just hire a Stateside lawyer and keep your mouth shut, and you might be all right. But working with a North Korean agent, that’s serious biz. And if Fenton had anything to do with it, he’s going down too.”
Ernie whistled. “I’ll say. Why’d they do it, anyway?”
“Blood’s a glory hound,” I said. “Now that he’s grown the battalion so much, he thinks he can get away with anything. I’m sure Fenton and some of the other guys went along because they believed-like most GIs would-that they’d be all right as long as they could claim they were just following orders. Plus, they probably liked the extra cash and being treated like royalty on the occasional trip to the kisaeng house.”
“Still,” Ernie said, “didn’t they realize how serious this was? It’s a betrayal of the whole country, not just Eighth Army. I’m not all that fond of our rah-rah I-love-the-flag bullshit, and I can understand selling booze and cigarettes down in the ville, but working with North Korean spies? That’s a level of hurt I’d never want to get involved with.”
“Nam said it was gradual. First the real estate deals for some side money, then Commander Ku and the much bigger rewards for military intel. Maybe they were even blackmailed, or the Five Oh Five guys Blood didn’t trust were kept in the dark. However it happened, Captain Blood and the Five Oh First did it, and we’re gonna bring them down. For Major Schultz and Miss Kim and Miss Jo, and a lot of other reasons.”
“Think they’ll give us a medal?”
“Hell no. Eighth Army gives medals for hiding dirty laundry, not airing it.”
– 31-
The next night we were in downtown Seoul, where the air was chilly but clear. We stood loitering in the heart of Mukyo-dong, the city’s most expensive entertainment district. Neon flashed down the long, winding roadways and well-dressed matrons carrying embossed shopping bags, their high heels clicking on pavement. Above us, the Dancing Lady Scotch Corner sported a spangled neon effigy of a beautiful, long-haired woman whose hips glowed as they swiveled from side to side.
“We should’ve asked for more expense money from Mr. Kill,” Ernie said.
“Why? We’re not going inside.”
“But I feel poor out here,” Ernie replied. “I’m a shot-and-a-beer kind of guy.”
“So get yourself some soju.” I pointed at a heavily laden vending cart, a pochang macha, being pushed by an old man along the edge of the narrow road.
“Maybe I will,” Ernie said.
And he did. He ran off and stopped the old man, communicating mostly with hand gestures, miming opening a bottle and pouring it down his throat. I also heard him say the word soju, rice liquor, which was probably the main reason the man understood him. He stopped his cart, reached beneath the canvas overhang, and pulled out a small crystalline bottle of Jinro. Ernie handed him a couple of small bills, thanked him, and trotted back to my side.