Authors: Martin Limon
“What’d she say to you?”
“Nothing. She just stared at me, with that old disapproving look, like I’d done something wrong.”
“Had you?” Ernie asked.
“Get bent,” Embry replied.
“Easy, Embry,” I said.
“That’s
Captain
Embry to you.”
“Okay,” I said. “Captain Embry. You still have a thing for Marnie. That’s obvious.”
Embry didn’t reply.
I looked around the small room. “They tell me you have a good career going here. You’re a respected officer in the 19th Support Group. The brass watches USO tours closely, Captain Embry. Don’t screw things up. Don’t interfere with Marnie or the show. Stay away from her. Stay away from the Country Western All Stars and you’ll be all right.”
“You have no authority to tell me to stay away from her.”
“The hell we don’t,” Ernie replied. “One false move and we’ll arrest you for stalking a USO civilian. And for being a Peeping Tom.”
Embry rose to his feet. “Get the hell out of my room.”
Atop a metal wall locker, Ernie spotted a cowboy hat. He pulled it down and examined it, flipping back the inner lining. “Good brand,” he said. “Handmade. Direct from Austin, Texas.” Ernie tossed the cap in the air. Embry caught it on the fly. “Don’t turn this little drama into
High
Noon,
” Ernie told him. “You’re outgunned.”
We walked out of the room.
As we walked back toward the NCO Club, Ernie asked me, “Why didn’t you arrest him?”
“He seemed like a decent enough guy.”
“But it had to be him. If we search his room, I bet we’d find that red bra and panties.”
“Maybe. And maybe he’s the one who’s been stalking them since they arrived in-country.”
“Yeah. Maybe we’d find everything there. Like the microphone and the cowboy boot, all that stuff.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But try to cop a search warrant from the Camp Henry Provost Marshal. Never happen.”
Ernie knew I was right. The officer corps protects its own.
“But if something happens to Marnie?” he said finally.
“You’ll just have to be more diligent in your protection,” I told him.
Ernie thought about that. “Maybe I will,” he said.
The Country Western All Star Review at the Camp Henry NCO Club that night was another resounding success. The G.I.s went nuts, as usual, even those who maybe weren’t crazy about cowboy music but certainly appreciated the tight blue jeans and tight blouses the ladies wore—and the way they jiggled. Marnie seemed even more animated than she usually did, maybe because she thought her exhusband might be in the audience. Even if he wasn’t, he’d hear about the performance and, being human, he’d be jealous of all those G.I. eyeballs lingering over her voluptuous curves. Anyway, if she thought Captain Embry might show up, she was wrong, because Ernie and I stayed sober and patrolled the packed main ballroom and mostly empty backstage area at regular intervals.
There wasn’t enough billeting space in the Camp Henry BOQ to house the Country Western All Stars, so the USO popped for rooms at the New Taegu Hotel downtown. After the show, while Mr. Shin and his crew were loading equipment in the vans, Ernie and I talked it over.
“We have to find Pruchert,” I said.
“And I have to make sure Embry doesn’t harass anybody,” Ernie replied.
“Right. So I’ll take the sedan and drive down to Haeundae Beach. You stay with the girls.”
“Tough duty,” Ernie replied. “I’ll do my best.”
“In the best traditions of the service.”
During the show, Ernie and I had taken turns eating some decent chow in the NCO Club dining room, and the bowl of chili beans and the fried chicken with rice and gravy had made me feel more human. Still, I was exhausted. In the last few days, what with all the running around we’d done in the southern end of the Korean peninsula, I’d managed to catch only catnaps. I was afraid that my exhaustion might be more than I could handle while driving, so I asked the club manager if he had a spare thermos of coffee. I promised to bring the jug back once I was done with it. He complied. Thus fortified and provisioned, I grabbed the keys from Ernie and set off south on the main supply route, heading toward Pusan.
If Pruchert was like most compulsive gamblers—and if he hadn’t been lying to Lucy—he’d most likely still be in the Haeundae Casino. It’s a twenty-four-hour operation, although they have to lock the doors during the midnight-to-four curfew—nobody in or out. Regardless of whether Pruchert was there, I resolved to report to Inspector Kill, and to 8th Army, as soon as I found the chance. They’d probably been wondering what we were up to, and—unlike Ernie—I was worried about aggravating them unduly.
Not that they deserved much consideration from us. After all, they’d assigned Ernie and me to two details—protecting the Country Western All Stars and finding the Blue Train rapist—both, in and of themselves, full-time jobs. And I was still worried about the rapist and his “corrective actions” and who else would be on his checklist. He’d strike again. Every moment brought us closer to his next attack.
With two jobs to do, I had no choice but to return to Pusan alone. Still, there was an advantage to being alone. Sergeant Norris, the Hialeah Compound MP, had given it to me. The merchant steamer known as the
Star of Tirana
was scheduled to pull into the Port of Pusan at 2 a.m. tonight. Aboard, according to Norris, was an East European sailor who’d been searching for me.
Why would a man I’d never heard of be looking for me? A man who came from a country in which I knew no one and where I’d never been?
As far-fetched as it sounded, I thought I knew the answer. Or, at least, I was afraid I did. If my hunch was right, I was in for a lot more sleepless nights.
If and when I met this man, I wanted to be alone. I certainly didn’t want to involve Ernie, or anyone else, in something that might prove to be more dangerous than anything I’d encountered before.
F
or ten minutes I pounded on the big double door of the Haeundae Casino. Finally, I heard a voice shout from within, “
Nugu-syo?
” Who is it?
I held my badge up to a peephole and shouted back “
Kyongchal!
” Police!
There was a discussion behind the padded door, and it took another two or three minutes for the door to creak open. I pushed through, holding my badge in front of my face. In Korean, I said, “Where’s the manager?”
A young man in black slacks, white shirt, and bow tie closed the door behind me. Next to him stood a dapper middle-aged Korean in a neatly pressed gray suit. He smiled benignly at me.
“I am the manager,” he said in perfectly pronounced English. “My name is Han.”
I held out my hand. He shook it.
“I’m Agent Sueño,” I told him. “Eighth Army CID in Seoul. I’d appreciate it if you would not alert your customers or staff that I’m here.”
“They know someone’s here,” he said, turning and staring into the carpeted expanse of the casino. “They heard the pounding. Of course, most of them are too entranced by the game to pay much attention.”
Entranced? I had to ask. “Are you from the States?”
“Went to school there. The University of Nevada at Reno.”
“Hotel and Casino Management?”
He nodded and smiled a mild smile.
This set my mind on a completely different tangent. Often, I ask people about their education. I was interested because I hoped, some day, to earn something higher than my GED. The G.I. Bill would still be available when I needed it, but so far I hadn’t worked up the nerve to leave the Army. Suddenly, I realized I was exhausted, which is why my mind was wandering. I returned to the main purpose of my visit.
“Are there any Americans in there?”
“A couple.”
“I’d like to observe them, if you don’t mind, for a few minutes.”
“Will you be making an arrest?”
“Possibly.”
“If you do, we’d appreciate the greatest discretion. I’ll call the guest over, offer him some refreshments in a side room, you can take it from there. And no violence, please.”
“It won’t come to that.”
At least I hoped it wouldn’t. I wasn’t armed and I imagined Pruchert wasn’t armed either, except maybe with a knife.
Standing beside empty blackjack tables, about ten yards away, were two burly Korean security guards. They wore dark suits and ties and were both taller and broader than most Koreans. They moved like wolves watching a herd. Calluses rose from their knuckles, developed from years of martial arts training.
I took a seat in a lounge area elevated slightly above the casino. Within seconds, a gorgeous waitress approached and I asked for a cup of hot coffee, no sugar. Two minutes later, she served me, bowed, and left me on my own. I sipped on the java gratefully, examining the players and the tables on the casino floor. I thought of the distance I’d covered today: from the holy interior of an ancient Buddhist cave, to the rolling rice paddies of Kyongsan Province, to the depravity of G.I. Heaven, and now to the plush interior of the Haeundae Casino, modeled on the best Monte Carlo had to offer. That’s Korea for you, something for every taste.
Most of the tables were closed, green felt draped with leather dust covers. The late-night customers had been bullied into one pit, four blackjack tables in a circle, each table staffed by two female dealers wearing stylish red smocks. Behind them stood a bored Korean man in a dark suit, the pit boss. The customers were mostly Korean, a couple of people I figured for Japanese, and two Americans. One of the Americans was black. He stood behind a blackjack table, watching the action, not playing himself, kibitzing with the other American, who was, beyond any doubt, the man I was looking for: Corporal Robert R. Pruchert.
His head was shaved, and he was wearing a beige cap with a short brim. He also had on running shoes, khaki slacks, and a pullover long-sleeved shirt made of wool. He was standing with his arms crossed, studying the game and occasionally making comments to his American friend.
Mr. Han took a seat across from me.
“The two Americans,” I said. “They’ve lost all their money.”
“Sadly. That’s why they can only stand and watch.”
“Do many people do that?” I asked. “Stay in the casino even after they have nothing more to gamble with?”
“Only the worst. The average person leaves when they’ve lost what they came to lose. The worst gamblers lose everything, including money for cab fare home. So they linger, hoping one of their fellow gamblers will hand them a few chips so they can get back in the game.”
“If they’re that broke, wouldn’t they use any money someone gives them to get home?”
“Not this type of person.”
“And that American, the one in the wool shirt, is he that type?”
“The exemplar,” Han said. “Periodically he comes in here with money, gambles until it’s gone, and then stands and watches until he’s ready to pass out on his feet.”
“Then what does he do?”
Han shrugged. “Somehow, he leaves. Maybe he catches a ride with another gambler. I’m not really sure.”
The pit boss in the center of the ring of blackjack tables motioned our way. Mr. Han rose to his feet and excused himself. A high roller was changing yen to won, in large amounts, and Han had to approve the transaction. I watched the men do their business, fanning stacks of crisp new bills onto the green felt, counting them, and then stacking chips in front of the impatient Japanese gambler.
I continued to drink my coffee, feeling the hot fluid suffuse my tired body with life. There was no hurry. I’d finish my coffee and then arrest him. Pruchert wasn’t going anywhere. All the doors were locked and Manager Han and his burly security guards had moved in a little closer to the two Americans, anticipating trouble.
The waitress approached again and asked if I wanted a refill. I declined, but maybe I admired her legs a little too long because when I turned my attention back to the blackjack pit, Pruchert was gone.
I rose to my feet and strode over to Mr. Han, pulling him aside from the customers.
“The American,” I whispered urgently. “The white one. Did you see where he went?”
Han shook his head, then snapped his fingers. The two burly security guards appeared next to him.
“The American,” he told them in Korean. “Find him.”
The two men hurried off.
“Probably,” Han said, “he just went to the bathroom.”
That’s where I went first, but no Pruchert. The security guards searched the ladies’ room and then the back rooms off the casino where drinks were poured and snacks prepared, including the employee break room.
“Where’s the other exit out of here?” I asked Han.
“Only the back fire exit,” he replied. “But he would’ve tripped the alarm.”
We were standing in the center of the casino, our feet sinking into plush carpet, wondering where Pruchert could have disappeared to. I was about to question the other American he had been chatting with when a shrill whooping noise pierced the air.
“What’s that?”
“The rear exit,” Han said. “Someone opened it.”
And then I was running.
Many people never really know exhaustion. They say they’re tired and they work around the clock, but the truth is that they’ve never pushed themselves beyond the demands their minds and bodies make of them. I’m not saying they don’t work hard. They do. But a nine-to-five job seldom demands as much from you as the military requires of its soldiers. One of the first things that the army subjects you to, once they have you trapped in basic training, is sleep deprivation. You’re seldom in bed before midnight and you’re up in the morning, like clockwork, at zero five hundred hours. Sometimes, during special exercises, they don’t let you sleep at all.
While undergoing this trial, you realize that sleep deprivation is one of the most painful parts of your training; it also starts to dawn on you that your judgment has clouded. Making the wrong decision, even in a situation that would normally be clear-cut, becomes a distinct possibility.
I ran out the back door of the Haeundae Casino.
The alley was modern—broad and covered in blacktop—not like the vile lanes in G.I. villages. Truck deliveries were made here. A four-foot-high cement loading platform loomed off to my left. I paused because I saw no shadows fleeing, nor did I hear any footsteps pounding on pavement. If I turned right, I’d be running toward civilization: tourist hotels, boutiques, fancy eateries; all along the main road that circles the bay and caters to the people who flock to Haeundae Beach, especially during the summer months. But now, during the midnight-tofour curfew in early autumn, there’d be no refuge there. All shops would be closed and there’d be no cabs to whisk you away to safety. The cement sidewalks would only make it easier to be spotted by the curfew police. If I turned left, I’d be heading toward the sea. Toward darkness. Toward the sound of breakers. Toward ships. Toward chaos. That’s where Pruchert would go.
I ran left, into the night.
Soon I hit the pedestrian walkway that arced along the curve of the shoreline, twenty yards in from the beach. I paused and studied dark waters. By starlight I spotted the vague shadows of ships bobbing in the center of the Port of Pusan; to my right were the high-rise buildings that lined the port. Along the sand, I saw nothing. No revelers. No families traipsing timidly up to the edge of the water. No vacationers toting travel bags to the shuttered bathhouse that squatted a quarter mile to my right. And then I saw movement, off to my left along the edge of the water, just a flicker in the glinting moonlight. Without thinking about it, I ran. First across the sand, lifting my feet high; then across a spongy running surface, sand moistened and solidified by the sea, picking up speed.
As the shadowy figure ahead of me angled away, I realized that it was a thin man with long legs and limbs. A man who from this distance—about two hundred yards behind—appeared in every respect to be Corporal Robert R. Pruchert.
“Halt!” I shouted, inanely. I had no pistol to back up my command.
Where was he going? What lay to the northeast on the far edge of Haeundae Beach? Rice paddies? Shipyards? I had no idea, and my guess was that neither did Pruchert. He’d panicked when he saw me, then he’d hidden; finally he’d sneaked out the back of the casino and run. Where, he couldn’t be sure.
I was catching my stride now, settling in for the distance. He was too far ahead for me to sprint and catch up. With no end to this beach in sight, this pursuit was becoming an endurance contest. Pruchert was panicked, running hard, not pacing himself. If I kept close, controlled my breathing, and settled into a good pace for a two-mile run, I’d probably catch up with him eventually. Once he collapsed.
Every soldier in the United States Army is required to take a physical training test every year. The test includes push-ups, sit-ups, and a two-mile run. I take pride in my scores. I’d yet to max the test but I’d come close. My training regimen consisted mainly of doing push-ups and sit-ups first thing in the morning and then jogging, as time permitted, around the Yongsan South Post gymnasium.
I hadn’t jogged for a few days, not since the Blue Train rapist investigation began, but my body hadn’t forgotten what to do. Slowly, across the wet sand, I was gaining on Pruchert. And then, without warning, he veered sharply to his left.
As I came closer, I saw what he was heading toward: a low line of shacks. Some sort of shops for the crowds that jammed Haeundae Beach during the daytime. Pruchert was running right toward the center of the shops, and in the dim light I watched as he approached the shops as if he were going to ram into one of them headfirst—and then he disappeared.
I blinked, straining to see what had happened.
As I plowed through sand, a gap appeared in the center of the line of shops. A passageway, dark now, and covered so that not even moonlight entered. Where did it lead? Either to the other side or, maybe, into a courtyard. When I reached the passageway, I slowed to a trot. No movement. No sign of Pruchert. Walking quickly, I entered the dark passage. After a few steps, I was blind, realizing that I’d made a mistake. I groped forward, holding my hands out, expecting at any moment to step into a pit lined on the bottom with
punji
sticks. Instead, I reached the inner courtyard I had imagined. Some of the shops were covered with wooden doors or metal shutters, but a few still had dim blue lights on within, behind polished glass. I stepped close to one of the windows. Two yellow eyes and a row of teeth darted toward me. I jerked back. Then I realized what it was.
A fish tank.
Live fish. It figured. These were not shops, but seafood eateries. I read the signs in cursive hangul: hot noodles, fresh seafood, raw squid, spiced octopus. Everything the discerning gourmand could desire. The fish seemed to sense my presence; tail fins waggled, jaws gaped open and then clamped shut, tentacles raised themselves in squiggly greeting.
I trotted to the far side of the courtyard. Another passageway. I ran through it, quicker this time, figuring Pruchert had already emerged on the other side and would be a half mile up the beach by now. As I hurried, I was reckless about where I stepped and ran into a straight-back chair that had been left in the center of the passageway. I was alert enough not to fall, although I banged my shins pretty hard, and I managed to catch myself on the back of the chair as I kept moving and to toss it off to the side where no one else would run into it.
As I did so, something moved out of the shadows. I caught a glimpse of him just before he hit me. Corporal Robert R. Pruchert. It was a good left and caught me moving into it, and I staggered. Then I was hit again and, for a few seconds anyway, that’s all I remembered.
When I came to, I was kneeling on all fours. I looked up, slowly becoming aware of where I was and what was around me. There was no sign of Pruchert. I stood unsteadily, took a step forward and then another. I breathed deeply, the sharp tang of fish and salt entering my lungs. Soon I was running away from the conclave of seafood restaurants; by the time my head cleared, I had reached the pathway that paralleled the beach. The moon hung no higher in the sky, so I knew I hadn’t been out long, only stunned, and now I had a good view down the beach for about a mile. No sign of Pruchert. Once he thought he had me off his tail, he would’ve headed toward civilization, maybe tried to hide until curfew was over and then find a cab. Where to hide? Near a tourist hotel, where there’d be plenty of taxis waiting outside at four a.m.