Martin Limon: The Ville Rat

“Why should we believe that?”

“Look around. Do I need more money? Do I need to risk losing my job and my work visa? My wife bought up more shit than you can believe in the years after the Korean War. Dirt cheap. As the Korean economy grows, my wealth grows with it. Why would I want to sell illegally on the black market and risk everything? And why in the hell would I want to lock up kisaeng here in my house? If I want a kisaeng , I’ll go to a frigging kisaeng house.”

Ernie shouted, “Drop the gun, Mills!”

“You drop yours, dammit! This is my house.”

Ernie didn’t reply. I was worried he’d start firing. After all, the barrel of the shotgun was still pointed directly at me. If Mills pulled that trigger, my guts would be spilling out like a bowl of raw octopus.

“Okay, Mills,” I said. “You’re saying you’ve got nothing to hide. So prove it. Let us search the house.”

He thought about that.

“You’ve got no right.”

“No. We don’t have the right. But if we search and find out we were wrong, then we’ll leave you alone.”

Mills pondered that. Then he said, “I want more than just being left alone.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to do something for me.”

“What?”

“I want you to find the son of a bitch who’s doing this to the Central Locker Fund.”

“You mean ordering stuff off the books?”

Mills stiffened. “I have no direct knowledge of that.”

“But you know something.”

He didn’t answer.

“I understand,” I said. “It’s been going on for years, maybe decades, the discrepancy in inventory, ordered by people with more power than you. But you didn’t profit from it and you made sure that you had no fingerprints on it, so if it ever blew up, you wouldn’t be caught up in it. Is that it? Do I have it right?”

He didn’t answer, just sat immobile.

“I’ll assume I do,” I said. “But then somebody came along who wanted to expand the ordering beyond what it had been in the past. Instead of just providing expensive imported booze to the rich and powerful, maybe to Korean politicians directly, or to legitimate importers who could move the stuff in bulk, somebody threw in a few orders of something else. And they started selling it around GI villages, making a quick buck, not a fortune, but a nice pile of change. Especially if you’re used to living on the paycheck of a noncommissioned officer.”

Mills stared at me impassively, neither confirming nor denying.

“You remember what it was like to be a noncommissioned officer, Mills. You remember what it was like to be broke three days before payday.”

Finally, he spoke. “It’s been a long time.”

“So, am I right? The honchos had a good thing going, running two sets of books at the Central Locker Fund, selling the booze wholesale or using it for gifts to the people at the top, pocketing some of the money but using lots of it to expand their own power. Pay off the right people, renovate the right buildings, contribute to the right charities. And then some lowlife punk comes along and endangers the entire setup. Am I right, Mills?”

Ernie dove into the room.

Startled, Mills swiveled the shotgun and fired.

I leapt face-first into the carpet. The second round of the shotgun didn’t go off.

I looked up. Ernie was kneeling on the carpet, holding his .45 in front of him with both hands. “Drop it, Mills!”

Rick Mills stared at him in horror. Then he let loose of the shotgun and allowed it to slide harmlessly to the floor.

Mills insisted that we search his entire house.

“I don’t want any rumors starting,” he said, “that Rick Mills is holding women hostage in his mansion.”

We did search, thoroughly, tapping on walls, even borrowing Mills’s crowbar and pulling back paneling that seemed to have been installed in recent years. There was in fact a basement and an attic, but no dungeon. During the entire search, Mills escorted us through the house, switching on lights. Like a proud host, he pointed out heirlooms that his wife had acquired, impressing us with the appraised value of artwork and antiques.

I searched for writing brushes and other implements used in calligraphy but didn’t find any. At one point, I tossed a porcelain doll to him. He caught it with his right hand.

“What’s that all about?” he asked.

“Nothing. Who’s that?” I pointed to a framed photograph on a linen-draped table.

Rick Mills moved toward the photo, lifted it with both hands, and stared at it longingly. “My wife,” he said. He handed it to me. A stunning Korean woman with high cheekbones and piercing black eyes stared back at me. She wore what appeared to be a traditional Korean dress, but made of felt. Though the photo was black-and-white, I imagined the felt to be dark blue. She sat on an ornately carved chair, and leaning against her full skirt was a stringed musical instrument.

“The komungo ,” Mills said. “One of the first ancient Korean instruments. She studied it for years.”

“How’d you meet her, Mills? You were just an NCO.”

He shrugged. “People were desperate in those days, even the daughters of the landed classes. Desperate enough to hang out with a guy like me.”

“You married up,” Ernie said.

“Very much so,” Mills replied. “She saved my life, putting a stop to all the drinking and carousing.” Then he waved his hands. “And made me rich.”

“How long has she been gone?”

“Almost five years now. My mourning period is almost over.”

“Koreans mourn that long for a wife?” I asked.

“Not usually. But I am. See that temple out back?”

I nodded.

“I made a vow,” Rick Mills said. “One I won’t break.”

We continued searching the house, finding nothing out of line. When we were done, Mills shook our hands. “Am I clean?” he asked.

“Clean,” I said. “Unless you’re keeping them off-site.”

He frowned.

“You were about to tell me something, something about what it was like when you were an NCO living from paycheck to paycheck.”

“It’s unfair,” he said.

“What’s unfair?”

“It’s unfair to assign an NCO to the Central Locker Fund. They see so much wealth around them and there’s bound to be temptation. I’m not sure why personnel insists on assigning one to us. We could just as easily hire a Korean National.”

“They want to keep their hand in,” Ernie said.

“I suppose that’s it. They just want to remind themselves, and maybe me, that the Central Locker Fund is, after all, a creation of the US Army.”

“So that’s what you wanted to tell me?” I said. “That it’s unfair to assign an NCO to the Central Locker Fund.”

“That’s part of it.”

“What’s the other part?”

“Demoray,” he said.

“What about him?”

“I don’t trust him. He’s erratic and impulsive. You saw how he blew up at that worker when you were at the Central Locker Fund.”

“Not that unusual for the NCO Corps,” I said.

“No. But you’ve never asked him a question.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, when you ask a question, you expect an answer. That’s what NCOs do, answer questions honestly and directly. Maybe a pause for a few seconds to think about it, but with him the pause can last minutes.”

“What does he do during those minutes?”

“Sometimes he takes off his cap and rubs his head. Other than that, nothing. He’s just completely silent. As if he’s suddenly become the sphinx.”

I’d heard that before. Long, unexpected silences in the middle of calligraphy lessons.

“Is he interested in Korean culture?” I asked.