Mortal Allies (38 page)

“Don’t be stupid. Why would our people fire on the South Koreans?”

“Reverse that question. Why would the South Koreans fire on us? With television cameras right there?”

I could see from her expression she wasn’t in the mood to discuss this in a rational way, so I asked, “What’s the status of the trial?”

“I’ve filed for a two-week postponement.”

“And have you heard anything?”

“Only that Golden’s fighting it. He claims the massacre is irrelevant to the case.”

“I could’ve guessed that. He’s got all his ducks lined up. He wants his moment in the sun. Eddie’s in a mad rush to be famous.”

“Well, the judge is here, the witnesses are here, everything’s ready. How do you think they’ll decide?”

“It’s up to Spears and Brandewaite to make the decision. Brandewaite’s a diplomat, so I’m sure he wants to get this over with yesterday. He’ll see an early conviction as a way to start healing the rift.”

“There’s only one hang-up. It seems two of Thomas’s co-counsels could be facing charges with the civilian authorities.”

“Really? What are they looking to charge you with?”

“Filing a misleading statement to get authority for the protest. Inciting a riot. Also, it seems South Korea has this law called the National Security Act. They say I may be charged with something called ‘endangering the security of the Republic of Korea.’ ”

I was vaguely familiar with the law she was talking about. It was a controversial statute that had been on the books for thirty years, ever since one of the earlier dictators imposed it. It’s the kind of law every dictator dreams of, since it’s amorphous enough to be twisted and contorted in any direction.

I should’ve been sympathetic, but I couldn’t let her have the upper hand. “You think you got problems? I’m charged with assaulting a police officer and theft of a weapon. Oh, and I’m also under suspicion for murdering a mentally handicapped man.”

Imelda, who’d been quietly listening to the two of us talk, suddenly moved around Katherine until she was close to my bed.

“You two done?” she asked in a sharp tone.

“What?” Katherine asked, looking up in surprise.

Imelda glared down her short, pudgy nose at both of us. “Are you two done with this woe-is-me shit? Have you got all that shitty self-pity outta your systems?”

I drew a deep breath, scratched my hair, and looked away. I could smell what was coming. Katherine had no idea. She’d never experienced an inspirational assault from Imelda, which I’ll briefly describe as a conversation where Imelda does the talking, and you keep your mouth shut and nod your head at all the appropriate moments, and generally try to look inspired as hell. Oh, you can try to ignore her, or argue, but I really don’t recommend it.

Katherine had a baffled look on her face.

“Okay,” Imelda said, sliding her feet back and forth like a boxer, “you got a client in jail. His trial might or might not start Friday. You got one lawyer laying on his ass, actin’ hurt. You got the other with a case of the self-moanies. At least you two’re alive. Least it ain’t neither of
you
iced up in one of them meat wagons parked out back. Right?”

I nodded enthusiastically and looked wildly inspired. Yes, yes, that’s right, Imelda. At least it’s not me.

Katherine looked even more bewildered. Wrong answer.

“You got a problem with this, girl?” Imelda barked, bending over and spitting her words into Katherine’s face. “You not hearing ol’ Imelda right?”

Katherine’s lips opened, but Imelda’s finger popped up right in front of her nose. Imelda’s face was now directly in front of Katherine’s, scrunched up in fury, and her eyes were sizzling.

“Don’t you talk,” she barked. “Don’t you dare talk. If it was me was your client, I’d shoot you two. I shit you not, girl. All this moanin’ an’ groanin’. Hmmph! Hmmmph!” she stomped a boot on the floor like she was crushing a bug.

Katherine’s eyes peeked over in my direction. She quietly observed me nodding my head so hard I was about to break my neck.
My
eyes, at least the one I could get open, communicated awed reverence.

As I said earlier, Katherine’s no dummy. She started nodding . . . weakly at first, then like a piston.

“All right, now.” Imelda spun on her heels and faced me. “I’m gonna get me a wheelchair and roll your bony ass outta here. Don’t let me hear no bitchin’ from you, boy. You ain’t hurt. You only
think
you’re hurt.”

Yes, yes, I only think so, I nodded. Forget these bruises and stitches and bandages. Figments of a fevered imagination.

She turned back and faced Katherine. “Forget about what happened yesterday, hear me? Focus on that boy in that cell. Let me and the major handle them South Koreans, got it?”

Katherine was nodding even more ferociously than I was. Her neck was snapping like a birch tree in a hurricane. I swear I saw saliva fly out of her mouth.

Of course, I then made an effort to look even more wildly inspired than her, and let me tell you, that’s not easy when your face is all swollen and bruised and you’re missing a front tooth. I looked like an overanxious Halloween pumpkin who just couldn’t wait for the big night.

I said, “Raring to go, Imelda. Hot damn! Can’t wait. Go get that damned wheelchair. Get me the hell out of here.”

She studied my face a moment, decided I was sufficiently galvanized, turned and examined Katherine, who was still jerking her head up and down. Instant and unquestioning obedience was all Imelda ever wanted, so she yanked up her trousers and stomped noisily out of the room, clicking her teeth and grunting curses, which was her way of expressing rabid satisfaction. She made the same sounds after polishing off a really good steak.

As soon as the door shut, there was the sound of two people letting a roomful of air out of their lungs.

“Jesus,” Katherine said, gently massaging her neck. “I never imagined. She’s so tiny.”

As for me, I was trying to get my damaged face to recover its normal expression of rubbery nonchalance. “Well, you asked for it,” I said. “Sitting there feeling sorry for yourself like that.”

“Attila,” she said, with a murderous look, “don’t go there.”

“Only kidding,” I replied, and I’ll be damned if she didn’t giggle.

Then I said, “Hey, Moonbeam, we got what, three days?”

“Three days. Right.”

“He was framed, right?”

“No question about it. Framed.”

I stretched out my hand and we shook.

I grinned and appeared completely sincere, but if you think I was buying it, you haven’t been paying attention. This was Katherine Carlson. I had to test the limits of our new partnership.

I grinned harder and said, “So, when were you gonna tell me about Frederick Melborne?”

Surprise popped onto her face. It quickly turned into a sly smile. “You found out about Fred, huh?”

“Yeah. Who is he? Really.”

“A crackerjack PI. He was once an Army officer. He knows how to get around and he specializes in gay cases.”

“Hah! Exactly what I figured from the start.”

She smiled. “Of course you did, Drummond, of course you did.”

“Well, I did,” I lied.

“Drummond, Fred had your number the instant he laid eyes on you. Christ, he had you so fooled I thought you were going to faint. You should have seen your face when you shook his hand that first night. He did that Liberace act and you sprinted over to the corner like a frightened squirrel.”

I felt a rush of blood to my face. “What? That was an act?”

“Of course it was an act.”

“Well, he
is
gay, isn’t he?”

“Of course he’s gay. He’s also quite macho. He was testing you.”

I guessed I hadn’t done real well on that test. Anyway, I wasn’t going to let her dwell on it. “So what was he doing?” I quickly asked. “Running background on Lee, Moran, and Jackson?”

“Just Lee. Moran’s an open book. Fred ran some checks with a number of OGMM members who’ve been assigned with him over the years, and they helped us compile a profile. A promiscuous male hunk, and an accomplished bar brawler, but he’s never beaten or threatened a lover. Appearances aside, he’s supposed to be a very tender lover. As for Jackson, he doesn’t matter. We judged him to be largely irrelevant. He was there that night, but we think he was bewildered by everything that went down. Lee No Tae is the key.”

“And what did Melborne find out?”

“Nothing.”

I gave her a dubious look. “Nothing?”

“I swear. Lee was never seen in any of the bars local gays frequent. He’d never dated anybody but Thomas. He never flirted with anybody, never got propositioned, never gave any hint he was gay.”

“But if he did, he probably ran with Korean gays, right? Maybe Fred was looking for love in all the wrong places.”

Forgive me for that, but I’d always wanted to use that line.

Katherine leaned back into her chair and shook her head. She was back to not getting my bad jokes. “Of course we considered that. Fred even hired some local PIs. He had them ask around with Lee’s high school and college classmates. He threw a pretty wide net.”

“Could Fred have been meeting with somebody that night in Itaewon? Maybe somebody found something?”

“Possibly. He liked to operate without my breathing down his back, so maybe.”

The door slammed open and Imelda reentered pushing a wheelchair with a cane hanging from it. I had to ask her and Katherine to give me a hand getting out of bed. Thankfully, I was wearing underpants, although to be perfectly technical, being naked in front of two lesbians probably isn’t a whole lot different than walking around a men’s locker room without a towel. Anyway, Imelda threw a hospital gown over me, then started wheeling me out.

That’s when Doc Bridges showed up. He blocked the doorway, crossed his arms, and said, “And where are we going?”

I said, “We’re leaving. Right now.”

He was shaking his head so I said, “By the way, have you met my attorney, Katherine Carlson? She’s a patients’ rights advocate. She’s here to see I get my way.”

In case you haven’t heard, there’s no love lost between doctors and lawyers. This is because doctors sometimes make mistakes and kill or maim people . . . and, well, you know how it goes.

Doc Bridges stared at Katherine like she was the bogeyman, and she bared her teeth at him once or twice for good measure. He politely nudged himself aside and yelled at the top of his voice, “Okay, I’ve given you my best medical advice. You’re leaving here of your own volition. Die of an infection and I’m legally absolved.”

As I passed him, he actually winked. A man after my own heart.

H
ere’s what intrigued me the most. What made that Korean cop commit seppuku? For those who don’t know, seppuku’s the Japanese version of suicide.

One scenario was the South Koreans were telling the truth — the cop saw one of the protesters pop off a round and lost his cool. He opened up, and then, once he saw me running up at him, he dropped his weapon and fled. The act of changing magazines gave him a moment to cogitate and realize that shooting wildly into a crowd was a very bad thing. During the time it took me to catch up with him he did some further thinking and realized he’d done not only a bad thing, but a stupid thing — he’d killed a slew of innocent people, he’d overreacted, and he was going to be in very big trouble. There was going to be an investigation that would bring great shame on himself, his badge, and his family. Then he found himself cornered and had no idea what an awful shot I am, so he figured he couldn’t get away and suicide was preferable to capture and everlasting shame.

Some Asians can be that way. The rite of suicide is an act of honor to purge some horribly disgraceful thing. Like killing a bunch of unarmed, innocent people — that would qualify.

Okay, that’s one scenario. Here’s another: The two shooters were a team. They weren’t firing in self-defense. They weren’t firing in the heat of the moment. They weren’t firing randomly. They were cold-bloodedly murdering as many Americans as they could, as swiftly as they could. They wanted to manufacture an atrocity. They wanted to get people’s attention.

But here’s the rub. Who’d do such a thing? The same people who tossed Melborne in front of a car? Or were the incidents unrelated?

Since I never much believed in random theories, I was assuming, just for the sake of argument, that both acts were done by the same people, which was why I was in my wheelchair on the road just outside the front gate of the Yongsan Garrison, with Imelda pushing me around as I pointed this way and that. I looked like a cranky old man with an even crankier nurse.

The road was closed and the massacre scene was fenced off with yellow tape. Korean and American military cops were climbing all over searching for clues. There were chalk-haloed silhouettes where yesterday real bodies had lain seeping their life’s fluids onto the tarmac. Their bloodstains were still visible in the concrete, and crushed and abandoned protest signs were strewn about, discarded in the moments of bald terror when two men with weapons were pumping round after round into the densely packed crowd.

I sat in my wheelchair and tried to recapture the stream of events that led up to the slaughter. In my head, there was a mass of protesters holding up signs, holding one another’s arms, breathlessly awaiting the confrontation. There was a platoon of riot policemen standing off to the left, the first group, the ones provided by the city to safeguard our “welcoming party.” Six buses were idling in front of us and police cars with flashing lights were arriving every few seconds. The line of riot police was clumping toward us — two steps forward, pause; two steps forward, pause; two steps forward — then only five feet away, a complete halt.

We were eye-to-eye: protesters and riot policemen totally, inexorably, fatefully fixated only on one another. Everybody — journalists, television cameramen, bystanders — had their eyes glued on the point of the confrontation. Everybody was staring anxiously at the narrow, tense fault line between the two sides. Nobody was paying attention to a shooter at the rear of the crowd or to two Korean cops who were choosing their killing roosts on opposite sides of the road. Hundreds of possible witnesses were blind to anything but the confrontation about to occur.