The Ville Rat (A Sergeants Sueño and Bascom Novel) by Martin Limon

Author:Martin Limon [Limon, Martin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Crime Fiction / Mystery
Publisher: Soho Press
Published: 2015-10-06T05:00:00+00:00

-9-

“What a waste of garlic,” Ernie said.

Ernie and I occasionally frequented a joint in Itaewon that specialized in dengsim gui, roast flank steak. The thinly sliced meat was placed on a brazier in the center of the table and side dishes were served—cabbage kimchi and diced turnip in hot sauce and small saucer-sized plates of fresh garlic. Most people roasted a clove or two to add flavor to the meat, but Ernie emptied the plate onto the grill and popped the burnt garlic into his mouth like peanuts, washing them down with shot glasses of soju rice liquor, and before we’d finished our meal Ernie’d polished off two or three plates of garlic, much to the surprise of our waitress.

The next day, Ernie would show up at the CID detachment in his neatly pressed uniform, clean shaven, shoes polished, hair combed—looking like the squared-away soldier in a recruiting poster—but as he paraded around the office, people would start sniffing the air. “What’s that smell?” someone would say. Oblivious, Ernie went about his business, caring not one whit that his pores were emitting the odor of the pungent herb he’d so gleefully consumed the night before.

Which explained his current air of bereavement. The garlic truck was a burnt-out shell.

“How do you know this is the right truck?” I asked.

Mr. Kill guided us around to the front. A singed license plate matching the one Ernie had snagged was still legible. About twenty yards away, across a beach of rough pebbles, the Han River flowed serenely. We were about two hundred yards north of the Chamsu Bridge in an area that at night would be dark and isolated. Someone had poured gasoline onto the truck, set it on fire, and hoofed it back to the main road where a confederate presumably stood by to whisk the arsonist away. In which direction? Into the heart of the city of Seoul, or south across the bridge to the Seoul-Pusan Expressway that could carry them almost anywhere in country? We had no way of knowing.

“Will you find the owner of the truck?” I asked.

“We already have,” Mr. Kill told me. “A produce shipping company. One of their oldest and most reliable drivers was waylaid after picking up a load of garlic. Two toughs he’d never seen before threatened him with a knife and dropped him far in the countryside. He had to walk back to civilization, but even then he was too frightened to report the theft to the police.”

“But he’s talking now?”

“We convinced him.”

“Do you believe his story?”

“Yes, he’s a family man who’d have nothing to gain by murdering an American CID agent.”

“Glad to hear it,” Ernie said. “Can he identify the thieves?”

“He’s with the sketch artist now. But they stuck a knife to his throat. He was too panicked to be very observant.”

I knew Mr. Kill would do everything possible to glean any clues this truck might yield, but we both knew that he’d probably hit a dead end. The guys who’d tried to kill us seemed professional.

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