Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 49, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2004

Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 49, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2004

The Cold Yellow Sea by Martin Limón

Freezing outside an Asian brothel in the middle of the night with a cold rain blowing in off the Yellow Sea is enough to make even the most dedicated investigator ponder the worth of a career in military law enforcement. Fabulous pay and benefits. Fun, travel, and adventure. Three hots and a cot. And if President Ford was to be believed, a raise that would bring my corporal’s pay all the way up to four hundred and fifty dollars per month by the end of this fiscal year.

Wow.

The wet pellets slapping my face suddenly didn’t sting so badly. Still, I shuffled deeper into the shadows beneath an overhanging eave.

My name is George Sueño. I’m an investigator for the Criminal Investigation Division of the 8th United States Army stationed in Seoul, Republic of Korea. Tonight my partner, Ernie Bascom, and I were after an M.P. gone bad. Last we heard, he was shacked up inside Building Number 36 in this maze of narrow alleys known as the Yellow House. Down the lane, light flickered out of large plate-glass windows. Behind those windows sat groups of Korean women in flimsy negligees, waiting for the foreign sailors who periodically invade this port known as Inchon on the western coast of Korea on the edge of the Yellow Sea. Merchant marines from all over the world — Greece, the Philippines, Japan, Holland, Sweden, and even the United States — are regular customers here.

The local U.S. military contingent is not huge. Just one transportation company that trucks supplies from the Port of Inchon to the capital city of Seoul and one platoon of Military Police to provide security for the duty-free shipments.

A door slammed. A tall, dark figure emerged from the foot of the stairwell just outside the glow of the plate-glass window. Then I saw someone behind him, a girl, bowing, telling him in a nice way, Thanks for the money but now it’s time for you to get lost. The tall man didn’t acknowledge her farewell. He turned, shoved his hands into his pockets, and strode toward the alley.

As he passed the light of the big window I caught a glimpse of his face. Dark eyes, pug nose, heavy stubble of an eight-hour beard. Our quarry. The M.P. gone bad: Buck Sergeant Lenny Dubrovnik.

Ernie was on the other side of Building 36, making sure Dubrovnik didn’t slip out the back. My .45 sat snugly in the shoulder holster beneath my armpit but I didn’t expect to have to use it. Dubrovnik knew the deal. He was a G.I. in Korea. Once you’re busted, there’s nowhere to run. The peninsula is surrounded on three sides by choppy seas. The only land route, across the Demilitarized Zone, is guarded by four hundred thousand ROK soldiers on the south and seven hundred thousand Communist soldiers on the north. And all international ports of embarkation are monitored with a degree of efficiency that only a militarized police state can provide.

As Dubrovnik approached, I stepped out of the shadows, showing my badge.

“Hold it right there, Sarge,” I said. “The game’s up. Take your hands out of your pockets and assume the position.”

Dubrovnik came to a halt on the flagstone steps, glanced at my badge and then at my face. His eyes seem baffled for a moment and then his lips began to curl.

“Alone?” he asked.

I should’ve told him I had a squad of M.P.’s lurking right around the corner. The least I should’ve told him was that Ernie would be here in a matter of seconds. But Dubrovnik was an M.P. himself and cops always claim that we can make any bust by ourselves. Backup’s not necessary. So instead of telling him what I should’ve told him, that he had nowhere to run and I could claim the entire weight of the 8th United States Army as my backup, I made my first mistake of the evening: I let pride take over.

I looked Dubrovnik straight in the eye and shrugged. As if to say, Go ahead, Charlie, try it if you’ve got the nerve.

My shoulder had barely lowered when Dubrovnik turned and darted away.

I let out a yell. Incoherent, but I knew it would be enough to alert Ernie. And then I was running down the narrow pathway. Past the three- and four-story buildings that lined either side of the lane. Past the women sitting in the well-lit rooms behind the large windows, gazing out at us, their mouths half open.

Dubrovnik turned a corner. I skidded after him. Dubrovnik turned another corner, winding away from Building 36. The district known as the Yellow House was actually about two city blocks square. The entire area was composed of one pedestrian alley turning into another, winding around like a maze, brothel upon brothel, no vehicles allowed.