Free Slicky Boys by Martin Limon Page B

Fred’s been here, about four, they’ve always written in a three-point-five-percent theft loss in the budgets. Why? Because that’s what they’ve been using as far back as he knows about. Almost to the Korean War. What does it actually run? You already know that. Right about four percent.”
    “Every year?”
    “Every goddamn year.”
    “But that’s a lot of compounds. At least fifty, scattered all over Korea. And a lot of equipment and supplies that vary from year to year.”
    “Can’t argue with that,” Riley said. “But somehow the theft losses run almost exactly four percent every year.”
    “Any ideas why?”
    Riley sipped on his coffee. “Sure.”
    “Spell ‘em out.”
    He watched Ernie and Miss Kim for a minute. They’d tossed aside their swizzle sticks and were now dipping their fingers into the coffee. That wasn’t so bad. It’s when they started to lick one another’s fingertips that it became sort of ridiculous.
    Riley growled. “You two want to tongue each other to death, fine. But do it on your own time.”
    Miss Kim turned as red as a silk banner on Chinese New Year’s. She reached into her in-basket, grabbed some paperwork, and started fumbling with her typewriter. Ernie sucked off the coffee that remained on his fingertips and stared at her. Smiling. A coyote admiring a chicken.
    Riley looked back at me. “Spell ‘em out? Okay. Koreans are highly organized. They have been for four thousand years. Nothing they do is freelance. Goes against their nature. Whatever it is, it’s got to be done in a group. It might be slaughtering innocent villagers or planting roses for the spring but whatever it is, it’s okay as long as it’s approved by a group and done by a group.”
    “So the thievery’s organized?”
    “Beyond the shadow of a doubt.”
    “Gangs.”
    “I wouldn’t call them gangs, Sueño. More sophisticated than that.”
    “But they must get into it every now and then. Like in East L.A. turf battles. The low-riders from one barrio going at it against the low-riders from another barrio.”
    “No. Never.”
    “No dead vatos? How do they pull that off?”
    “Central authority.”
    “For all of Eighth Army’s activities all over the country?”
    “Right,” he said. “How else do you figure they keep the entire take down to four percent? Everything they steal is pre-approved by a central authority.”
    I sat quietly, letting that sink in. “Why wouldn’t somebody realize this before? And do something about it?”
    Riley shrugged. “All of us Americans are here on a one-year tour. A few more, if we extend. It takes a while to find out about this stuff. The Korean slicky boys don’t exactly advertise. And it would take a lot longer than a year to do anything about it. By that time, all you’re thinking about is going home. So far, nobody’s had the gumption to rock the boat. Not only could it be dangerous to your health but think about it for a minute, we budget for it. The U.S. Government has plenty of money to fight the Communist threat. The American taxpayer is an endless source of wealth. So what’s to worry?” He shrugged.
    “And that’s why the slicky boys keep theft down to just above the budgeted amount?”
    “Sure. Nobody notices. The honchos at the head shed don’t get upset. Everything’s going according to plan.”
    He picked up his coffee mug and drained the last of the stagnant fluid. When he set it down he looked at me. “You’re slow, George. But not hopeless.”
    Down the hallway, the First Sergeant barked into his phone. Just a matter of time until he started in on us, and I didn’t feel like answering any of his questions.
    I thanked Riley and gave him a thumbs-up. When I policed up Ernie, I almost had to drag him away from Miss Kim. She pouted and didn’t look very happy about him leaving.
    To find shelter from the cold we made our way over to the 8th Army Snack Bar. Inside the welcoming warmth of the huge Quonset hut, we filled two