From the Publisher
Praise for Slicky Boys
“It’s great to have these two mavericks back. . . . Mr. Limón writes with gruff respect for the culture of Seoul and with wonderful bleak humor, edged in pain, about G.I. life in that exotic city.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“Combining the grim routine of a modern police procedural with the cliffhanging action of a thrilling movie serial, Slicky Boys is full of sharp observations and unexpected poignancy.”
—The Wall Street Journal
“There’s atmosphere to spare here and enough suspense to please. A colorful thriller.”
“An irresistible tale!”
“Two of the more memorable sleuths in the modern mystery canon.”
—The Cleveland Plain Dealer
“The writing is plain and sinewy, the characterizations are quietly brilliant and the moral vision is as cold as a Seoul bar girl’s gaze.”
Praise for the George Sueño and Ernie Bascom series
“Easily the best military mysteries in print today.”
"Brilliant—imbued with affecting characters, a morally knotty storyline, and a last chapter that just plain stuns."
—Maureen Corrigan, NPR, Best Crime Fiction of the Year
“Limón, who was stationed in Korea for the Army, writes with empathy for the Korean people as well for the young GIs dropped into a foreign culture.”
—The Boston Globe
“[Limón] vividly contrasts adventures in the seamy side of Seoul’s nightlife with a sensitive appreciation for Korea’s ancient culture.”
—The Seattle Times
“This series is a must not only for procedural fans, but also for anyone who enjoys crime fiction set in distinctive international locales.”
—Booklist, Starred Review
“[The Ville Rat’s] searing portrait of the sins of our recent past bids fair to transcend the genre.”
A smart combination of classic noir thriller and police procedural.
Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
Retired career military man Limn has fashioned a colorful second thriller (after Jade Lady Burning) that pits two U.S. Army CID cops against a brutal Korean crime ring. It's 1975, and George Sueo and Ernie Bascom are cruising Itaewon, the red-light district of Seoul. Sueo, the brains of the two, grew up in foster homes in East L.A., learned Korean quickly and isn't nearly as baffled as most of his fellow soldiers by the complex Korean customs: "Their culture was just another puzzle to unravel, like so many I'd faced when the County of Los Angeles moved me from home to home." Bascom, meanwhile, has found the Army a better home than the one he's left behind in Detroit. A Vietnam vet, he's a blaze of mad action and sexual energy. Sueo and Bascom penetrate a terrifyingly efficient gang of Korean criminalsthe "Slicky Boys"run by a crafty villain called Herbalist So, who never shows himself to foreigners, though he makes an exception for the two American cops. It's good that he does, because Sueo comes to rely on him for help in finding the killer of a small-time British thief. Limn is not the most fluent of storytellers: he scants character motivation and his dialogue can be stiff. But there's atmosphere to spare here, and enough suspense to please, as he assembles a cast of unusual folk and sets them spinning amidst the complexities of an occupied and divided land. (May)
In this novel of military intrigue, Limon (Jade Lady Burning, LJ 9/1/92) reveals Korea's dark underbelly. In Seoul, U.S. Army criminal investigation division agents George Sueo and Ernie Bascom work and carouse in the bar and brothel district called Itaewon. When a beautiful, mysterious Korean woman asks them to deliver a note to the British soldier who jilted her, they agree. Then the man is found murdered in an alley, and George and Ernie realize that they were used to lure the man to his death. Their investigation becomes a personal vendetta, and their own lives are imperiled as they are drawn into the world of the "slicky boys"a highly organized band of black marketeers operating (literally) underground in Seoul since the Korean War. Although action-packed, this is standard fare. A marginal purchase.Lori Dunn, Montgomery Cty. P.L., Troy, N.C.
Corporal George Sueño and Sergeant Ernie Bascom, scapegrace hotshots in the US Army's CID, join forces with the South Korean mob to bring a vicious murderer to book: a gritty, gripping follow- up to Limón's debut procedural (Jade Lady Burning, 1992).
When a British soldier is brutally murdered in mid-1970s Seoul, George (a savvy latino from East L.A. who's mastered the Korean language) and Ernie (a violence-prone Vietnam vet) maneuver frantically to get a piece of the investigative action; their ardor is attributable to the potentially embarrassing fact that an unidentified young woman had bribed them to pass the victim a note that sent him to his rendezvous with death. Once on the case, the two coupled sleuths realize they need more help than either the police or even their superiors can provide. At no small cost in blood and effort, George and Ernie make contact with the enigmatic eminence who controls the underworld organization known as the Slicky Boys. The crimelord (who calls himself the Herbalist So) sets them on a twisty path that leads through the capital city's flossier fleshpots and back alleys to the headquarters of the fledgling republic's seagoing service. Several homicides later, the NCOs discover that their man is not simply a black-market profiteer who killed out of panic. Indeed, dogged detective work reveals that he's a dangerous deserter from the American Navy who's probably selling military secrets to the Communist North. Cerebral George almost dies in a showdown confrontation with the cold-blooded turncoat for whom they've baited an irresistible trap, but Ernie (who lost round one to their quarry) drags himself from a hospital bed in time to get revenge and save his partner.
An above-average trackdown tale made memorable by dashes of local color as pungent as kimchee.
Read an Excerpt
After stomping through the snow to the 21 T-Car motor pool, Ernie flashed his badge and managed to get the keys to the jeep from the half-asleep dispatcher. Twenty-one T-Car is a military acronym that actually means 21st Transportation Company (Car), which maybe makes a little more sense.
Despite the frigid air, the motor started right away. Ernie grinned.
"Amazing what a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black will do for an engine."
The bottle went every month to the head dispatcher who made sure the jeep was properly maintained and always available when Ernie needed it.
We drove through the gate and out into the city.
All vehicles were off the street now because it was past curfew, the midnight-to-four lockup the government slapped on a battered populace over twenty years ago at the end of the Korean War. The theory is that it helps the authorities spot North Korean spies who might be prowling through the cover of night. The truth is that it reminds everybody who's boss. The government and the army. Not necessarily in that order.
We rolled through the shadows.
Seoul was dark and eerily quiet and looked like a town that had been frozen to death.
The jeep had four-wheel drive and snow tires, but still Ernie slid on the packed ice every now and then. He turned out of the skids expertly and I felt perfectly safe with him at the wheel. Safer than I would've felt if I were driving. He's from Detroit. He's used to this kind of thing. But I hadn't learned how to drive until after I joined the army and, in East L.A., where I come from, it doesn't snow very often. Only during Ice Ages.
I thought of the long summer days when Iwas a kid, running with packs of half-wild Mexican children through alleys littered with gutted mattresses and stray dogs and broken wine bottles. There were no swimming pools in the barrio. We poured buckets of chlorine-laced water over our heads in a futile effort to keep cool. And during the hottest days of the season, when I was fortunate enough to land a job, I breathed in the tang of warm oranges and overripe limes fermenting in a metal pail as I knocked on door after door in Anglo neighborhoods, hustling for a sale.
Every kilometer or so we were stopped by a ROK Army roadblock. The soldiers looked grim and tired. Their breath billowed from fur-lined hoods and they kept their M16 rifles pointed at the sky, which was okay with me. After we showed our identification and the twenty-four-hour emergency dispatch, they waved us through without comment.
Neither Ernie nor I talked. We were both thinking the same thing. We were in deep kimchi, the fiery-hot fermented cabbage and turnips that Koreans love. Kimchi up to our nostrils.
We'd taken money to deliver a note to Cecil Whitcomb, and now he was dead. Military justice doesn't know much about mercy. If anybody found out, we'd be kicked out of the army with a bad discharge or end up doing time in the Federal Penitentiary in Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, or both.
This wasn't going to be a routine case.
I was also beginning to feel a little guilty about maybe getting Whitcomb killed. Maybe a lot guilty. But I decided to put that away for now. I needed to think. And concentrate on the job I had to do when we arrived at the murder site.
Despite all the boozing we'd done in Itaewon, Ernie and I were both sober. But it wasn't from the cold air. It was from the tarantula legs of fear slowly creeping up our spines.