Battalion, commonly referred to as the Triple Nickels. A week later he had telephoned Madden and driven a jeep up to the battalion CP to drink over old times. That night the Chinese broke through the Korean division up north and before they had a chance to realize what was going on the Reds were swarming all over the area.
The rest of the war was spent in various prison camps in North Korea. The communists never did find out that Hazzard was an intelligence officer, and had assumed that he was just another artillery captain. The war came to an end and Hazzard was sent back through Panmunjom where the prisoner-of-war exchange was taking place. From here he was sent to St. Luke's Army Hospital in Tokyo.
Three days later he received two of the biggest shocks of his life, one after the other. The first one came when the doctor had informed him that he had tuberculosis. The second shock came in the afternoon when he had a visit from a major in the Adjutant General's office. As an intelligence officer in possession of certain knowledge vital to the security of the United States, he had placed himself in a position where he had fallen into the hands of the enemy. This was something that he had been continuously warned about since arriving in the Far East. The government was now preparing charges against him, which, if investigation showed that he had collaborated with the enemy in any form whatsoever, would lead to a general court-martial.
Everything had finally come out all right, but not until after he had sweat out six months at Fitzsimons Army Hospital in Denver. The government had dropped all charges, and the ward doctor had told him that all traces of tuberculosis had cleared up completely under medication. There would be no operation necessary. Another six months of hospitalization ended with Hazzard being retired from the service with a monthly pension.
He took an apartment in Denver, bought a second-hand car and spent a hell-bending three months of tom-catting through the Rocky Mountains. The day finally came when all of the money he had saved during his year in the hospital was only a memory. It was time to think about doing something serious.
Learning that he had four years of schooling coming to him under the GI Bill of Rights, he decided to return to Japan and study both Japanese and karate, something which both time and money had prevented him from doing before.
Four years went by, four years of intense Japanese language study and full-time karate lessons. He had thrown himself into each of these with a passion, and now he was considered fluent in the language, and a deadly weapon in karate.
It was then that he had conceived the idea of opening up a private detective agency in Tokyo. He would be the only foreigner in the business, and his knowledge of both the language and karate would insure him of a steady clientele. It had been a pregnant idea, but the result was stillborn.
Hazzard still longed for the excitement and thrill of the dangers and brain-taxing challenge that his life as an intelligence officer had offered, but a foreign private detective in Japan was something that astounded the government officials. The main reason seemed to be that it had never been done before, and to the Oriental mind this was enough to keep Hazzard from getting a license.
It had taken six months, tons of paper work, miles of red tape, and countless interviews with polite but obstinate officials before he was allowed to go into business. He had so many restrictions on what he could and could not do that it hardly seemed worthwhile, but after going through all the red tape and constant frustrations, he had decided to stick it out. With his license had come a warning, very polite, but a warning—one mistake and he was out of business.
He thought over the last few months that he had been in business, the complete absence of clients, and of the steadily mounting pile of bills that lay unpaid on his desk. It was beginning to look like he would never have a chance to make a mistake before Private Eye Hazzard folded up.
His apartment, the office, and food took most of his pension, leaving him only a few thousand yen every month to buy an occasional beer with. Everything else was on a 'catch-me-if-you-can' payment basis. When the mail came it was always from people asking for payments on something or other. When the phone rang it was the same people; they were sorry to bother him, but when was he going to pay. He hated to owe money to anyone, but he was now being slowly squeezed by the vise of bankruptcy and he could think of no possible way to pay off his creditors.
If something did not come up within the next few months, he knew that he would have to leave the country and return to the United States. He would never be able to renew his visa in Japan with a bankruptcy behind him. He could only wait, hope, and worry. In this business you did not go out and grab customers in off the street, you could only advertise and sit waiting for the phone to ring or the door to open. If there was a list of first-class jerks in the world somewhere, Hazzard figured that his name was probably at the top.
The sound of raised voices cut into his thoughts from outside the door. Someone was talking in rapid, angry Japanese. It was a man's voice in high-pitched falsetto, and Michiko was 'sumimasen-ing' him to death. The aspirins were late, the racket was pressing on his already splitting skull, and Hazzard did not like the tone of the man's voice. He was just about to go out and tell the man to take a flying leap at the moon when he heard the outer door slam and Michiko appeared, as unruffled as ever, with the box of aspirin in her hand.
"Here, aspirin," she said and handed the box to Hazzard as she continued on to the sink for a glass of water.
"Who was that you were talking to?" he asked.
"Oh, I do not know. Just some man asking for money."
"Another bill collector," Hazzard said out loud. He looked up at her almond eyes and she smiled gayly back. "Michiko, why do you keep working for such a stupid boss?"
This was a question she dared not answer, and all she could manage was a widening of her eyes and a small, "Eh?"
Hazzard opened the box of aspirin. There were only three little white pills left. He took the glass of water from Michiko and swallowed all of them.
"You know, Michiko," he said in a reflective mood. "Tokyo needs an American private detective like I need another hole in the head. In business for six months and the only client we've had was that little old German lady who wanted me to find her lost poodle." He got up and walked to the window. The knot on the back of his head started to ache again, and he could see down the street to where he had met 'Scarface and company' the night before. Then half to himself he muttered, "And then last night I get worked over in the alley. Why?"
Michiko's puzzled voice came from behind him, "Worked over?"
Hazzard was forever explaining the meaning of odd phrases in English to Michiko and other people he ran into in his wanderings around Tokyo, but this time he decided it better to evade the question.
"Oh, never mind, you wouldn't understand." He saw the pouting look of disappointment on Michiko's face, and quickly added, "Well, Lotus Blossom, I think I still have enough loose change to take us both to lunch. It will probably be the last meal either of us will ever eat, so we might as well make the most of it."
The expression on Michiko's face changed to smiles and girlish glee. Hazzard reached out and brushed back a curl that had fallen over Michiko's forehead. She seemed to like this, and leaned forward. Then the telephone rang. Hazzard cursed to himself. He did not know whether Alexander Graham Bell had intended it that way or not, but his gadget seemed to have an uncanny way of screwing things up in a royal fashion.
"It's for you," Michiko said as she handed him the phone.
Putting his hand over the mouthpiece, Hazzard whispered, "Who is it?"
This brought the famous Oriental answer, a wide-eyed smiling shrug.
