Sweat

by Mark Gilleo

  The cars snaked in single file, each one stopping at the temporary stop signs erected amidst the sea of jersey walls. Detectives Wallace and Nguyen flashed their badges to the Capitol Police officers who manned the roadblock with a level of seriousness rarely displayed by government employees. The one-way streets near the Capitol and its surrounding buildings were already a tourist’s nightmare, and when the national terrorist warning level hit orange, roads started shutting down, sealing off the end of the maze where the cheese was stored.

  “Streets around here open and close like a stripper’s blouse,” Detective Wallace said, easing on the accelerator.

  “That’s the world we live in. Someone finds a few computer disks in a terrorist safe house in Pakistan, and the next thing you know you can’t drive your car around the block.”

  The detectives pulled into the back lot of the Hart Senate Building, showed their badges again, and approached the entrance to the building and the main security booth. A courtesy nod from the man behind the glass let the officers bypass the line of constituents waiting to be frisked on their way to see their duly elected public officials.

  “I’ve never been in here before,” Nguyen said, embarrassed.

  “It’s just another building. I was here for a day about seven years ago. Some woman took a dive off the balcony in the atrium. Made a nasty mess on the marble floor.”

  “Suicide?”

  “It appeared that way. The woman was from Arkansas somewhere. Came to see her senator complaining about carcinogens in the water near her house. Twelve people in her neighborhood had come down with a rare form of leukemia, including her son.”

  “A cancer cluster.”

  “Yes. She had been blown off by everyone—her local politicians, the EPA, and finally her state senators.”

  “I guess she got the last word in.”

  “That she did. But I bet the blood on the floor was easier to clean than whatever was making people sick in her neighborhood.”

  Nguyen approached the end of the hall and stopped at the foot of the stairs. “Can you make it to the third floor, old man?”

  “’Old man’ my ass. Keep moving,” Wallace responded. If he were by himself, he damn sure would have taken the elevator.

  Wallace breathed hard with every step. The name of every state in the union was carved in the walls of the stairway, a star at the beginning and ending of each name. Nguyen ran his fingers across them as he ascended.

  “Taxation without representation,” Nguyen said.

  “What?”

  “Taxation without representation. One of the tenets this country went to war over. Two hundred and some years later and we are still being taxed without representation here in D.C.”

  “I guess,” Wallace answered.

  “You don’t agree?”

  “I don’t really care. Having a senator doesn’t mean the citizens of D.C. would pay less taxes. Hell, we would probably end up paying more taxes. I figure if you are that hell-bent on having a senator, move to Maryland or Virginia. No senator has ever saved a state, and they sure as hell wouldn’t save the District.”

  The detectives stopped at the brown door with the Massachusetts state seal plastered on the lower third panel. A glass window with black writing further indicated they had arrived at their destination.

  “After you,” Nguyen said, right hand extended.

  Dana and the senator’s bowtie-wearing page were standing at the main desk, banging on the side of the computer monitor when the detectives came in.

  “Good morning.”

  “Good morning, how may I help you?” Dana asked, looking up with her hands still on the desk, offering a nice cleavage shot to the D.C. detectives.

  Wallace forced himself to stay focused on her blue eyes. “We are detectives with the D.C. Police, First District. We would like to have a word with the senator.”

  “And what is this in reference to?” Doug the Page said, before Dana could interject her mindlessness.

  “We think the senator may have information that could help with an ongoing investigation.”

  “Are you saying the senator has been the victim of a crime?”

  “No, we are not saying that.”

  “Is the senator a suspect in an ongoing investigation? If he is, I assure you he will want legal representation present before answering any questions,” the sniveling page pontificated. After the AWARE fiasco, the page had endured a long lecture on how to protect the senator from unwanted guests. The page tried to sound tough, tried to flex his legalese. Detective Wallace was unfazed.

  “It is nothing of that nature. It will only take a minute.”

  The page looked at the detectives as if considering the career impact of the request. “I’ll see if the senator is available.”

  “Thank you.” ***

  The senator’s head pounded and he gave his temples a brief massage with his index fingers. The detectives came through the door and the senator sprang to life. “Please, please come in, detectives.” Handshakes and introductions followed, and the detectives accepted seats in matching high back chairs at the senator’s beckoning.

  The detectives glanced around the room from their seats, and Senator Day let the spell from the magic of the room cast down on his visitors. The detectives were unaffected by the room, the senator, the aura of the building, and the view from the perch overlooking the Mall.

  “Senator, if I may be so bold as to get straight down to business,” Wallace said.

  “Please.”

  “We understand you made a recent trip to Saipan with a man named Peter Winthrop.”

  “Peter. Yes. We went in May. The second week in May, I believe.”

  Wallace scribbled in his little spiral notebook. “How was the trip?”

  “Great. Beautiful island. Wonderful people.”

  “Did you have any trouble? Anything out of the ordinary happen?”

  At the mere mention of trouble on the island, the senator started to sweat beneath his shirt. A combination of frayed nerves and his body’s desire to expel last evening’s alcohol. He thought about the girl with his child. Everything about the trip to the island was trouble. The senator tried to clear Wei Ling’s face from his mind and focus on the room, on the detectives.

  “No, nothing out of the ordinary. It was a quick trip. In and out in thirty-six hours.” The senator fidgeted in his chair before continuing. “Well, actually we did have one small incident…”

  “My chief-of-staff had a waterskiing mishap. He has been out of the office on medical leave. Started with ACL reconstructive surgery and has moved on to a staph infection. He has been helping out as best he can via phone, but this is Washington, and out of sight is out of mind. It has been crazy here without him.”

  “How large is your staff?”

  “Thirty in total. But ten of those are in the office in Boston. There are twelve here full-time in the Senate Building. The rest are in a two-room office off Independence Avenue, south of the Capitol. Space is limited here on The Hill. I have a speech writer and communications group on one side of the suite, and on the other side are a few legislative assistants so nothing falls through the cracks.”

  Detective Wallace produced the photo of the six men in front of Chang Industries. “Do you recognize the man on the right?”

  “I don’t remember his name, but he works for Lee Chang, the owner of the factory we visited. I called him the ‘Mountain of Shanghai’ because of his size.”

  “The Mountain of Shanghai?” Nguyen repeated.

  “What did he do for this guy…this Lee Chang?” Wallace asked.

  “I guess he’s Lee Chang’s right-hand man. Drives, handles employee relations.”

  “Does he speak English?” Nguyen asked.

  “Yes, quite well. Speaks with a slight British accent on some words, which I thought was odd.”

  “Do you know anything else about him?”

  “No, why?”

  “Any idea why he may be in D.
C.?”

  “None. Is he?”

  “We have reason to believe he is in the city.”

  “And what do you guys want with him?”

  “We want to ask him a few questions.”

  “Well, I don’t know what he is doing here. He could be here on business. Have you spoken with Peter Winthrop? He could probably tell you more about him.”

  “We have contacted Mr. Winthrop and he was out of town. He is still on our list of people to speak with.”

  “I can make a few calls and see if I can’t get his name for you.”

  “That would be great, sir,” Nguyen answered.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of further help,” the senator said, rising from his chair hoping the detectives would take the hint.

  “Thank you for your time. If you think of anything else about this individual, please give us a call.”

  “I will,” Senator Day said. “Could I keep this picture, detective? Maybe it will jog my memory.”

  “It’s all yours.”

  Senator Day showed his guest through the door and past Dana and the page. It was obvious the senator’s helpers had been straining to hear the conversation in the inner office chamber. With the guests safely in the confines of the elevator on their way to the first floor, the senator looked at the picture of Chow Ying and called Dana and the page into his office.

  “Is the man on the right the same man who dropped the envelope off last week, before our little encounter with the AWARE group?”

  “No,” the page answered.

  “Are you sure?” the senator asked again.

  “Yes, sir. I am sure. The man who dropped the envelope off for you last week was average size. This guy is huge. I definitely would have remembered him.”

  “You’d better be right. I have taken all the surprises I can handle for one term.”

  The page took the insult to heart. Then he tried to be helpful. “By the way, sir. Rumor has it that the AWARE group is going to keep protesting right through the week. Just so you know.”

  “Thanks, Doug. That is just wonderful fucking news.” ***

  Detective Wallace flashed his badge to the departing mailman who held the door open for the two officers. Inside, Wallace stopped in the small landing at the front of the building, looked up the stairs, and then back at Nguyen. With a completely straight face Wallace asked, “No elevator? I already went up one flight of stairs today.”

  “Sarge, you need an exercise program,” Nguyen answered, sliding by his partner and starting upward.

  “I already have one,” Wallace answered, head down as he lifted each leg.

  “What exercise program is that?”

  “Trying to avoid my wife.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “It’s tough. She has pretty good aim throwing things around the house, and I’m not as quick as I used to be. She’s angry because I’ve gained two pounds a year, for twenty-some years. She claims she doesn’t remember hearing ‘for fatter, for thinner’ in our wedding vows.”

  “Two pounds a year?”

  “Like clockwork.”

  “Slow and steady, heh?” Nguyen said, with perfect respiration, legs moving in an easy tempo.

  “That’s my motto.”

  The stairs broke a moment of silence, creaking in pain as Wallace followed in the younger detective’s wake. Nguyen reached the fourth floor and looked back down at Wallace. The twenty-two-year veteran with a growing waistline was grasping the banister in an effort to both pull himself up and prevent himself from falling back.

  “The exercise program starts next year, with my New Year’s Resolution,” Wallace managed through a thick cough.

  “It’s July.”

  “I know. Remember what I said, ‘slow and steady.’ I don’t like rushing things.”

  Nguyen knocked on the door with three hard thuds. A few seconds passed before Wallace tried his special if-you-knock-loud-enough-someone-will-answer-even-if-they-are-not-home technique.

  “I’m coming,” a voice said, agitated. The Wallace Theory proved correct again. He smiled at Nguyen who shook his head at the immature, albeit effective, approach of his mentor. Wallace pounded once more for good measure.

  “I said I was coming, you don’t have to be such an asshole,” the voice said as it approached the foyer.

  Robert Plant Everett, bong smoker extraordinaire and son of the self-proclaimed biggest Led Zeppelin fan ever, opened his apartment door and a visible cloud of smoke billowed out. Wallace and Nguyen turned and stared in disbelief at the lifelong student peering out through the haze. Door open, it registered in Robert’s rusted cerebrum that the visitors were pounding on his neighbor’s apartment. “Jake isn’t home,” Robert said, with long stretched syllables, a common speech impediment of a daily toker.

  “Do you know where we can reach him?” Wallace asked, taking a step toward the neighbor’s door.

  “That depends. What do you want him for?” Robert asked, eyes bouncing slowly from Wallace to Nguyen and back to Wallace. A mix of smells, none of which were appealing, poured from the apartment. A lava lamp cast a slowly flickering shadow that nudged against the doorframe. Nguyen stepped to the other side of Wallace and peeked into the stoner’s paradise. It was impossible to tell whether the twice-baked neighbor kept a bowl burning in his apartment or whether the smell was just “cannabis cling,” smoke impregnated into the neighbor from years of abuse.

  Wallace pulled out his badge and shoved it in Robert’s face. The quick flash of the shield was too fast for the veteran stoner, and Robert’s brain tried to process what his eyes had just seen.

  Wallace didn’t wait for a reply. “Where is he?” the detective asked.

  “Where is who?’ Robert asked.

  “Jake Patrick. Apartment 4-A,” Wallace answered.

  “He’s not home.”

  “We already covered this ground, bright eyes. Where is he?”

  “He said he was going to be away for a few days. Said he had something to take care of.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “Out of town, I guess.”

  “When did he leave?” Nguyen asked, perturbed.

  “What day is it?”

  “Monday.”

  “Then he left yesterday,” Robert said, trying to sound straight.

  “When will he be back?”

  “Wednesday, I think. He gave me his fish bowl and asked me to feed his fish while he was gone.”

  “You two friends?”

  “Nahhhhh. But Jake seems like an all right dude. For someone who doesn’t really party,” Robert added, once again no longer conscious of his audience’s profession.

  Wallace looked at Nguyen. Let it go, just let it go, he thought, hoping Nguyen would read his mind. ***

  Vincent DiMarco watched the white van turn left at the end of the road leading to Chang Industries, followed by the rumbling of two, five-ton trucks, shaking the ground, stirring up a cloud of dirt and bugs. DiMarco’s rental car was littered with surveillance mainstays: binoculars, grease-stained fast food bags, an assortment of coffee cups and soft drink cans. He was a man of habits, and in the hours he spent on surveillance, DiMarco drank his caffeine, chewed his gum, and smoked his cigarettes—all with equal passion.

  He sweated through three shirts a day, and the smell of perspiration and bad food in the car was growing rancid. Worse still, DiMarco was becoming immune to his own funkiness. He had briefly visited the stage where he could smell himself and he knew he stunk. He was now at the point where he knew he reeked, but smelled nothing. It was all downhill from there. He could step in a pile of fresh dung and it wouldn’t affect him in the least. The population of indigenous flies was enjoying the Wop from Boston like a rotten-flesh buffet.

  The small park with a semi-unobstructed view of Chang Industries was one of three famous suicide spots on Saipan. During WWII, when the Japanese knew that the U.S. offensive on the island wasn’t going to end with the honor of victory, the cliffs earne
d the nickname that has haunted them for half a century.

  Facing impending doom, ruthless Japanese soldiers convinced the local population that the Americans would torture, rape, pillage, and burn. Believing that a certain and most unpleasant end was at hand, the island’s population—a mix of Pacific Islanders with a history of Spanish, German, and Japanese colonization—started throwing themselves from the top of what are now called “suicide cliffs.” When the bodies stopped raining and the waves below washed away the crimson evidence, twenty thousand islanders had killed themselves. Those residents who had resisted suicide of their own volition were simply thrown off the cliffs by the Japanese military. By comparison, twenty-four thousand Japanese soldiers and three thousand American G.I.s had died in the weeklong battle for the island.

  DiMarco stood and for the hundredth time read the landmark sign identifying the cliffs and their infamy. He threw away his coffee cup in the green basket trashcan that buzzed with two-winged activity and looked over the edge of the cliffs with an extended neck.

  Surveillance was boring but necessary, and the isolation of the cliffs was perfect for staying low. The oppressive heat kept most tourists at the beach, away from the scorching sun. And when the odd tourist or history buff did infringe on his activities, DiMarco got out of his car and headed down the narrow trail that lead to an even smaller scenic overlook. The trail was narrow and treacherous enough to scare a billy goat, much less beachcomber tourists in flip-flops. A ten-minute walk by DiMarco was usually enough time for the crowds to move on.

  Now armed with a photocopied picture of Lee Chang liberated from the circulation stack at the local library, DiMarco kept his eyes glued to the back end of his binoculars. On his fifth day of surveillance, the Bostonian from Southie realized Lee Chang wasn’t coming out, and even if he did, he certainly wasn’t coming out with the girl. He had noted the two guards on duty during the day, and the team of four that patrolled the lot at night. The girls who worked in the factory walked from the building on the left in the morning, and returned at night. There was little else to see, with one exception. For the fifth day in a row, he watched the white van arrive, the driver retreating into the smallest building on the company grounds. The van and its driver left an hour later. It was a routine repeated three times a day—morning, noon, and night.