Sweat (27 page)

“I knew you would come to your senses and see it my way,” Mr. Sorrentino said before Jake finished.

Jake started over. “I will agree to stop seeing Kate on one condition…”

Nguyen rode shotgun as Wallace drove the car through Chinatown. A picture of Chow Ying rested on Detective Nguyen's lap. He took intermittent glances at the photo on his thighs and looked at the faces on the street. Beyond the stereotypes, there was truth to the fact that Nguyen could look at another Asian and tell where they were from. As an Asian, he simply had an advantage in identifying and recognizing other Asians. Slight differences in the shape of the face distinguished the features of Northern Asians from their distant evolutionary kin in the south. The shape of the eyes was a second indicator of origin. And if facial features weren't a dead giveaway, clothes and hairstyles were.

“I don't like Chinatown,” Detective Wallace said, behind the wheel for the first time since unofficially partnering with Nguyen. “It smells.”

“What do you mean it smells? Just what smell is that, Sergeant?”

“It smells like Chinese food. Fish. Whatever. It just stinks.”

“Be thankful it's not ‘Koreatown.' Talk about a smell that will knock your socks off.”

“My wife would warn against knocking my socks off, but that's a different kind of stench altogether.”

“Could have gone all year without knowing that.”

Wallace turned the cruiser north, crawling past a new restaurant on the corner called Wok n' Roll. The line snaked out the door, past a Beijing-style basement bodega. Two floors above, a sign for the now-defunct D.C. Police Asian Liaison Unit hung on the wall, the lettering faded by the sun. Wallace nodded toward the building and Nguyen grunted an acknowledgement as he continued checking the faces of a group of Asians strolling in the crosswalk.

Wallace began giving Nguyen an unsolicited lesson in local law enforcement history. “You know, Chinatown used to be a lot wilder. When I first started, the police came down here for the occasional late night raid. They had mini-casinos on the tops of some of these restaurants. Four or five dozen Chinese guys would be in there—betting, throwing money on the table, screaming. It was like a Kung Fu movie from Hong Kong, without Bruce Lee. No one spoke English. Most were illegal. There was always a pile of drugs in the room. Heroin being smoked in some back corner. Yeah, Chinatown was definitely not a place to park your car in the evening ten, fifteen years ago. Now look at it—it's becoming yuppie-central faster than you can order a bowl of egg drop soup.”

“And you still think it stinks?”

Detective Wallace rolled down the window and took a left by the markets and restaurants on H Street. He inhaled through his nose and stuck the spear of agitation just a little deeper into Nguyen's side. “You don't smell that?”

Nguyen took a deep breath. “Smells just like my apartment.”

“Then it looks like I'll be the one inviting you over for dinner. My wife can cook. Ribs and okra. The scent of the South.”

The good-natured banter ended as Wallace stepped on the parking brake and the two detectives got out of the car. They walked past the Capital City Brewery and turned right on Sixth Street.

Wallace crossed between two double-parked delivery trucks as Nguyen began working the crowd on his side of the pavement. The market was alive with activity. The summer sun melted the ice bins, slowing bringing fish, clams, and squid to the surface. Wallace spoke with the vendors, smiled, and showed contrived interest in the funkiness-from-the-sea his Asian neighbors considered food. He stopped at a tray of sea cucumbers and gagged, forcing his breakfast back down. He dry-heaved a second time as the moving squid shot black ink on its Styrofoam container. Throwing small talk aside, Wallace pulled the picture of Chow Ying and started drilling passers-by on the person in the photo. He got a dozen negatives responses and twice as many blank stares.

At the end of the small string of temporary fish stalls, Wallace stopped and looked back at the street market scene. He would never understand how the local supermarket wasn't good enough. He turned into the open door of a small boutique and announced his presence. An elderly Chinese woman answered from the back of the store, a clothier no bigger than a late-seventies station wagon. Wallace flashed his identification, and then the picture of Chow Ying at the sub-five-foot octogenarian. A younger woman popped her head between two hanging pieces of cloth in the doorway in the rear of the store, a sleeping baby strapped to her back. The elderly woman waved her hand at her granddaughter and looked at the picture.

“Have you seen this man?” Wallace asked, looking around.

The old woman didn't bat an eye. “Yes, I have seen him.”

Wallace snapped to attention, surprised by the answer and its immediate delivery in near-perfect English. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. My hearing is not so good, but there is nothing wrong with my eyes,” the old woman said spryly.

Detective Wallace stepped to the door, rolled his tongue in his mouth, and blasted a whistle across the street to Nguyen.

“I saw him in the window,” the old woman continued. “About a week ago. It was early in the morning, before we were open. He looked at something in the display window and walked off. I only saw his face, and I only saw him once. Right there, next to the mannequin.”

Both detectives looked toward the window and the mannequin. A bright red dress rode up the mannequin's legs, her face painted with a thick layer of poorly applied cosmetics in ghastly colors. “Looks like a hooker,” Nguyen said under his breath. Wallace suppressed his normal belly-shaking laugh.

Detective Wallace eyed the display window and noted the position of the mannequin and its pose on the raised floor near the window. “Where in the window did you see his face?” Wallace asked. The old woman stood at the small counter, the picture of Chow Ying resting on the wood surface next to the calculator that served as her register.

“I was standing here, changing the roll of paper on the calculator, getting ready to open. His face was right over the mannequin's shoulder. To the left.” She took Wallace by the arm and steered him to where she had stood, changing places with the detective with a quick little step.

Detective Nguyen looked at Detective Wallace and read his mind. “May I?”

“Please.”

Nguyen went outside and peered into the window. From the inside of the store, Detective Wallace and the old woman gave directions.
More to the left, a little closer to the window. A little higher. A little higher…

Nguyen stood on his tiptoes and pushed himself as high as he could, leaving handprints on the glass. Wallace watched the old woman as she smiled at Nguyen's antics in the storefront window. With Nguyen's face just over the mannequin's shoulder, the old woman held up the picture of Chow Ying.

“Perfect. Just like that,” she announced confidently.

“Thank you,” Detective Wallace said removing a card from his pocket. “If you see him around, will you give me a call?”

“Is he dangerous?”

“No, we just want to talk to him,” Wallace said. There was no sense in spooking the woman with a sudden urge to tell the truth. He had no idea if the man was dangerous or not. Detective Wallace exited the store as Nguyen was coming back in.

“Nice work, Stretch. How tall are you?”

“Five ten on a good day.”

“How tall on your toes?”

“Six-two, maybe six-three.”

“Give the guy that the woman saw another inch and we are looking at someone who could be our guy.”

“She's awfully old to be a witness.”

“Now why are you trying to ruin the only good lead we have had on this guy?”

“'Good', in this case, is a pretty subjective word, Sarge.”

The three concentric circles they did around Chinatown led them to the Peking Palace, between Sixth and Fifth Streets. It was a transitional block where the Asian elements approached the long-standing housing projects, a quarter mile from a new loft apartment building whose owner was rolling the dice on finding younger, wealthier tenants.

“Let's check this place out,” Nguyen said, pointing to the large brick building that had once been residence to a dozen tenants.

“What is it?” Wallace asked.

Nguyen pointed to the Chinese characters in the window of the old building now known as the Peking Palace. “I think it says hotel,” Nguyen said, squinting at the sign as if that would translate the mix of vertical and horizontal brush strokes into a more palatable form of written communication. “Then again, my reading is rusty and it may actually say ‘baby pandas for sale.'”

“You read Chinese?”

“Vietnam used Chinese characters right through the twentieth century. They stopped using them officially in 1918. But I picked up a few characters here and there. My grandfather was a professor. He used to bribe me to study. I guess it is a good thing for us that I liked candy.”

“Someday, someone needs to explain to me how twenty-six letters in an alphabet isn't enough.”

“After you, detective,” Nguyen said, opening the door.

Stepping into the Peking Palace was like stepping into 1950 colonial Asia. There was no air conditioning on the first floor and the humidity made the mid-nineties outside seem refreshing by comparison. The air was thick, stirred slightly by the underpowered ceiling fan. Wallace walked to the old counter and smacked his hand on the silver bell.

“You don't see those bells too often,” Nguyen said.

“You don't see places like this hotel at all. Everything is sixty years old, including the dust.” Wallace tugged at his collar and his tie. “And could it be any hotter in here?”

The door opened in the back of the housing complex turned hotel, and the old man walked forward at his normal glacial pace. The Asian senior citizen stepped behind a portable screen wall, weaved behind the counter, and approached the detectives from the front.

“You do the talking,” Wallace whispered as the man stepped forward.

“How can I help you?” the owner asked.

“We are with the D.C. Metropolitan Police. We want to ask a few questions,” Nguyen said, following orders and taking the lead on the questioning.

“The police?”

“Yes.”

“We don't see many police around here.”

“That's a good thing,” Nguyen answered.

“Yes, I guess it is.”

Detective Nguyen, face-to-face with an equally sweaty old man in white boxers and a tank top, cut to the chase. He pulled the photo from his hand beneath the counter and showed it to the hotel owner. Detective Wallace, a step back and to the left, concentrated on the reaction that flashed across the old man's face.

“Have you seen this man?” Nguyen asked.

The old man took one brief look and dug around under the counter for his glasses. He put the black-frame reading specials on his nose and gave the photo a long thoughtful stare. He raised his eyes upward slowly until they met Nguyen's. “No, officer, I have never seen him before.”

“Are you sure? Take a good look. The ponytail, the defined face. He is big.”

The old man played along, and looked harder at the picture, pinching his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger. “No, he doesn't look familiar to me, but I'm getting old, my memory isn't what it used to be.”

“Okay. Thank you for your time,” Detective Wallace interrupted. “If you see him around, please give us a call.”

The abrupt end to the conversation caught Nguyen off guard. He was still pulling his business card out of his shirt pocket when the door shut behind Wallace as he exited the hotel. Nguyen fumbled with his card, dropped it on the counter, and followed Wallace's lead out the door.

Earl Wallace pulled out a cigarette as Nguyen came down the stairs from the front of the hotel. “That was a bit rushed,” Nguyen said. “The old man….”

“The old man knows more than he is letting on,” Wallace said confidently. “But we got all the information we are going to get from him.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Gut reaction. Always trust your gut. Here on the street it may be the only friend you have,” Wallace said, enjoying the role of teacher. There was something about being a mentor. It was more fun than actually having a partner.

“Why didn't we put his feet to the fire a little?” Nguyen asked.

“Didn't want to spook him.”

“But you wanted to spook Peter Winthrop by leaving him with a copy of the photo?”

“Different fish, different bait.”

“I guess.”

“Well, I guess this means a stakeout. I'll betcha fifty bucks the big guy shows up here tonight.”

“I'd love to keep you company, but I have a date tonight, Sergeant. Been planned for a month. It's my last chance with this girl.”

“You young guys have no loyalty to the job.”

“I'll stop by later and see how you're doing.”

“Bring your date along. She'll be impressed. Nothing turns a girl on faster than a policeman at work. The consummate professional on a stakeout—belt undone, shoes off, zipper cracked.”

“Better yet, call your wife and we'll double date,” Nguyen answered, getting better at his comebacks.

“Fine. I'll drop you off at the station, get some coffee, and find a spot to look inconspicuous. As inconspicuous as an overweight black man can look in Chinatown.”

Earl Wallace headed back to the station with his partner. He sighed the sigh of a big man with a bad back and bad eating habits. Stakeouts were for cases with evidence. Cases with strong leads. Right now, the case against the large Chinese guy in the picture didn't even qualify as a case. But his gut told him it was worth sitting in a car for a night. Agitating his hemorrhoids, spilling fast food all over himself, farting enough to make himself sick—with no one to share in the fun.

The old man in the hotel watched the detectives from the living room lobby of the old brick building. His favorite tenant, his newfound drinking buddy, and the temporary replacement for his long-lost son was being sought by the police. There had to be a mix up. Something easily explained. Chow Ying helped carry in the groceries, watched TV with him and his wife, had played card games with his grandchildren when they stopped by over the weekend. The old man refused to believe that Chow Ying was justly wanted for any crime. Chow Ying was an angel. He was polite, jovial, and kind.