Mark Gilleo - Sweat

“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.