Mark Gilleo - Sweat

“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.

Right up until it was time to kill.

One characteristic did not preclude the other. They were all traits of the same man. It is a misconception by people that somehow inconsistency of character is dishonest. A chameleon is a chameleon and the only consistency is its ability to change colors. People with similar traits are considered liars and deceitful. Chow Ying was honest with himself, and that was more than most people could say.

The old man kept an eye out front and waited patiently in the lobby, sipping tea, watering and pruning his plants, and reading the local Chinese paper. His favorite tenant limped down the stairs from an afternoon slumber, ready for another attempt to track down Peter Winthrop. After a dozen unsuccessful mornings, Chow Ying was changing his schedule for the singular purpose of accommodating the kill. Lions in the safari don’t count on gazelles wandering by their den at lunchtime, and neither would he. A little after-hours hunt was the order of the day.

“Do you need anything while I am out?” Chow Ying asked his new family in the making.

“No, we’re fine. Thank you for asking. Will you be late tonight?”

“No, I shouldn’t be too late,” Chow Ying said. “Unless I get lucky,” he finished, with a slap on the old man’s shoulder.

The old man thought his favorite guest was talking about women. Chow Ying was thinking far more sinister thoughts. The old man watched in slow motion as Chow Ying shuffled on his sore ankle toward the front door, steps from the outside world and the watchful eyes of the detective now parked four doors down. Chow Ying put his hand on the doorknob, turned it, and yanked the door open. The inward momentum of the door abruptly halted and the door slammed shut. Startled, Chow Ying looked down at the old crooked digits protruding from the toe-less shoe wedged securely against the base of the door and the floor.

“Maybe you should start using the back door. It seems you have a few complications with your stateside visit,” the old man said, before whispering the Chinese word for “police” and tilting his head in the direction of the outside.

Chow Ying looked at the old man and nodded in appreciation. “Thank you, I’ll only be here a couple of more days, and then I will be gone. I won’t cause you any trouble.”

The owner’s apartment in the back of the hotel was dark, the sun blocked by buildings and heavy venetian blinds. The old man moved slowly, Chow Ying following as he limped through the dimly-lit room—the evening drinking parlor and gambling den. In the last two nights, the old man had taken over three hundred dollars of Chow Ying’s cash, a few lucky aces and the well-timed mahjong tile the coupe de grace. But the Mountain of Shanghai didn’t protest too loudly. It was C.F. Chang’s money anyway.

The door to the furnace closet at the end of the hall opened with a screech. The old water heater kept the room next to the kitchen warm in the winter, unbearable in the summer. Cockroach hotels lined the edge of the floor. A mousetrap was baited and waiting for one of Mickey’s relatives. A conglomeration of mops, brooms, and cleaning equipment stood in the corner. As Chow Ying peered over the old man’s head, the hotel owner reached into a mass of cobwebs and pulled out a key ring with a single key. The edge of a rifle stock peaked from the side of a broken piece of mirror, its barrel nuzzled against an old ironing board.

The old man blew at the dust clinging to the key, wiped it once against the side of his shorts, and handed it to Chow Ying. “This opens the back door. Take the alley to the right.”