Mark Gilleo - Sweat

The final round was the newscast and the questions surrounding the sweatshop. It was a punch the senator didn’t see coming. Sure the senator knew the tape was out there, but it wasn’t his intention to have it playing on the evening news, not with a pregnant sweatshop girl holding his future in her womb.

For the committee, the senator had done everything he could. He bought the votes he needed to buy. He knew his unseen master would be watching. Every committee recommendation was posted in the morning edition of a dozen Capitol Hill news rags and on twice as many congress-monitoring websites. His performance would be measured with perfect accuracy. Selling constituents down the river for a chance to win them back wasn’t a new sport. It was congress at work.

Despite it all, the senator was still there. Everyone had taken their shots and he was still standing. All he needed was one call from DiMarco, and his life was back on track. He somehow managed an arrogant smirk.

But there was one more punch coming at the senator’s head, a good old-fashioned haymaker, and no one was there to tell him to duck. ***

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.”