by Mark Wheaton
Goddamn, I love this woman.
“Are you hearing me?” the red-faced businessman, a Mr. Jim Jakey of Compass Bank of Fort Wayne, Indiana, thundered. “This was supposed to be billed to the company. When they reserved the travel, they should’ve paid for the room.”
Zhelin “Tony” Qi, the hotel’s front-end manager, smiled placidly in the face of the tantrum. Behind the businessman stood three of his junior colleagues, all of whom could not have looked more embarrassed. The trio obviously knew their boss had made a mistake. It was telling that none came to the man’s rescue.
“The rooms were reserved by a corporate card,” Tony explained without a hint of condescension. “But we were not authorized to charge it. We have a second company card, the one you gave us for incidentals when you checked in, on file. Would you like to put the rooms on that card?”
Mr. Jakey’s chin jutted upwards, his knuckles whitening. Tony wondered how many times this performance had worked in the past.
“Why aren’t you telling me anything different than her?” he said, nodding toward the young desk clerk who’d had Tony paged moments earlier when it seemed as if things might become violent. “I thought I was talking to somebody in charge.”
The businessman’s face was all contempt now. Tony straightened and reached for the phone.
“I apologize for wasting your time,” Tony said. “It is my fault. I misinterpreted the situation.”
Jakey tossed a smug look back to his surprised colleagues. They obviously wanted to see their overly entitled boss knocked down a few pegs. As he reached for the telephone, he hoped his next action didn’t disappoint.
“Hello, this is Zhelin Qi, front-end manager at the Century Continental Hotel at 3021 Avenue of the Stars,” he said when the call was answered. “We have a customer, Mr. Jim Jakey, at checkout refusing to pay his bill. The total is over eight thousand dollars. Yes, he is still in the lobby. Thank you.”
Tony hung up. Jakey’s look of bluster switched to one of confusion.
“What was that?”
“Los Angeles Police Department’s Commercial Crimes Division, Fraud Section,” Tony explained. “They prefer we do not escalate these matters ourselves, particularly when the amount is equivalent to grand theft.”
“The police?” Jakey roared, though through a cracking voice. “Are you crazy? Why would you call the police?”
“You are refusing to pay your bill,” Tony replied. “I am trying to resolve the situation in a way that prevents loss to this hotel.”
Tony allowed himself a glance to the desk clerk, Perla, who’d called him over in the first place. She not only seemed to be enjoying this, it appeared she was taking mental notes for the story she’d repeat a dozen times over the next few days to every worker in the hotel.
Oh, you should’ve seen unflappable Manager Qi take on that big, bad American asshole from Room 810.
As Perla was the hotel workers union rep for the Century Continental, it could not have gone smoother or more in his favor.
Tony Qi is a man who gets things done, she’d say.
And when down the line he needed her to, she’d follow his lead and make the others do the same. As a representative of the city’s largest triad, Tony knew his reputation had to be sterling. The triad wasn’t some murderous criminal organization like the Sicilian mafia, the Sinaloa drug cartel, or the Salvadoran MS-13. Rather, it was a political organization that operated outside the mainstream and worked to help those who similarly found themselves outside the political mainstream.
Or that was, of course, what Tony needed the workers at the Century Continental to believe about the sometimes-criminal organization. When they needed help and could turn to no one else, there’d he be. He just might need a favor—could be something as simple as a vote—somewhere down the line in return.
It took only a moment more for Tony to wrap up the matter with Mr. Jakey. Knowing the businessman had no recourse, he simply waited until he produced two credit cards for Tony to split the bill on and then left for the airport.
“Did you really call the police?” Perla asked once Jakey’s shuttle pulled away.
“Absolutely. You should have the number, too,” he said, writing it down. “This is a friend of ours in the fraud division. His personal cell. If you are ever in this situation and I am not here, call and use my name.”
Perla had already appeared impressed. Now she looked awed.
“Thank you, Mr. Qi,” she said, offering a slight bow.
“Of course,” he replied, returning the bow and moving away. Tony had come over from Shenzhen via a so-called snakehead, the triad equivalent of the Latin American “coyote,” when he was sixteen. His parents, grandparents, and even an uncle had chipped in almost everything they’d managed to save to pay the man to get Tony onto a container ship that docked at the Port of San Diego three weeks later.
When he was dropped off in the Gaslamp Quarter with only a crewman’s ID, listing him as a Filipino national, he didn’t blink. He marched into the first restaurant he could find and two days later he had a cash-under-the-table job as a busboy at a seafood place in Mira Mesa. Intent on making his way north, he looked for another job as soon as possible, finding a position as a poolside server at an Indian casino in the City of Industry. Over the next twenty years he worked his way to Los Angeles through several hotel jobs and wove himself into the fabric of the city, gaining citizenship and rising through the ranks of the San Gabriel–based triad, until he landed at the Century Continental. He didn’t know if he would rise higher, either in the triad or in the hotel business. Those were the decisions best left to others. What made him happiest was continuing to further his reputation as an eminent and imperturbable problem solver.
The incident with Mr. Jakey turned out to be the only real fireworks of Tony’s day. He did his rounds of the kitchen, the laundry, and the administrative offices. He spot-checked the ballrooms before the organizers of the Women in PR awards dinner arrived to oversee the setup. He then went outside to look over the grounds. All was in order and ready to be handed off to the night manager.
Tony went to the valet stand, where his car and keys were already waiting.
The traffic from Century City to the John Wayne Airport in Santa Ana was worse than he’d anticipated. Tony had hoped to stop somewhere and change. This was impossible now. He’d worn his blue Brooks Brothers suit to work that day, but it always struck him as officious. The gray regent-fit suit laid out in the garment bag in the trunk was more appropriate for the image he wished to cultivate to clients in his other job.
Particularly now.
Tony had two careers really, but only one employer. At the hotel he made sure the hotel workers union was kept happy. This meant providing jobs, bribes, and favors in return for a strong voting bloc, both politically and against hotel upper management when it came to supporting which outside vendors the hotel used for linens, liquor, and food supplies. Meaning: triad-owned ones.
Tony’s other job for the triad, very much away from the hotel, was in the area of birth tourism.
The business of birth tourism in America had always been fairly skivvy and low end. It was rife with unlicensed doctors or midwives, seedy motels, and iffy paperwork that said it ensured American citizenship to those born on US soil but often did not. Somewhere along the line the triad had sensed a business opportunity.
As the Chinese economy surged, the desire among China’s nouveau riche to have it all increased along with it. The idea that dual citizenship would make it easier for their children (well, their sons) to do business in America in future years meant they were willing to pay any cost. This led to high-end package deals—not dissimilar to ones offered by exclusive resorts—that included airfare, four-star accommodations, fine dining, and weekly in-home visits from a doctor fluent in Mandarin, Cantonese, or the language of the client’s choice.
Clients weren’t flown directly from Beijing or Hong Kong but to Hawaii first. Then they would board a se
parate plane that would land not at LAX but at the smaller John Wayne Airport in Orange County. The only time they would have to clear customs would be in Hawaii. It was not only foolproof, it was technically legal. This, Tony believed, appealed to the triad the most.
Once they arrived in the city, the client would be put up in a luxury condominium, complete with swimming pool, gym, and a twenty-four-hour concierge. For a little more money they could be put up in their own private house, one the triad owned for a short time, renovated utilizing triad-owned construction equipment and supplies, then flipped for profit afterwards.
After much internal discussion, it was decided that Tony Qi should run the operation. And the first thing he did was reach out to a trusted triad contact who’d dealt with them for years, shipping high-end stolen cars to Hong Kong, without being anything but a perfect gentleman and business partner along the way. Given that his “business” meant that he acquired an impressive knowledge of the city’s poshest neighborhoods, Tony thought him an unimpeachable ally in this new venture.
Tony’s cell phone buzzed.
Speak of the devil.
It was a text from Oscar de Icaza showing sixteen photographs, taken from various angles, of an amazing three-story house with views—jetliner views, an earlier text had promised—all the way to the Pacific from high over Sunset Boulevard. Even on his phone’s tiny screen he could make out his hotel.
Again, he’d been proven right about Oscar. The house would work perfectly. He wrote back that they should acquire it right away and get it ready for their latest client. He didn’t want to be too optimistic, but given his own commission on these arrangements, his time facing down irritating and boorish business travelers might be nearing its end.
Tony arrived at John Wayne Airport at a quarter to seven. He changed his suit in the United Club lounge and moved to the noncommercial gate. His airport contact, Shen Mang, was waiting.
“How was the drive, Mr. Qi?”
“As expected,” Tony replied. The overly obsequious Shen wasn’t his favorite person.
“I just heard from the tower. The plane is on its final approach. Ten minutes maybe.”
Tony nodded. The client’s name was Jun Tan. She carried the child of Kuo Kuang, a wealthy businessman and Hong Kong triad heavyweight who’d made his money only recently through a series of construction scams. He was married and had as many children as he did mistresses—six. Tony had heard through the grapevine that he’d planned to ditch Jun when he’d heard she was pregnant. But when he’d learned she was to have a son—his first—he’d had a change of heart.
Now she was arriving to spend the next two months in relative luxury before giving birth. Tony had no illusions that she would likely be cast off following this and hoped Jun had none, either. According to the San Gabriel Dragon Head, a friend of Kuang’s who had arranged this, Jun was to be accompanied by her “aunt.” Tony took this to mean a Kuang-approved minder/chaperone, not a blood relative, and he agreed to give them every consideration.
When the plane came into sight, Tony signaled the driver waiting in the bar to pull his SUV around to the hangar. Shen unlocked the security door that led out of the terminal and escorted Tony to a waiting cart. The hangar was only a hundred yards away, but Tony didn’t wish to perspire.
“On the Internet it said that she was some kind of actress in the making,” Shen offered. “Kuang saw her on television and demanded she be brought to him, as if he was some kind of feudal lord.”
That’s exactly what he is, Tony thought.
“You don’t recognize her, you don’t know her,” Tony admonished. “She is the client. Therefore, she is your employer. Do you understand?”
Shen shrugged.
The private plane, a Challenger 605, landed on Runway Two and taxied slowly to the hangar, arriving at the same time as Tony and Shen. As a ramp agent hurried to put chocks behind the tires, Tony signaled the driver, who’d already arrived, to be ready to open the back door of the SUV. He then stepped alongside the plane, stopping where the foot of the air stair would soon be.
A flight attendant unlocked and lowered the door before stepping back. The next person to appear was Jun Tan herself. She looked cautiously around the hangar, a rabbit anticipating predators. When her eyes found Tony, she smiled. He returned the smile with a deep bow.
She wore peach-colored Capri pants and a matching blouse that mostly hid her protruding belly. Her hair was cut short, the back coming down just to her earlobes. Her eyes, brown as chestnuts, were wide and searching. She looked like every provincial Hunan girl that had ever washed up in Shenzhen.
“Welcome to California,” he said. Not Los Angeles with its negative crime-related connotations; not America and its implicit threat. California conjured images of sunshine and movie stars.
Jun smiled and accepted Tony’s hand as she stepped down the stairs. Her fingers were so light in his hands he worried he might crush them if he squeezed too hard or at all. Even her scent seemed chosen as emblematic of flowers native to where she was from.
“As you know, your house is being prepared for you right now,” Tony explained. “For the first few days you will be a guest at the Beverly Hills Hotel in order to acclimate you to your surroundings.”
In truth, it had more to do with making sure that if she just so happened to be followed by law enforcement, as some pregnant foreigners were, it would appear that she really was on holiday.
“Archie here will be your driver for the duration,” Tony said, introducing the man now holding open the back door of the SUV. “I am Tony and will be at your disposal as well.”
He took a cell phone from his pocket and was about to hand it to Jun when an older woman emerged from the plane, came down the steps behind her, and snatched it from his hand. She had a pinched face and was dressed in clothes that all looked a couple of sizes too big, as if she’d recently lost mass. From the way she eyed the phone, Tony wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d taken a bite out of it. But then Jun took it away from her and checked the contacts list.
“Thank you,” Jun said. “Yours is the only number programmed in?”
“It is.”
“Fantastic,” she enthused. “What am I to be doing these first five days?”
“Whatever you like,” Tony replied. “Rodeo Drive is close by, as is the Beverly Center, the Grove, and the shops on Robertson. Some prefer just sitting by the pool.”
“But what about other things?” she pressed, stopping just before the SUV. “What if I want to go elsewhere? Will you personally see to it that I get there?”
“Within reason,” Tony said guardedly.
“No,” Jun snapped back. “It was my understanding that everything was within reason.”
“Of course,” Tony said, not daring to look at the aunt. “What do you have in mind?”
“Disneyland,” she said in a tone more akin to someone suggesting a bank robbery. “And I want to see the Los Angeles Dodgers. And the tar pits, where Tommy Lee Jones stopped that volcano. S’okay?”
Tony nodded and bowed.
IV
Luis’s day had passed in a haze. He hadn’t expected to be so angry about Michael’s appearance. In truth, it wasn’t so much anger as indignation. St. Augustine’s was his sanctuary. To have it invaded by someone he found had no respect for the godly life made him livid. To do so under the guise of defending his church was even more insidious.
For even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light, Luis thought, recalling the words of Paul.
To clear his mind, he’d needed to pray, but the demands of the classroom kept him from doing so. And once class let out, Luis had to help Whillans with the evening Mass and hear confession for an hour after that. The unsated desire to hear from God was maddening, like waiting for the answer to an urgent letter. It wasn’t that he wanted to petition for the Lord’s guidance; he desired the cleansing feeling of being in the Lord’s presence.
His last task of the day was a home visit
to a young couple down the road in Crenshaw who were experiencing their first real marital problems following the birth of a baby and the loss of employment for the father. After counseling the couple to reach out to fellow parishioners to help with the baby, as well as to the parish itself for financial assistance should they require it, Luis even considered praying in his car before returning to the rectory. This was hardly practical, however, so he kept going, trying to obey as many traffic laws as he could.
When he finally reached the rectory, having challenged every yellow light and speeding as much as he dared, he hurried to his room, took off his shoes, got down on his knees, and forced the world from his mind.
God, I come to you for guidance, Luis prayed, opening his mind. My understanding of my vocation is that I am here to act as your vessel on earth, to guide your congregation as you would. But there is a confounding soul in my path . . .
There came a soft knock on Luis’s door.
“Father Chavez?” said Father Passarella, the Argentine priest. “Are you awake?”
“I am,” replied Luis.
“You have a phone call in the chapel office. They apologized for the hour but said it was very important.”
Luis sighed and stood. Anything God had to say to him would have to wait.
Luis hurried from the rectory to the chapel to find Erna’s lamp on next to the phone. He picked up the receiver and hit the blinking “Hold” button.
“Hello?”
“Am I speaking to Father Chavez?” a vaguely familiar voice said from the other end of the line.
“This is he,” Luis said cautiously.
“I apologize for the late hour, but it’s quite early here and we’re all due downstairs to continue our progress with a breakfast at St. John in Lateran.”
Luis’s heart leaped. He tried hard not to afford the church’s ecclesiastical hierarchy undue reverence, but when speaking to the archbishop of Los Angeles, this wasn’t so easy. That His Eminence was calling from the Vatican, where he was traveling with the pope himself on a short tour of Northern Italy, didn’t make it any easier.