Sweat

by Mark Gilleo

  “Nearly twenty-five percent.”

  “So some seventy-five percent do not have college degrees.”

  “That’s the math.”

  “This seventy-five percent is the working class. The garbage men, the security guards at the mall, the factory workers.”

  “Yes, sir. They are.”

  “There are over three hundred factories in the state of Mississippi, making everything from ladders to furniture to rebuilt diesel engines. Three hundred factories, ten thousand jobs, supporting fifty thousand men, women, and children. That is a lot of mouths to feed, Senator Day.”

  “Yes sir, it is.”

  “With that in mind, what did you come here to discuss?”

  “A vote in favor of support for overseas labor. A vote against an international minimum wage would be, to put it as plainly as I can, in my best interest.”

  “Senator, I know you support overseas labor. I know you have manufacturing constituents with overseas interests. But things in the Northeast aren’t the same as the concerns of the Deep South. Mississippi is not sitting on Harvard or M.I.T. Mississippi doesn’t have a major U.S. city within its borders. It does not have one of the largest ports in the U.S. It does not have a thriving financial district. Manufacturing is all Mississippi has left. Hell, it’s all we ever had. Except for cotton.”

  Senator Day waited for the initial storm clouds to blow over. On Capitol Hill, waiting was a profession in itself. In a world of talkers, a conversation was never dead.

  “You’re also on the Education Reform Committee aren’t you?” Senator Grumman asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You believe in the ‘No Child Left Behind’ movement, don’t you?”

  “Yes, actually I do.”

  “How about the ‘No State Left Behind’ movement?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Mississippi ranks forty-seventh in education. We have been asking for additional education funding for years and we haven’t received one Indian Head nickel. Did you know there are only six public schools in the whole state of Mississippi where students can access the internet? Six schools.”

  “I was not aware of that.”

  “How many schools in Massachusetts have internet-access?

  “I’m not sure of the exact number.”

  “More than six?”

  “Yes, I’m sure it is more than six.” Senator Day gave his first offer in the negotiation. “I will see to it that you get approval for the education funds your state is requesting.”

  “That’s good…for starters,” Senator Grumman said, looking out the window, hiding his smile. Sensing a fish on the line, the senator from Mississippi set the hook and started reeling. He spilled his tears over state roads, and the need for a larger chunk of federal funds for Mississippi asphalt.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Well then, I guess there is only one thing left.”

  “What’s that, Senator Grumman?”

  “What are you going to do for me?”

  Senator Day read between the thick dark lines. Another check, another payoff. A personal endorsement to the re-elect Senator Grumman fund, available for immediate withdrawal. Senator Grumman pulled out a cigar as Senator Day left his office. Orange juice and a Cuban, the breakfast of champions. He had reason to celebrate. Senator Day had just guaranteed the great senator his re-election.

  One vote down, two to go.

  The Rupp Building was the oldest office facility still in use by members of the U.S. Senate, standing two doors down from the U.S. Supreme Court with its impressive staircase and soaring Roman columns. The Supreme Court blocked the morning sun, casting an a.m. shadow of righteousness that appropriately stopped at the foot of the Rupp Building and Senator Al Wooten’s office on its east side.

  Senator Al Wooten, ex-college basketball player and Oxford scholar, was the tallest official in the Senate. He was also on a permanent vacation and wasn’t afraid to let everyone outside of his constituents know it. He was in his first term, planned on a second one, and as long as he played it cool, he figured he would set a record for Senate tenure. He had reached the apex of his career. He had no ambition to go further. Why should he? He knew life couldn’t get any better, and he was willing to do anything to remain where he was. Six years was a long time between elections. He had four more years of R&R ahead of him. With good health, good luck, and good weather, he would be shooting par at Congressional by the start of his next term.

  Senator Wooten was a man of many words, and not afraid to use each and every one of them. The gregarious senator showed up for votes on the Senate floor without fail. He made sure to give his two cents on whatever the issue was, just to be on record, proof to his constituents that he was hard at work. What no one knew was that Senator Wooten pushed the electronic vote button at his assigned seat in the capitol with the randomness of a roulette wheel. Less for the really important issues, the ones that affected him directly, he let lady luck form public policy.

  He had developed numerous voting systems, all equally lacking in political acumen. Who cared how he voted? How many constituents actually follow the votes of their senators and congressman on a daily basis?

  Exactly.

  Senator Wooten’s favorite vote-deciding factor was the number of guests in the far section of the visitor’s balcony. An even number of visitors earned a “no” vote. An odd number ensured a “yes.” The Anti-Deforestation Bill, and millions of century-old hardwoods, had passed by a single vote, thanks to the elderly gentleman with the cane who returned from the bathroom just as the senator was ready to lower his thumb.

  The fact that Senator Wooten didn’t care how he voted didn’t mean he underestimated the value of a vote. Senator Day came to find out how much it would cost for the senator to put down the flip of the coin for the Special Committee on Overseas Labor.

  Senator Day walked into Senator Wooten’s office and announced himself. “He is waiting for you,” Senator Wooten’s middle-aged secretary answered, her wire-frame glasses hanging around her neck by a silver chain.

  The opening conversation was a rerun of the one he had just had with Senator Grumman. Senator Day forced his way through the niceties with a smile, as if it had been years since anyone had asked him about his life, his wife, or his upcoming child. He explained the vote at the upcoming Senate committee, and Senator Wooten understood.

  “So you want me to change my opinion and vote against an international minimum wage,” Senator Wooten asked, cutting to the chase after five minutes of heavy hints and innuendo.

  “Well Senator, I’m never sure what anyone’s opinion really is until I see how they vote, so I can’t say whether I’m trying to change yours.”

  “Senator Day, it wouldn’t get me very far if I told you I was ready to go along with a vote in favor of a bill that would lead to more overseas job flight. You’re here for a reason. If I tell you I was ready to vote in favor of overseas labor, what would that get me? Votes aren’t free, Senator. So for the sake of progressing this conversation to a mutually beneficial conclusion, let’s assume I am voting against overseas labor. Let’s assume I am in favor of an international minimum wage for U.S. firms doing business overseas. Let’s assume I believe legislation is the only thing that will drive jobs back to the U.S.”

  “Overseas labor is not a popular topic these days. Your assumptions merely confirmed my suspicion on your position.”

  “No, overseas labor is not a popular drum to beat in the current political environment. But I don’t let public opinion interfere with business either. Constituents just aren’t privy to all the information that we as senators have at our disposal. I believe I was elected to make educated decisions for my constituents. Whether they realize it or not.”

  “Thank you for your honesty, Senator.”

  “You invest in real estate?”

  “Dabble a bit.”

  “You ever heard of Wellfleet Bay?”

  Senator Day perked up
. “Of course. It’s a wildlife sanctuary on Cape Cod. Some of the most pristine land in my home state. A thousand acres of marsh and woodland, surrounded by spotless beaches. When I was a child, my grandfather took me clamming and fishing off the banks of Wellfleet Bay. Who knows, if God blesses me with a healthy son, maybe I can take him there someday.”

  “Yes, Senator Day. It is beautiful land. Pristine, as you say.”

  “Do you fish, Senator Wooten?”

  “No, I don’t even like the taste. But I do like real estate, Senator Day. I do like real estate. They just aren’t making any more earth, and the law of supply and demand is being driven by an ever-increasing population and a finite supply of land.”

  “Never have truer words been spoken.”

  “Just north of Eastman on the Cape’s west coast is a ten acre plot of land I have interest in. Only problem is that the land lies adjacent to a remote corner of the Wellfleet Bay sanctuary. No sense in buying the land if I can’t develop it…”

  Senator Day cringed as Senator Wooten described the plot of land with surveyor-like detail—information gleaned from online photos. Senator Wooten did love real estate. And he had spent the previous afternoon searching Massachusetts for a prime investment opportunity stalled by politics.

  The two politicians drank coffee as Senator Wooten showed that he did indeed know the value of a vote. And if Senator Day could clear an inside tract to ten acres of idyllic real estate, he figured he could make a few million just divvying up the land and re-selling it.

  “I’ll be watching how you vote,” Senator Day said, leaving the office.

  “And I will be checking your progress on my land,” Senator Wooten responded.

  As Senator Day stepped into the afternoon air, the ulcer in his stomach bubbled. The combination of coffee on an empty stomach, and days of heavy liquor on a belly of coffee, burned a hole through the senator’s stomach lining like hot grease poured into a plastic cup. He doubled over, eyes watering, and dug in his pocket for some ibuprofen, the finishing touch on the toxic waste in his gut.

  One more vote and he could go home and say hi to his wife. Dana had the evening off, and his wife would be asleep by nine. He could drink himself silly in the privacy of his own home.

  The last vote came at the hands of Andrew Thomas, senator from Montana, and virtual no name on The Hill. Senator Thomas was the youngest senator by three years, and Senator Day thought he still had enough seniority and slick-Willie, over-the-top charm to impress the new kid on the block. Especially a kid from Montana, home to a population of ten people per square mile.

  Senator Day danced and kicked, sang and spun. For thirty minutes he felt up the young senator, fondled his beliefs, trying to manipulate the boy from Montana without giving any ground himself. He had done enough damage for one day. He had already written a check for a vote, an impeachable offense, and agreed to soil his childhood fishing ground with construction run-off and human waste. His charity was running thin.

  Senator Thomas put on his innocent face, cherub cheeks fleshy under a mop of brown hair. He smiled the same smile that had won him the election and waited for Senator Day to run out of hot air.

  “I’ll give you the vote,” Senator Thomas said flatly.

  “That is a good decision, son,” Senator Day responded with visible relief. The senior senator stood and stuck out his hand for a deal-sealing shake.

  As Andrew Thomas rose from his seat to stick out his hand, he stopped. “And in return I’m just going to slip you right into my pocket. I’m going to save you for a rainy day, Senator Day. And when the day comes and I say ‘jump,’ I fully expect your answer to be ‘how high?’”

  Senator Day flinched and then nodded silently as Senator Thomas withdrew his hand without a shake. The boy knew his way around the political minefield. Senator Day took note to keep an eye on this kid. Someday, he might need a young man with his politically savvy, self-promotion, and survival techniques.

  Senator Day left the office, promising to make good on his promise, and thinking about DiMarco. He was waiting for the word that the job had been done. Then life would be back to normal. Back to his wife, his new child, his undeniable political right to act like a senator without any distraction or repercussions.

  Chapter 24

  The line to the entrance of the Spy Museum snaked down Eighth Street toward Chinatown and the Verizon Center. Chow Ying stood near the front of the triple-wide crowd sucking the sweet coating off the Advil pills in his mouth before swallowing the remains. The Mountain of Shanghai, his foot bandaged and throbbing, mixed with the tourists, rubbing shoulders with a smattering of intelligence buffs and ex-spook types waiting for a chance to admire the best display human ingenuity had to offer.

  It was his third day off from surveillance. Hobbling on one leg was no way to try to kill a man. He had no idea if his ankle was broken or not, and he wasn’t going to the doctor to find out. Ice, compression, and elevation were the self-prescribed treatment for the dark blue bruises on the oversized appendage. As soon as he could get his foot back in his shoe, he would be back in business.

  Besides, Peter Winthrop had proven to be a hard target. He didn’t come to the office with the same strict regularity as the rest of the building. Chow Ying had come to recognize dozens of faces coming and going, but in a week of stakeouts he had seen Peter get out of his black sedan-for-hire, enter the building, and move quickly into the lobby exactly one time. He had waited until midnight for him to exit the building, but the man he had met in Saipan over a month ago never showed his face. There were reasons. There was a private parking garage under the building and another exit facing the street around the corner. It was a lot of ground for one person to cover. It was impossible on one leg.

  But Chow Ying had notched one hit under his belt in just over a week in the capital. And it had been a thing of beauty. No gun, no knife. No piano wire around the neck, no pillow over the face. And no suspicion. There was nothing on the news about a killer loose on the street, and there was nothing in the paper beyond a brief mention of an accident and the normal obituary. He now needed a plan to get both father and son, and when they joined their secretary underground, he could work on executing his long-term survival strategy.

  He still carried the gun Mr. Wu had given him in New York in the back of his pants, his shirt pulled over it. But as a tool of an assassin, the gun had its drawbacks. He had never test fired the .38 caliber weapon, and with a loose pistol grip he couldn’t be sure of its accuracy. He had wondered why Mr. Wu hadn’t at least provided a new gun, perhaps one with a silencer, but deep down he knew the answer. Mr. Wu didn’t expect Chow Ying to live that long. When C.F. Chang sends you on a mission to the U.S. and threatens to take your passport, contributing to a retirement account is a waste of good money.

  As easy as it sounded, walking up behind Peter Winthrop and his son, if he could get them together, and blowing their brains out on the K Street sidewalk, would bring an immediate and intense police response. He knew from experience that you could stab someone on a crowded street and keep walking before anyone noticed. It was done everyday in prison by inmates with shivs. But fire a gun and mayhem would follow. Guns are noisy, and a prominent businessman murdered in the midst of gunfire on the sidewalk would draw attention. Without a major distraction to give him a chance for escape, opening fire on a public street was his last option.

  Chow Ying stood behind the crowd control barrier on the sidewalk and thought about other concerns. Men are more difficult to kill. They fight more, cause a bigger scene, take longer to die. He didn’t take any particular pleasure in killing women, but he had to admit they were easier to hunt, easier to kill. Taking out two men, one of who could identify him on sight, was going to be difficult. If he killed just one, the other would be suspicious. Two deaths in the same office over the span of a week would have everyone jumpy. Including the D.C. Police. Chow Ying needed to get them together. He was working through several scenarios in his head, all of them
ending with a dash to the airport for the next plane out. With ten thousand in cash, he had enough money to run. Not far or long, but enough to get a head start.

  The Spy Museum was a field day. He laid his fifteen bucks on the counter, got his ticket, and entered the new museum as giddy as a schoolboy. He breezed by the cryptology section and the biographies and busts of the most infamous names in the history of espionage. Agents, double agents, and triple agents. Heroes and traitors. He absorbed every word of the Israeli, Chinese, and Russian espionage sections. When Chow Ying entered the room named “Assassins and Tools of the Trade,” he slowed to a snail’s pace. He didn’t want to miss a thing.

  Chapter 25

  Kate curled up on the canopy bed and took turns outlining the flowers on the wallpaper with her finger and staring out the window of her old bedroom in the Sorrentino mansion. It had been four days since Jake had walked out of a known topless joint with a stripper in each arm. For Kate, the image was still as fresh as the wound. But love, passion, and the loss of both made four days seem like four months. Her cell phone now rang every hour on the hour, down from the fifteen-minute intervals Jake called at the first day after his untimely exit. She kept the black Motorola within reach, and at one o’clock she checked the incoming call number on the small display screen. Jake had stopped leaving messages when her voice-mail became full, but he knew she was checking the phone display. All he needed was one chance to explain himself, to lay on a little charm. He had the truth on his side. He had apologized to the answering machine for acts not done, for causing images of dastardly deeds. In his heart, Jake didn’t believe he was wrong, but he knew if he wanted to see Kate again, he would at least have to admit that he wasn’t entirely right. It was a compromise, the key to relationships. Or so he heard. More flowers, chocolate, and a little poetry were all on deck as backup.

  Kate was planning to mope around for a week and participate in a little shopping therapy with her mother on her father’s credit. Staying at her parents’s didn’t affect her daily routine—riding ambulances out of the McLean Gardens station as an EMT four days a week, studying her medical books over coffee in the morning just to keep sharp. Three months was a long time for the soon-to-be-fourth-year medical student to retain the name and disposition of every muscle, bone, tendon, symptom, and illness she had memorized over the last three years. Her drive was remarkable, given the need not to have one at all. Riding ambulances, reviewing old medical books, and hanging out with Jake had been her plan for the summer. There was just something about him that she liked. It was everything.