Sweat

by Mark Gilleo

  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.”

  “Thank you,” Chow Ying said again.

  Even cold-blooded killers needed a little love. ***

  It was three a.m. when Nguyen knocked on the driver’s side window of the unmarked car. It wasn’t until he tapped on the glass with his sizeable ring that Detective Wallace, sound asleep, jerked awake in the front bench seat. Nguyen laughed as Wallace thrashed his arms, hit the horn, and flailed even more. Cursing, Wallace rubbed his eyes. He pointed for Nguyen to get into the passenger seat.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “You really ought to get that looked at.”

  “What?”

  “Sleeping on the job. Second time this week.”

  “Sleeping on the job my ass,” Wallace answered, insulted.

  “Okay, Sarge. Whatever you say. Any luck?”

  “None. Not a single person has entered or exited that door this evening. Not one.”

  “While you were watching, anyway?” Nguyen said, smirking. “How many hotels in D.C. don’t have patrons in the summer?”

  “At least one.”

  “Looks like someone is still awake in a room on the third floor,” Nguyen said looking up.

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Uh-hmm,” Nguyen said, looking up through the windshield. “Could be our Asian guy is up there right now.”

  “Or it could be a hotel guest watching porn.”

  “With the lights on?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Wallace, no one is going to be up at three in the morning, watching porn, with the lights on.”

  “How long you been working in this city?”

  “Four-and-a-half years. But I have only been a detective for a year.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you from firsthand experience that there are people in this city who would watch porn at three in the morning with the lights on. And whether you want to believe it or not, there are people who would watch porn and pleasure themselves in DuPont Circle in the middle of a sunny Saturday afternoon.”

  “Nice image. Are you ready to go home and get a few hours sleep?” Nguyen asked. “I’ll keep an eye on things.”

  “We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “We’re going to the Capitol. Time to rub elbows with the bigwigs.”

  Chapter 35

  “You have a stack of mail on your desk, and I have a list of people who called while you were gone.”

  “Give me twenty minutes,” Peter said to Marilyn’s replacement as he passed by without stopping.

  The master of his domain missed his former secretary. His emotions went beyond their personal history, their years of working together. Peter loved Marilyn for one reason above all others—she was the only person he had ever met who was as anal as he was. She would have never left a pile of mail on his desk. The mail would have been filtered, sorted, labeled, and stacked in order of importance. Peter realized it was going to take years of training before he had another Marilyn. And if he was going to have to train one, they might as well be young and beautiful. The clock was ticking on Shelly, the replacement executive assistant.

  Peter found his chair and leaned back, the comfortable crinkle of handcrafted leather coinciding with a morning yawn. He listened to his voicemail, took some notes, and checked the calendar in his Euro-style day planner.

  “I almost forgot this,” Shelly said, barging into the room unannounced. She handed the picture to Peter, who stared at the intruder with disdain. He was just starting his morning routine and didn’t like to be interrupted until he was done. He dismissed Shelly with a flick of the wrist and read the note attached to the picture. He stared at the picture of Chow Ying, an unforgettable figure from the not-so-distant past, and read the small digital signature across the bottom of the photo that stated the time, date, and location of the shot. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and perused the details on the police-issued business card. The connection was lost on him. Why in God’s name would a D.C. Police detective provide him with a photo of Chow Ying? And why was Chow Ying standing in front of an ATM two blocks away from Winthrop Enterprises?

  Peter stewed for a few minutes before yelling out the door. “When was this picture dropped off?”

  “Sometime earlier this week,” the receptionist answered.

  “No shit,” he said to himself. Of course it was earlier this week.

  “You’re fired,” he half-shouted, not sure if he meant it.

  Peter did what any irrational person would do in his position. He started worrying about himself. He didn’t believe in coincidences. The only rule to coincidences was that there weren’t any.

  “Mr. Chang, please,” Peter said, his ear on the phone, his eyes on the clock on the wall, his mind calculating the local time in Beijing.

  “Mr. Chang has retired to his quarters for the night.”

  “Please, wake him up. Tell him it is Peter Winthrop. Tell him it’s important.”

  Peter tapped his sterling silver pencil on a pad of paper while he waited. “Mr. Winthrop,” C.F. Chang said with a surprisingly spry voice for someone who had supposedly been in bed.

  “Mr. Chang. Sorry to disturb you so late.”

  “Not a problem, not a problem. If one wants to play on the international scene, one has to make certain accommodations for the time difference.”

  “True. Very true. And how are things on the international scene, Mr. Chang?

  “Good.”

  “Working the angles as always?”

  “Of course,” C.F Chang answered with a pretentious laugh.

  “Would Chow Ying be one of your angles?” Peter asked, taking off the gloves.

  “Chow Ying? I’m not sure I understand, Mr. Winthrop.”

  “Sure you do. Chow Ying is here in D.C. Please don’t insult my intelligence by telling me you didn’t know. A man of power like yourself. A man in your position.”

  “Thank you for the compliment, but I still don’t know what you are referring to. I was under the impression that Chow Ying was in Saipan.”

  “Well, he’s not. He is right here in D.C. And do you know how I know this?”

  “Mr. Winthrop, I am afraid that…”

  “The D.C Police left a picture of Chow Ying with my receptionist, Mr. Chang. The D.C. Metropolitan Police.”

  The words sunk into C.F. Chang like a needle slipping into the side of a balloon. Images of walking into the Oval Office and shaking hands with his close personal friend, President Day, started to fade. C.F. Chang had no idea how Chow Ying had ended up in a police photo. But as a long-term asset, Chow Ying’s value had reached complete depreciation.

  “Chow Ying works for my son, Mr. Winthrop…”

  “Very well, then. I will leave you with this thought. I hope, for your sake, that Chow Ying is here on vacation, Mr. Chang.”

  “Mr. Winthrop. Your American bravado is surprising. You are so well cultured. So worldly. You should know better.”

  “Mr. Chang, fuck ‘cultured.’”

  “Let us not lose our professional decorum,” C.F. Chang said. “But if we are going to be rude, I will leave you with a thought of my own. Don’t ever threaten me, Mr. Winthrop. Ever.”

  Peter wasn’t through. “In our last con
versation I spoke of a particular employee that I was trying to locate.”

  “As I recall.”

  “Well, I believe this particular employee may put you in the position to have the undivided attention of a certain member of the U.S. Senate.”

  “Mr. Winthrop, as you know, I pay a lot of money to have the attention of a lot of members of Congress. It is good business. Campaign contributions and lobbying are the only forms of bribery your country allows.”

  Peter inhaled audibly through his nose. “Let me ask the question another way. How many other employees do you have working for you that are currently carrying the child of a U.S. Senator?”

  C.F. Chang almost dropped the phone.

  “Would holding the unborn child of a U.S. Senator for ransom be legal as well?”

  C.F. Chang forced a transparent laugh. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you are talking about, Mr. Winthrop.”

  “I’m going to make this very easy on you. I want in. I don’t care about the girl. But having a senator in our pockets, particularly one with the ambition to do so much more, could be very beneficial for business. I’m thinking about a silent partnership—Chang Industries and Winthrop Enterprises, pulling the puppet strings on one U.S. Senator. One could argue that there is a lot of money to be made.”

  “Yes, well, just the same, I’m afraid your proposal is based on inaccurate information. Someone has misled you. You have reached conclusions on Senator Day that just aren’t true.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Chang.”

  Both men were afraid of the other. In a city where he had congressmen on speed dial, Peter Winthrop could squeeze C.F. Chang’s political veins. With equal ease, C.F. Chang could put a stranglehold on Winthrop Enterprises in Asia. It was a fight neither man wanted. C.F. Chang knew he was caught. Peter knew that C.F. Chang could make Wei Ling disappear with a snap of his fingers. If both men held their positions, it was a stalemate.

  Until Chow Ying completed his task.

  “Good night, Mr. Chang.”

  “Have a good day, Mr. Winthrop.” ***

  Peter called out to his secretary, who was still at her post, ignoring the verbal offer for her walking papers. “Is Jake in yet?” he asked as she popped her head into the room.

  “No, he said he was taking a few days off. Something to do with getting ready for school.”

  “Nice of you to tell me.”

  “There is a sticky note to this effect in the pile of mail and messages on your desk.”

  Peter moved the mound of paper around, sneering at the communication gumbo. “You and I need to talk about how to run an office.”

  He dug for his cell phone and punched the autodial key for Jake’s number. C.F. Chang was up to no good. Peter sure as hell knew that Chow Ying hadn’t suddenly taken the urge to travel the globe. It was a game of chess, and Peter called his son to check on one of his pieces. ***

  The ringing phone in his pocket startled him. Chow Ying put his plate of fried eggs on the table, fork tumbling onto the floor. He arched his frame on the sofa, couldn’t get his hand in his pocket, and stood.

  “Hello,” he answered in standard Chinese.

  “Chow Ying.”

  The Mountain of Shanghai immediately recognized the voice.

  “Laoban.”

  “You should have completed your job by now.”

  “There have been complications.”

  “I don’t want to hear about your complications.”

  “Mr. Winthrop is a hard target to reach. He travels, works in a secure building, has a driver. He’s never alone. He lives in a secure neighborhood. Very remote. I don’t have a car and I can’t rent one without creating a paper trail.”

  “Take a taxi.”

  “Take a taxi to commit a murder? The police would have no problem finding me.”

  “They already have.”

  C.F. Chang explained what he knew. Chow Ying had nothing to say in his defense. He thought about mentioning his ankle but knew it would get him nowhere.

  “If you don’t finish what I have asked you to do, a paper trail will be the least of your worries.”

  “Laoban. I will complete the job. But it will take time.”

  “What about Peter Winthrop’s son?”

  “He is an easier target. I almost had him the other night, but the job was interrupted. I haven’t seen him since. It takes time to stake out two people.”

  “Very disappointing, Chow Ying. Perhaps I do need to get someone else on the job.”

  “No, Laoban. I will handle it. But this is not Beijing. Things are different.”

  “You are running out of time and I am running out of patience,” C.F. Chang said sternly. C.F. Chang looked down at the paper on his desk and read the itinerary he had paid good money to get his hands on. “I am going to help you, Chow Ying. I want you to write down every word of what I am about to tell you.”

  “Yes,” Chow Ying answered, grabbing a pen and an empty paper bag to write on.

  “I’m going to give you precise directions and I expect them to be followed precisely,” C.F. Chang commanded. C.F. Chang explained what needed to be done and finished with a final bit of non-negotiable advice. “If you fail, there will be no second chance. The next time I am forced to call you, it will be too late.”

  Chow Ying answered to a dead phone line that he understood.

  Chapter 36

  Wallace walked into the station, greeted the staff sergeant on duty, and bee-lined it for the coffee pot. He filled up, and turned around to a grinning Nguyen.

  “You gotta stop sneaking up on me. You’re going to give me a heart attack for Christ’s sake.”

  “He has a son,” Nguyen reported, smiling ear-to-ear. “And I wasn’t sneaking up on you.”

  “Who has a son?”

  “Peter Winthrop,” Nguyen answered, looking at the paper in his hand. “His son is named Jake Patrick, raised by his mother after his parents’s divorce. The mother legally changed her name back to her maiden name after the split, and she switched the son’s name as well.”

  “Where is the son and why is he important?”

  “Well, I was thinking about the phone in the church. How you said it was in the back, down a hall. It would be tough for someone to see it if they didn’t know it was there.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, I went back to the list of parishioners that the priest gave us.”

  “Let me guess, you found a ‘Jake Patrick’ on the list…”

  “No, but there was a Susan Patrick on the list. Forty-six-years-old. Recently deceased. Mother of one Jake Patrick and ex-wife of one Peter Winthrop. I ran a background check on Peter Winthrop, found out he had previously been married, and went back to the list of parishioner’s from there.”

  “So the son was the one that called.”

  “It’s as good a guess as any.”

  “Well, after we visit the senator, let’s find our good friend Jake. He has some explaining to do.”

  Chapter 37

  The countdown clock to the vote on the Senate Special Committee for Overseas Labor ticked past the eleventh-hour mark. The demands of a week of ass kissing and trading votes for his future had taken their toll. The embroiled Senator Day sat in his office, reading the letter from C.F. Chang for the twentieth time. He stood from his chair with a stooped posture, like a boxer slowly rising from the stool in the corner, barely supported by wobbling legs. All he had to do was make it to the middle of the ring to hear the decision.

  The senator had been battered in round one by the AWARE group and their vigor for protesting and newly found love affair with media attention. Their Alamo would always be the moment Senator Day detained fifty-plus Asian Americans in the hall of the Senate Building for no other reason than they were Asian. The group continued to stake out prime real estate near the Capitol and showed no signs of going quietly. Kazu Ito had given them a reason to come to D.C. Senator Day had given them a reason to stay.

  Roun
d two was a flurry of combinations to the head and body. The senator had been mugged by his colleagues, his political pockets picked clean. He had no idea Senator Wooten and Senator Grumman had such criminal tendencies. They were like prison guards who took advantage of their position with the inmates. And Senator Day had been the one wearing orange pajamas.

  The middle rounds were waves of sharp jabs—personal injury with heavy bruising. His pregnant wife was vacillating between an emotional breakdown and demonic possession. His liver hurt, a dull ache between the eight and ninth ribs on the right side. To make matters worse, it was Dana’s time of the month and for the last week he hadn’t been able to shine the top of his desk with the back of her blouse.

  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. ***