Mark Gilleo - Sweat

“He was, in fact, highly trained,” C.F. Chang answered. “As was his partner. It seems I have underestimated you.”

“I’m still breathing.”

“Yes. Yes you are,” C.F. Chang said, considering his options. “Then perhaps we can make a deal.”

It was the chance Chow Ying was looking for. He knew if C.F. Chang wanted him dead, it was only a matter of time. He could run, but not far or fast enough. Eventually C.F. Chang would find him. And next time it would be ten men, not two, with guns, not knives. Revenge would come in its sweet time, but for now, survival was the only thing Chow Ying had on his mind.

“What kind of deal?”

“Pack your bags and get your passport. You are going to America. There is something I need you to take care of.”

Chow Ying didn’t think about the offer. He had no choice. Run and be killed, or bide his time and play the game.

Chapter 12

Jake’s car chugged down his father’s street, jerking and misfiring past well-hidden million dollar homes. The Subaru had seen better days, and the car was giving its fourth owner every indication that he would be the last. The clutch slipped with every downshift, the brakes squeaked profusely, and its latest ailment added danger to annoyance—an intermittent stall that hit without warning. “Old Betsy” was dying a slow death, like a two-pack-a-day smoker.

The gate was open at 25 Follin Lane and Jake made it halfway up the steep driveway before the Subaru gave out. He put the car into first, turned the key, and announced his arrival to the high-class enclave with a backfire that rattled the double-pane windows. Betsy lurched up the driveway and Jake parked in front of the garage, its closed doors the only thing separating the old Subaru from his father’s new Porsche 911 Turbo convertible.

Jake shut the door to his car with an authoritative hip-check and made his way alongside the perfectly manicured yard in the middle of the large circular driveway. He rang the doorbell and waited anxiously. He was seven the last time he had visited his father’s house, and the residence he remembered was nothing like the one where he now stood. He looked up at the slate roof three stories above and peeked through the small windows that ran vertically next to the door.

The door opened suddenly and Jake, startled, stumbled to the edge of the porch and teetered precariously over a row of rare roses.

“Good evening, Jake,” said the Hispanic women with a kind face and a warm smile. “Your father is expecting you. My name is Camila, but everyone calls me Camille. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too.”

“Your father has told me a lot about you.”

“Well, I doubt that, but thank you just the same.”Camille smiled again and her face radiated. She liked the young man. If first impressions were any indication, the son was not like the father.

“Please come in.”

Jake stepped into the grand foyer and looked around. The thirty-foot cathedral ceiling was nicely framed by handcrafted wood moldings and adorned with a sparkling crystal chandelier. The dark marble floor stretched to the edge of Jake’s view in two directions. A huge grandfather clock rested against an interior brick wall, its pendulum giving off an audible echo as it reached its double-sided apex.

“Can I take your belongings?” Camille asked, gesturing to the brown bag in Jake’s left hand.

“No, I got it, thanks. It’s just a bottle of wine. I didn’t want to come over empty handed. Not sure if it is a good bottle or not, but the guy at Norm’s Beer and Wine recommended it.”

“I am sure it is fine. Please follow me.”

The kitchen was in the back of the house, if that is what you could call the eighteen-thousand-square-foot monstrosity Jake’s father shared with his two servants. Jake placed the bottle of wine on the island counter and held the brown bag in his hand, not knowing where to look for a trashcan. Camille grabbed the bag and led Jake to the sunken great-room to the left of the kitchen.

“Please have a seat. Your father will be with you in a minute.”

“Thank you.”

“You certainly look like your father, you know.”

“So I’ve been hearing a lot recently.”

“You don’t think so?”

“No, I guess I do take after him in the looks department.”

“How about the other departments?” Camille asked with another brilliant smile.

Jake looked at Camille’s face and melted just a little. If he were twenty years older, and hadn’t met Kate, he would have asked her on a date.

“We will see,” Jake answered.

“Can I get you anything, while you wait?”

“No, I’m fine thank you.”

“Very well. I’ll be in the kitchen should you change your mind. I hope you’re hungry,” she said before vanishing, not waiting for a response.

Jake looked around the room. It was emergency room sterile. The cushions on the sofa were wrinkle-free. The magazines on the coffee table were aligned as if someone had used a ruler. The massive plasma television on the wall was off, its screen glistening. Four different remote controls for various electronic gadgets were arranged according to size on the end table. It was a bachelor pad with anal-retentive maids. There were no signs of a woman’s touch anywhere. Jake wondered what the rest of the house looked like. It must take a lot of furniture to fill a pad this large, he thought. He figured his father needed one servant just to keep up with the dust.

Jake finished looking around the living room and went back to find Camille. He sat down at the breakfast counter and checked out the cookbooks on the shelf to the left while Camille milled about like someone on a mission.

“How do you like working for my father?”

“I like it. He travels a lot, so I have more free time than most full-time domestic help.”

“Is he a tyrant?”

“He treats me well. He helped my cousin get a job cleaning in his office building. Her name is Reina. She is cute. You would like her.”

Jake figured Camille’s answer was a standard, off-the-shelf reply. He knew his father was no angel. “Reina, heh?”

“It means ‘queen’ in Spanish.”

“I’ll keep my eye out for her.”

“She has already seen you. She told me you were handsome. I must agree.”

Jake tried to steer the subject of the conversation away from himself. “So working for my father is okay?”

“I can’t complain. He has always been fair with me.”

As if on cue, Peter walked into the room with the same intent-to-impress presence that he always carried. The fact that his son was the lone member of the audience didn’t change the show.

A handshake, an offer of a drink, and a tour of the house. Jake took it all in. The tour, the showmanship, the bragging. By the fifth bathroom, each with its own bidet, Jake started to wonder why he had come. But years of curiosity had their claws deep into his skin. He was determined to see where the night was going to take him. Hopefully he would learn something. Something about his father, and maybe something about himself.

For the host, drinks preceded dinner, interrupted the main course, and book-ended dessert. Jake drank three microbrews before he started declining more beer, mixed drinks, and the hard stuff. He accepted a second helping of spiced grouper and rice to help put a dike in the flow of alcohol entering his bloodstream. His father liked his sauce, and Jake noticed he held his liquor well. It was not a trait he wanted to emulate.

“Would you like anything else?” Camille asked, clearing the dessert dishes. “Coffee, perhaps?”

“That would be great. Black please,” Jake answered before his father could insist on another drink of a stronger nature.