Mark Gilleo - Sweat

The old Asian man behind the counter, dressed in a sweaty cotton tank top and matching white shorts, smiled and handed him the key to Room 312. “The stairs are in the back, just follow the hall,” the old man said, pointing with a boney finger attached to a bonier arm. “The gourmet buffet breakfast starts at seven o’clock,” the old man added, just to show that he, too, had a sense of humor.

Chow Ying threw his bag on the only chair in the room, a leftover piece from an old dining room set bought at a yard sale. He punched the button on the window air-conditioning unit and a cool stream of air steadied out. Relief. He pulled out the piece of paper he had received from Mr. Wu and looked at the name and address. It was nothing more than ink on paper. He had no feelings for what he was going to do. He didn’t have time to get emotional. Time was ticking. C.F. Chang didn’t ask you to do something at your leisure. You were always on the clock. ***

Chow Ying milled about for half the day among the lawyers and lobbyists in the 1300 block of K Street. Winthrop Enterprises was in an area of D.C. that wasn’t on the tourist map, and the large Chinese with a ponytail stood out like a Hawaiian shirt at a black tie formal. Beyond the lobbyists and lawyers in suits, there just wasn’t much to see on K Street during the day in the business part of the District. The Mountain of Shanghai, sweating like a cook at an open-pit BBQ, bought a bottle of water from a local convenience store where the mainstay of its sales seemed to be lottery tickets to attorneys in expensive cars. Chow Ying bought five dollars’ worth and slipped the tickets into his front pocket. You never know.

He watched every face that came and went from the address of the building written on the piece of paper in his pocket. Peter Winthrop had neither come nor gone. Chow Ying was good with faces. He had spent an evening with the CEO and Senator Day as their chauffeur when they were on Saipan. And though no one was asking, he didn’t care for either Peter Winthrop or the senator the Chang family had in its sights. They were foreign exploiters, which in Chow Ying’s mind was greatly different from homegrown, full-blooded Chinese exploiters. There was no doubt in his mind he would remember his target on sight. He was equally sure Peter Winthrop would recognize him. Everyone did.

The bus stop, with its backless bench, was the only seat on the block with a direct view of the door to the building that housed Winthrop Enterprises. Chow Ying watched the buses come and go, their arrivals and departures, the occasional summer skirt the only break in the monotony of the task at hand.

Wilting under the heat, Chow Ying sprang to his feet when his mark came out the door. He stared hard and wiped the sweat from his brow. The familiar man in the suit stopped, dug around in his bag for his cell phone, turned his back toward Chow Ying and made a call.

Eight hours in the sun were just about to pay off. He sized up his target as he walked—right size, right build, same measured movements and air of self-confidence. How he loved the hunt. Chow Ying picked up the pace, moving briskly through the crowds on the opposite side of the street, his eyes fixed over his right shoulder as he weaved between the suits.

When the light turned green, Chow Ying crossed the street with the afternoon crowds. As he passed the UPS truck picking up deliveries, Chow Ying grabbed the knife from the small of his back and moved it to the front of his body, still under his shirt. Thirty yards away and closing. Just a quick stab, angled upward beneath the rib cage, combined with a twist of the neck and the deal would be done. By the time the blood was pumping out of Peter Winthrop and the crowds on the sidewalk broke into hysteria, Chow Ying would be gone. He would be out of town in less than an hour, and out of the country by midnight.

When Jake clapped his mobile phone closed and turned, Chow Ying was fewer than fifteen feet away, hand tight on the knife. The Mountain of Shanghai looked at Jake’s face through the crowd and slammed on the brakes to his emotions. Jake, oblivious, turned and walked in the direction of the subway.

Salt from sweat burning his eyes, Chow Ying again wiped his brow and followed Jake as he slipped below the surface of the Washington sidewalk. That has got to be his son , he thought as the escalator inched its way into the shadows. Twenty steps below stood his newly acquired target, one hand on the handrail, the other hand on the sports page. Maybe the young man would lead him to his father, Chow Ying thought, his expression blank. He was on automatic pilot. A patient hunter looking for the right opportunity and willing to track his prey as far as he had to.

Chow Ying grabbed a subway map on his way out of the Cleveland Park Metro station. He walked with one eye on the map and one eye on Jake while weaving through a throng of senior citizens strolling in front of their assisted living complex.

The conceptual layout of D.C. was easy. Letter streets ran east and west in alphabetical order. Number streets ran north and south ascending in both directions as you leave the Capitol. Combine that simple plan with a few hundred memorials and museums to mark the landscape, and one had to really put some effort into getting completely lost. One-way streets and circles wreaked havoc on driving, but walking the city was a breeze.

Jake stopped at the convenience store to pick up a pack of condoms. Chow Ying waited outside, smoked a cigarette, and tried to get his bearings. It was an old habit. Walking was the one form of transportation always available, and Chow Ying kept the compass in his head as accurate as possible. When trouble reared its ugly head, he wanted to know which direction to run. He took a look at the sun, then the block numbers on Connecticut Avenue, and made a rough assumption that he was three miles west of his temporary abode at Peking Palace. He was accurate within a quarter mile.

Jake made a second stop at a Thai restaurant called Otong’s for an order of Pad Thai from the street-side carryout window. Chow Ying stepped into the McDonalds two doors down for a less opulent double cheeseburger and large Coke to go, keeping Jake in sight through the glass.

Chow Ying trailed the young Peter Winthrop back to his apartment at a distance far enough to go unnoticed. Jake, unaware of the danger he just led to his door, entered his apartment building without looking back. The Mountain of Shanghai, ketchup in the corner of his mouth, committed the address to memory.

Chapter 16

The Hart Senate Building was built on one of the highest pieces of ground in D.C., the altitude giving the third floor office of Senator Day a sweeping view of the capitol and the national mall that ran two miles southwest to the Lincoln Memorial. It was a room with a view, and one the senator had jockeyed position to get for two terms. Competition for perks was intense, and there was no shortage of battles to fight to improve one’s position within the elite of the elite. Senators aren’t usually elected by mistake, but when it does happen, the constituents tend to notice by the end of the first term. Three inaugurations was the standing record.

Senator Day’s page shuffled around the office, making coffee and planning his work schedule, wedging personal agendas between whatever the senator had on his plate for the day. The senator’s Ivy League all-star aide, still recovering from his water skiing injuries incurred in the west Pacific, was sorely missed. The page, a recent grad named Doug, was now teamed with Dana and four other full-time helpers. They had one task among them—caring for the self-admitted brashest senator on the Hill.

Senator Day was on the speakerphone when Dana slipped into the room and delivered the envelope. With lips colored fire-engine red, she mouthed the words “he said it was important,” before walking out. The senator nodded, gave a slight wave, and watched the tightest ass in the Hart Senate Building sway its way out of the room. The perfect office assistant.