Mark Gilleo - Sweat

The Mountain of Shanghai crouched in the corner of the yard, looking out past a Japanese garden, a gazebo, and a swimming pool with its soft blue water gently circulating on the surface. The large glass windows on the back of the home offered a dollhouse view into the life of the super rich and he felt a pang of envy.

He let the atmosphere of the yard surround him and realized the fence was a blessing in disguise. It eliminated the chance of being spotted by a nosey neighbor, or worse yet, a nosey neighbor with an itchy trigger finger. With the fence and the size of the yard, Chow Ying only had one thing to worry about: the eighteen-thousand-square-foot mansion directly in front of him. He fought the urge to sit, have a smoke, and enjoy the evening.

Standing from his crouch, he moved slowly toward the house for a better look, trying to blend into the night and the large Japanese garden. A light in the house stretched from the kitchen into a family room that had never held a family, the plasma TV on the wall large enough to watch from the pool. A faint light peeked through closed blinds in a window on the second floor.

Chow Ying wiped the sweat from his forehead and swiped at a mosquito buzzing in his ear. When his forward path was cut off by the screened gazebo, he veered left and paused at the small walkway that meandered through the garden. He crouched again, and scanned the house for details. His eyes caught a small open kitchen window, the curtains swaying gently in the breeze. He measured the size of the window with his eyes and quickly decided his large frame wouldn’t fit without a crash course in contortion. He considered his options. He was starting to favor plan B: showing up during the day, posing as a delivery man, forcing his way into the house, and overpowering the hired help. Then he could wait for Peter to come home, do him quick and dirty in the foyer, and leave the neighborhood in one of the finest cars Winthrop money had bought.

Chow Ying wanted a little closer look. Just a glance into the house to see the floor layout, to make things easier. He stared at the path leading through the garden to the swimming pool and paused to listen to the chirp of summer crickets. Slowly he put his foot on the path, breathing heavily. He took five consecutive steps on the large white stones, and when he passed a pair of traditional Asian lanterns standing on posts, the garden illuminated and the spotlights attached to the corner of the house came to high-wattage life.

Chow Ying froze for a moment, not sure what had happened, and then dove to his left for cover. He scampered forward on all fours through the rocks to the edge of a small bridge overlooking a pool of carp. He tried to hug the ground, to become invisible.

Inside, Camille was putting the finishing touches on her toenails while watching the broadcast of a Mexican game show. The bright lights on the motion detectors forced Camille from the bed in her maid quarters on the second floor. She shuffled slowly to the window, trying to keep her toes extended upward, and looked out into the backyard through the blinds. Crouched underneath the edge of the bridge, Chow Ying held his breath. Minutes passed and the motion-activated lights finally switched off, casting the yard back into darkness. Chow Ying waited before slowly crawling back to the edge of the path. He had choices. Continue toward the house, go through the small fish pool stocked with carp, or go back the way he came and endure a second trip past the hidden laser eye that had illuminated the yard. It was an easy decision. The next move he made would bring the lights on again. He checked his watch and waited another twenty minutes before making a break for it. Five seconds after breaking into a run, his huge frame was lunging toward the top of the fence.

The second blast of lights sent Camille to the window again, this time with the phone in her hand and her finger on the speed dial for 911. Peter Winthrop had given her strict orders. When in doubt, call the police. Words of wisdom from a man with as many enemies as friends. Peter had built the fence and installed high-tech security for a reason. Camille scanned the yard carefully before putting the phone on the bed.

Just beyond the wall to the Winthrop fortress, Chow Ying writhed in agony. Between whispered curses he bit his forearm to distract himself from the pain emanating from his ankle. He tried to stand and cursed in Chinese. It was going to be a long night.

Chapter 23

Senate committees do not create legislation, but they do influence the law-making process. Their history was the history of the country itself. Sometime between the signing of the Declaration of Independence and the Louisiana Purchase, a group of U.S. Senators in a meeting room in Philadelphia realized they were being asked to craft law on every subject known to man; a rapidly growing list of possibilities in a rapidly growing country. Even the predecessors to the modern politician were apprehensive about spending time on issues that impacted something as impersonal as the general well-being of the country. “Self before voters before country” has long been the unofficial motto of the one hundred elected officials in the Senate and their four hundred thirty-five counterparts in the House. There was no sense in being an elected official if you couldn’t give yourself a fighting chance at continuing life as one. And the only way to remain in office was to cater to your constituents. Or at the very least, give the impression you were. A thoughtful, patriotic senator with their eye on the national picture could work themselves right out of a job if they weren’t careful. Faced with that possibility, committees were born.

Committees are part investigative, part research, part dog and pony show. They look at the issues, listen to the testimony of so-called experts, create experts where they don’t exist, and discuss pending legislation ad nauseam. They have investigative powers, empowered by the executive branch and based on fear and manipulation. Armed with their rendition of the facts, they present their findings to the rest of the Senate for legislative consideration. As faulty as the process is, in two hundred years, no one has come up with anything better.

For a final time, Senator Day read the letter delivered to his office days before by an anonymous Asian figure. He needed the support of three specific senators on one hotly contested topic. He had a plan, and he straightened himself in the mirror before he left his office and walked down the hall. It was time for the marionette show to begin. Senator Day on stage, dancing and twirling under wires that, unbeknownst to the actor, were controlled by C.F. Chang. They were wires Senator Day was trying to cut. But until he knew the seamstress with his child was no longer a threat to his career, he was going to perform like a star in an off-Broadway dance musical. Costume, high kicks, and all.

Senator Grumman’s voice was still rattling the crystal glass on his desk, small circular waves rippling across his morning orange juice. Grumman, the self-proclaimed great senator from the even greater state of Mississippi, thumped his Bible as hard as anyone on The Hill. His flock of staunch Republicans, from generations of staunch Republicans, followed the senator with blind faith. He got the votes because he ran with God as his running mate, and there are fewer things more important than that in Oxford or Jackson or Biloxi, and the hundreds of small towns in between.

And Grumman had charm. The kind of personal charm that God-fearing southern preachers had. Southern preachers, charlatans, and the occasional trial lawyer. Grumman was born in the most poverty-stricken county in Mississippi, appropriately named Quitman, a name which most of the male population mistook as a directive when it came to employment. For Senator Grumman, it was a fortunately unfortunate birthplace, and one he touted every chance he got. The fact that he wasn’t really from Quitman was a tidbit of info Senator Grumman left out of the story. He didn’t announce, especially during an election year, that his parents were only in Quitman for a spell to help raise funds and rebuild a church that had been wiped out by a tornado. A convincing politician from poor Quitman County was more appealing to the southern constituents than the truth—a former cotton plantation owner’s grandchild. Grumman, graying hair, ever-present red suspenders, and adorner of an ostentatious set of gold cufflinks in the shape of a crucifix with Jesus on them, was a growing figure on the Hill. And he believed that the Good Lord had blessed him with a position to bless himself.