Mark Gilleo - Sweat

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.

Round 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.