Sweat Page 11

  The CEO sipped his scotch and thought in silence, his Rolodex still on the desk, opened to the “C” section of names. He flipped the Rolodex from Lee Chang to Lee Chang’s father. Peter hadn’t spoken to C.F. Chang in months, since the last negotiation between a textile company in South Carolina that was looking to manufacture bulletproof vests overseas. But C.F. Chang and Peter Winthrop kept tabs on each other, the senior Chang with his fleet of special interest bribes and lobbyists, and Peter Winthrop with more personal intelligence gathering via trips to Beijing and Shanghai.

  Peter dialed the number and was connected to C.F. Chang’s personal line.

  The Chang patriarch answered the phone with a traditional Chinese greeting and Peter replied in kind before breaking into English.

  “Mr. Chang, this is Peter Winthrop calling from Washington, D.C. How are you this morning?” The effort to recognize that C.F. Chang was just starting his day halfway around the world did not go unnoticed.

  “Mr. Winthrop, it has been too long. How is your evening in D.C.?”

  “Fine, fine,” Peter replied. “How are your sons?”

  “They are very well,” C.F. Chang responded. He knew that Peter didn’t have any real family to ask about, so he did the next best thing. “How’s business?”

  “It’s shaping up to be a very profitable year.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “I apologize for calling so early, but I’m afraid I have a serious matter to discuss.”

  “Please, Mr. Winthrop. What is it?”

  “I want to inquire about an employee of yours at Chang Industries in Saipan.”

  C.F. Chang’s heart rate increased. His shirt felt tight around his neck.

  “Have you spoken with my son? I’m sure Lee can assist you far more easily than I can.”

  “Yes, Mr. Chang, indeed I have. Unfortunately, he was unable to help. I understand Lee runs things on Saipan, but I think you might be able to assist with this particular employee.”

  “I can certainly look into it.”

  “The employee I’m inquiring about is named Wei Ling,” Peter said with measured pace. He could almost hear C.F. Chang’s heart through the phone.

  “The name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Well, this girl, Wei Ling, is unique.”

  C.F. Chang swallowed harder.

  Peter continued, winging it sentence-by-sentence as the words came to mind. “I have gotten to know Wei over the last two years during my visits to the island. She is very sharp. Good business sense. I wanted to look into the possibility of having her come to the U.S. I wanted to see about employing her at my company here in D.C. She could help with many of the Asian transactions our firm handles. I didn’t mention any of this to your son, as I thought it was appropriate to discuss the specifics with you first.”

  “Mr. Winthrop, as you know, my family has manufacturing interests throughout Southeast Asia. I couldn’t possibly know all the girls by name. But with all due respect, I question the ability of one of the seamstresses to help your firm. Though I can’t speak specifically to the one you mentioned, most of the girls are uneducated.”

  “Just the same. I would like to pursue this opportunity, if possible, and with your blessing. As I mentioned, she is very sharp and has a surprisingly good command of English. She learned almost everything from tapes, talking to the other seamstresses, and of course from TV on Saipan. Only one of my current staff here in D.C. speaks Chinese.”

  “I can see your interest. Perhaps I could introduce someone else who can meet your needs.”

  “Thank you for the kind offer. But I would like to look into the possibility with Wei Ling first. Your son did mention that she had recently returned to China to deal with a family matter. He is not expecting her back and doesn’t know how to reach her.”

  “I will ask my son to look harder.”

  “Please do. In any case, I would like to contact her.”

  The silence on the end of the line told Peter all he needed to know. ***

  Chow Ying moved across town and checked into a dive hotel in a district where he used to run with the other creatures of the night. Mahjong, drinks, and street fights. It was a good time in his life, the education of the street forced upon him by a bus crash that killed his parents. He felt refreshed to be back in the old neighborhood. The same streets where he had spent his formative years running numbers, fencing bootlegged CDs, and skirting with the law in a country where they handed out the death penalty like breath mints at a garlic restaurant.

  He walked down the street in the Hua neighborhood and a feeling of homesickness washed over him. Some of the shops he remembered were still there, some refurbished, some long since leveled. The sun peeked down the alleys and through the shirts and pants that hung on clotheslines running between neighboring buildings.

  Two blocks past the small park where the local senior citizens were having tea after their morning Tai Chi, Chow Ying shoved five yuan into a public pay phone.

  “Chang Industries,” the pleasant voice answered on the other end.

  “I need to talk to laoban,” Chow Ying barked.

  “Who is calling?”

  “The person he just tried to have killed.”

  “Just a moment,” the secretary answered without batting an eye.

  “This is C.F. Chang,” the voice said, answering the phone immediately.

  “The men you sent are dead.”

  C.F. Chang was still digesting the call from Peter Winthrop and didn’t expect to hear from his current caller, ever.

  “I don’t know what you are talking about, Chow Ying.”

  “The time for games is over. I found your card in the pocket of the untrained knife handler.”

  C.F. Chang didn’t like being called a liar with such directness. There were rules for saving face, guidelines for politeness, even when the evidence clearly indicated he was lying. Chow Ying was Chinese and he should have known better.

  “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.

  “Would you be so kind as to fetch my single malt and a glass?” Jake’s father asked his faithful servant.

  “Certainly.”

  “My son and I will be on the deck.”

  “Yes, Mr. Winthrop.”

  The sliding door glided open and Jake and his father stepped onto the expansive wood deck. As was with the rest of the house, the yard was immaculate. Lights surrounded the pool, their reflection shimmering on the water slightly, the surface rippled by a light breeze. There was a rock garden beyond the pool and a screened gazebo on the left where the lighting from the yard met the darkness of the summer sky. A huge wooden fence enclosed the two and a half acres Peter proudly claimed as his backyard.

  “Nice yard.”

  “It should be. It cost a fortune. There is an Asian garden that winds around the Gazebo and stretches to the back of the lot. I tried to have the architect design it after a famous garden in Kumamoto, Japan. There is a pond with carp that cost three grand apiece, and a grove of imported Japanese Maples that cost half that amount. The lighting and fence cost another eighty thousand.”

  “It is nice,” Jake said again, unimpressed with the running total of money spent.

  “How do you like work so far?” Jake’s father asked.

  “It’s good. It has been educational. I’ve learned a lot.” Jake laughed at himself and the stream of safe answers.

  “You have been doing a great job. You have a good sense of business acumen. A good head on your shoulders. I have been impressed.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Have you given any thought to what you are going to do after graduation, career-wise?”

  “Not really. Right now I’m still working on easing back into society. The last year has been rough. Kind of been out of the loop in a lot of regards, if you know what I mean.”

  “Sure. Sure,” Peter said in a deep, soothing voice. “If you are interested, I would be happy to have you join Winthrop Enterprises. I would love to teach you everything I know. Prepare you for maybe taking the business over one day. I can’t run the show forever.”

  Jake didn’t respond. He’d only been working at his father’s company for a few weeks and a lifetime commitment was more than a little daunting. But he did enjoy working at the company. He certainly enjoyed the steady paycheck of nine
hundred dollars a week, after taxes. Not executive money, but not starving student money either. For all intents and purposes, he was an intern pulling in fifty grand a year. He hoped no one else in the office knew how much he was making.

  “We’ll have to see about that. I’m not saying ‘no,’ but give it some time and let’s see where it goes.”

  “I understand, son. I just want you to know that I’m here for you. And I would be flattered if you chose to follow in your old man’s footsteps.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it. I really do.”

  Camille reappeared and delivered a cup of coffee to Jake and a glass and bottle of Talisker to his father. The light conversation continued until Jake worked up the guts to ask a poignant question.

  “So, Dad. Tell me about your side of the family. I never really heard much about that half of my gene pool.”

  “It is a pool in dire need of a lifeguard, son.”

  Jake laughed. His father could be as funny as a stand-up comic.

  “I think everyone feels that way about their own family,” Jake said, sounding older and wiser than his age.

  “I guess they do. What do you want to know?”

  “I don’t know. Anything really. Start at the beginning, if that’s easier for you.”

  Jake listened as the story unfolded and his father held his attention raptly. Peter Winthrop could flat out tell a story. The liquor only greased the wheels of obvious exaggeration, making the story that much better. Even the depressing, dirty laundry of a family he never knew came to cheerful life through his father’s voice. But Jake knew where the truth ended and where the exaggerations began. He had the same gift. The ability to draw the crowd in and keep their attention. He used his storytelling skill far more sparingly than his father did, but he recognized the gift and, for the first time, realized it was something he was born with. Maybe the fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree, he thought. It may roll a little when it hits the ground, but gravity can only carry it so far.