Sweat Read online

  “Everyone wins,” the senator said aloud.

  “Everyone wins,” Lee Chang repeated.

  “Could you tell us more about your employees?” Peter asked, knowing the response before it was given.

  “Our girls are very well cared for,” Lee said. “We run the cleanest facility on the island. As you are about to see.”

  Lee Chang briefly glanced around the property for his missing guard and then continued his tour. “There are three main buildings here at Chang Industries, in addition to several smaller structures where we store chemicals, tools, excess material. The building on the left houses an infirmary and an office on the first floor. My personal residence is above the infirmary on the top two floors. My home is not very large, but it is more than adequate for my simple tastes. The building in the middle is the workshop floor. Two warehouses are located in the back of the workshop at the rear of the building. On a busy day we have over a hundred workers in here, making everything from winter parkas to khaki shorts.”

  As the group approached the front doors of the workshop floor, Lee Chang continued. “The large building to the right is the seamstresses’ living quarters, which I will show you momentarily.”

  The cameraman asked the entourage to hold their position in front of the building. He snapped several still frame shots and filmed a minute of footage with the senator and his chief-of-staff surrounded by Lee Chang, Peter Winthrop, and the large Chang Industries employee.

  Lee Chang led the smile-brigade until the cameraman dutifully said, “cut.” The light on the video camera clicked off, and Lee Chang forged ahead. “As I mentioned, the building we are about to enter is the main floor of the manufacturing facility. Twenty-five thousand square feet of efficiency.”

  The tour of Chang Industries took just over two hours. They filmed inside the main doors to the facilities and next to the entrance to a scrubbed and sterilized warehouse. Long tables stretched from one end of the work floor to the other, the hard benches made from mismatched planks of wood tidily tucked under the tables, out of sight. Flower bouquets stood at the end of each row of workbenches.

  “Can we film in the seamstresses’ quarters?” the senator asked.

  “Of course. Of course,” Lee Chang answered.

  The crowd walked through the double doors of the seamstresses’ quarters, past a pile of neatly stacked shoes and slippers near the entrance. Lee Chang led them to the first room on the right. The movie set was built and waiting for the camera.

  “This room is typical of the housing here at Chang Industries. Each worker has her own bed, TV, air conditioning, and desk. There is a shared bathroom at the end of the hall that was remodeled last summer.”

  Peter took his turn giving orders. “Film this room. Be sure to get the TV and the air-conditioning.” He turned toward the senator and winked. “This room is better than most college dorms, and we pay twenty grand a year for our kids to have that privilege.”

  The camera crew set their equipment in the hall and filmed directly into the room. “Where are the workers now?” the cameraman asked, earning him a scowl from the senator.

  “I arranged for the workers to have the afternoon off in the city. I thought it would expedite your filming efforts.”

  The cameraman knew he was being lied to. What he didn’t know was that upstairs, packed eight to a room, a hundred seamstresses from a dozen Southeast Asian countries were huddled behind locked doors. Sweating through another tropical afternoon, they took turns rubbing each other’s backs, putting hand lotion on their calloused knuckles, nursing various ailments that came with carpal tunnel syndrome and the occasional on-the-job beating. They didn’t know who their visitors were, or why they had spent most of the day cleaning a hole-in-the-wall sweatshop. But they would know when their visitors left. They would be back at their machines before the front gate closed.

  Filming concluded with shots on a knoll behind the main manufacturing area, the slight elevation allowing the camera to focus over the barbed wire fence for an unobstructed view of a brilliant sunset over the waters of the Pacific. With the proper angle, proper lighting, and proper focus, the cameraman followed his orders to perfection. The fifteen thousand dollars he and his men had received for immortalizing lies in the lens of his camera wouldn’t weigh on his conscience. He didn’t have one. Fifteen grand for eighteen hours in a plane, a few hours of camera work, and two days in the sun. It was easy money.

  The senator’s filming entourage milled about near the main gate, whispers floating between them. Lee Chang eyed the group as he walked past. “I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to join you and the senator for dinner this evening, Peter,” Lee said flatly, approaching Peter from the side. “I have some urgent business that needs my attention.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Peter replied. “Maybe you and I can get together on my way back from Hong Kong next week?”

  “It’s possible. I have some business trips planned, but if you let me know your schedule, I’ll see what I can do,” Lee Chang answered. “Meanwhile, I’ve taken the liberty of reserving your favorite table at The Palm. I assume that is acceptable for you and the senator.”

  “That’s fine. Thank you for the trouble.”

  “No trouble at all. And if you like, Chow Ying can drive you over and see to it that you make it back to the hotel safely,” Lee Chang offered, gesturing toward the large Chinese man who hadn’t strayed far since their arrival. “He’s very reliable. And not only does he drive but he’s big enough to keep you out of trouble, should you find any,” he added with a laugh.

  The senator looked at his all-star aide. “Scott, take the night off.”

  The senator’s chief-of-staff looked around. In Washington, he would have protested for the opportunity to stay awake for another twenty-four hours in the name of career advancement. But looking around, he saw no one to impress. And he couldn’t imagine any restaurant on the island with a who’s who reservation list.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll grab a beer in the hotel bar and hit the hay. Getting up early to go waterskiing tomorrow.”

  The senator rubbed his hands together. “Well, then, that’s settled.”

  Ten minutes later, with the white van packed, Lee Chang, Peter Winthrop, and Senator Day waved the senator’s public relations filming entourage goodnight.

  As the van pulled away in a small cloud of dust, the senator inspected the main guard booth and the now present guard. Lee Chang took Peter by the arm and stepped away. The sweatshop boss dropped his voice to a whisper and looked over Peter’s shoulder as he spoke, “Interested in the usual companionship?”

  Peter, in turn, looked over at the senator who looked back and nodded in approval to the conversation he couldn’t hear but fully understood. “Is Wei Ling available?” Peter asked as if ordering his favorite wine from the menu.

  “Yes, of course. Wei is available. Shall I find a companion for the senator as well?”

  “Yes, the senator would enjoy some company. Someone with a good command of English. I don’t think he wants to spend the evening playing charades,” Peter responded.

  “No, I’m sure he wouldn’t.” Lee Chang smiled, nodded, and barked at Chow Ying in Chinese. The large subordinate walked across the front lot of Chang Industries, down the side of the main building, and vanished into the seamstresses’ two-story living quarters. The CEO, senator, and sweatshop ruler went upstairs to wait.

  Traditional Chinese furnishings cluttered Lee Chang’s living room.

  “Nice piece,” the senator said, running his hands across a large black cabinet with twelve rows and columns of square drawers.

  Peter spoke. “It’s an antique herbal medicine cabinet. The Chinese characters written on the front of each drawer indicate the contents.”

  “Tattooed reminders of a former life,” the senator said with poetic license.

  Lee Chang stepped over and pulled open one of the drawers. “And now it holds my DVD collection.”

  “Moderniza
tion never stops,” Peter added.

  The three men found their way to the living room and Peter and Senator Day sat on the sofa. Lee took a seat on a comfortable wooden chair, small cylindrical pillows made from the finest Chinese silk supporting his arms.

  The middle-aged woman who entered the room to serve tea didn’t speak. She had standing orders not to interrupt when her boss’s guests were wearing suits. The senator watched the woman skillfully pour tea from a blue and white ceramic teapot. He wondered if the woman was Lee Chang’s lover. Peter knew Lee’s taste ran much younger.

  The intercom came to life on the wall near the door and Chow Ying announced that the ladies were ready. A brief exchange followed in rapid-fire Chinese before Lee Chang ended the conversation abruptly, flipping the intercom switch off.

  “Gentlemen, if you are ready, the car is waiting.”

  The senator took the front seat next to Chow Ying. Peter gladly sat in the back seat, squeezing in between the two beautiful Asian women. As he got comfortable in the rear of the car, Wei Ling whispered in his ear, her lips tickling his lobe. Peter smiled as his lover’s breath blew on his neck.

  Shi Shi Wong, the senator’s date for the evening, looked up at the seamstresses’ quarters as the car began to move. She spotted several faces pressed against the glass of a second floor window and fought the urge to wave.

  By the time the black Lincoln exited the gate of Chang Industries, Peter had one arm around each lady. He kept them close enough to feel their bodies move with every bump in the road. He leaned his torso into theirs with every turn of the car.

  Peter Winthrop’s favorite table at The Palm was in an isolated corner next to a small balcony overlooking intimidating cliffs thirty yards from the back of the restaurant. A steady breeze pushed through the open French doors that led to the balcony, blowing out the candle in the center of the table as they arrived.

  Peter asked for recommendations from the chef and ordered for everyone. They had spicy barbecued shrimp for an appetizer, followed by a salad with freshly sliced squid that the senator refused to eat. For the main course, the party of four shared a large red snapper served in a garlic and lemon-based Thai sauce. Copious amounts of wine accompanied every dish.

  Chow Ying waited subserviently in the parking lot for over three hours. He fetched two cups of coffee from the back door of the kitchen and drank them in the Lincoln with the driver’s side doors open. With his second cup of coffee, he asked the waiter how much longer he thought the Winthrop party was going to be.

  “Another hour at the most,” came the reply.

  On the trip back to the hotel, the honorable senator from Massachusetts threw his honorability out the window and sat in the backseat with the ladies. Flirtatious groping ensued, the senator’s hands moving like ivy on human walls. His Rolex came to rest on Wei Ling’s shoulder. His Harvard class ring continued to caress the bare skin on Shi Shi Wong’s neck.

  Peter made conversation with Chow Ying as the driver forced himself not to look in the rearview mirror. Peter, never bashful, glanced at Wei Ling on the opposite side of the backseat, their eyes meeting with a twinkle, her lips turning up in a smile for her lover. Peter smiled back. Wei Ling was beautiful, and a sweetheart, and intriguing enough for Peter to find an excuse to stop in Saipan when he was on business in Asia. He usually brought her a gift, nothing too flashy, but something meaningful enough to keep her compliant in the sack. A dress, lingerie, earrings. He liked Wei Ling, a simple fact tempered by the realism that he was a CEO and she was a third-world seamstress. Pure attraction couldn’t bridge some gaps. But Lee Chang was proud of the fact that Peter had taken a fancy to Wei Ling. It was good business. She was a company asset. He wished he could put her on the corporate balance sheet.

  Chow Ying dropped the party of four off at the Ritz, an eight-story oasis overlooking the finest stretch of white sand and blue water on the island. He gave Wei Ling and her sweatshop roommate-turned-prostitute-without-pay a brief command in Chinese and followed with a formal handshake to the senator and Peter. He waited for the four to vanish through the revolving door of the hotel and then pulled the Lincoln into the far corner of the parking lot.

  The senator and Peter weaved slightly across the lobby of the hotel. Wei Ling and Shi Shi Wong followed several paces behind. The concierge and hotel manager, jaws dropping momentarily, engaged in a seemingly urgent conversation and didn’t look up until the elevator doors had closed.

  Chapter 2

  The memorial service was held at St. Michael’s, a stone and masonry masterpiece that stood at the intersection of Pennsylvania Avenue and Twenty-Third Street in the District. The main vestibule of the church sat three hundred comfortably, four hundred if the parishioners were willing to get friendly. Christmas and Easter had the sinners lined out the door, but on a Saturday morning for a funeral, the pews were less than a quarter full. Father McKenna, who had baptized Jake twenty-four years before, just feet from where the padre now stood, opened the Bible and read a verse from Corinthians.

  Jake Patrick slouched and wiped tears from his eyes, shoulder-to-shoulder with his relatives in the front row of pews. Three uncles, their spouses, eleven cousins, and old friends of the family Jake had known since birth had all made the trek from Portland. Distant friends and relatives in both geography and support. With a nod from Father McKenna, Jake stepped forward and delivered the main eulogy, a speech he wrote and rewrote two dozen times before he came up with something good enough for his deceased mother. Uncle Steve followed with a few words of his own, and when he finished laying praise on his sister of forty-eight years, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

  His mother would have appreciated the sentiment, if she hadn’t been so pragmatic. But before Susan Patrick had passed, she’d let it be known that the funeral wasn’t for her—it was for those she was leaving behind. She was in good hands. “The rest of you still have time to serve,” she loved to say. The last time Jake heard his mother utter those words with her magical smile and a wink, he had managed to laugh. They laughed together amidst the plethora of medical equipment that had filled his mother’s living room—beeping and pumping and hissing—straining to prolong her life.

  Yes, his mother would have appreciated the friends, family, and co-workers who came to pay their last respects. The good thing about dying slowly, if there is any redeeming quality in prolonged agony, was the opportunity it gave everyone to say goodbye. It was a morbid reality and an opportunity that perhaps only the loved ones of someone lost suddenly can truly appreciate. Real tragedy struck without warning.

  The crowd came to pay their respects, the goodbyes long since expressed. And less for a single exception, there were no surprises, no unexpected faces in the multi-colored streams of light formed by the sun forcing its way through the arching stained-glass windows.

  Six pallbearers were more than enough to lift the casket, the container far outweighing its contents. Jake didn’t see his father until he was exiting the church, one sixth of the weight of the casket resting on his left shoulder. Their eyes met, his father nodded, and for a second Jake thought he saw a tear on the cheek of the man he hadn’t seen in over six years.

  The procession followed the hearse and its police motorcycle escort through Saturday morning traffic to King James Memorial off Sixteenth Street. Jake’s mother had agreed with the selection of her final resting place, a stone’s throw from Rock Creek Park and the National Zoo. It was nice—as far as cemeteries go—and if that helped to ease the grief of those she was leaving behind, then fine. Personally, she didn’t care where they put her. Her credo was, “Love me when I’m alive, not when I’m dead.”

  Most did.

  The ashes-to-ashes, dust-to-dust ceremony at the plot of freshly dug earth was short. Hands caressed the casket in a final unfulfilling gesture of intimacy, roses placed on the white cloth that draped the middle of the coffin like an untied belt. Jake made his way to the casket, gave his mother a symbolic final kiss goodbye, and then b
roke down sobbing for the only person in the world he really loved.

  The post funeral gathering was held at Uncle Steve’s; Jake’s only relative who didn’t require a long-distance phone call. The familiar faces from the first several rows of pews at St. Michael’s now filled the tight, outdated kitchen with its cracked Formica countertops and worn linoleum floor. The women tried unsuccessfully to evict the men who stood around the small kitchen table inhaling chips and dip, circling like vultures waiting for a more substantial carcass. Jake’s mother’s favorite jazz CD played in the living room, loud enough to hear throughout the small first floor of the brick row house.

  Uncle Steve, fifty, bald, and feisty, passed out cold Miller Genuine Drafts to anyone who would join him in a pre-noon drink. Mrs. Nelson from two doors down moved her sixty-eight-year-old body like the former salsa dancer that she was, and transformed the dining room table from a bachelor pad pile of magazines and newspapers to a place where people could sit down and eat. Smokers were banished to the back porch by Father McKenna, who was the first to take Uncle Steve up on his offer for a late morning beer.

  The doorbell rang and Uncle Steve, bald head glistening from the heat of the kitchen, shuffled toward the front foyer, beverage in hand. A curtain hung over the oval window in the antique door, offering only a silhouette of the tardy guest. Steve peeked behind the curtain, yanked the tarnished brass knob, and opened the door. Cold stares spoke volumes as the silent collision of the past and present soured the already somber atmosphere.

  “It’s been a long time Peter,” Uncle Steve said.

  “Yes it has, Steven.”

  The two men stood face-to-face through the half-opened door and Uncle Steve made no effort to invite the guest into the house.