Sweat (10 page)

“Is everything all right?” the waiter asked. Jake nodded and gave him a hushing gesture with his hands. “Please,” the waiter added, glancing around at the customers to indicate that the crying was ruining business.

Marilyn excused herself to go to the bathroom and the waiter came back with the order of waffles. Jake slapped some butter on the two-tiered stack and poured a healthy dose of syrup into the dimples. Marilyn returned, wiped her cheeks again with a wad of Kleenex, and took a sip of her coffee.

“I had an affair with your father, Jake. Twenty-five years ago.”

Jake quickly did the math in his head and a stern look washed over his face. The smile, the kind eyes, the cheerful personality were no longer part of his character.

“I'm listening.”

“I was young, your father was charming. We spent a lot of time together. One thing led to another.”

“Did my mother know?”

“She eventually found out, and then promptly threw your father out of the house. You were one, and just beginning to walk.”

“I always thought he left us.”

“Well he did, in a way. And it was my fault…” The tears were back with a vengeance and Jake just stared at her while she bawled. He eschewed all sympathy from his heart and pushed his warm, uneaten pile of waffles to the edge of the table.

Marilyn, speaking through huffs, continued. “There is something else. I became pregnant after you were born. At your father's request, I had an abortion. I've regretted that decision every day since. Every day.”

Jake didn't know what to say. She was now talking about herself, and Jake finally understood the reason for her tears. Marilyn was a victim. A victim of his father and a victim in her own mind.

“We need to do something.”

“Jake, let your father handle it.”

“What's he going to do?”

“Handle it.”

“I want to contact the girl.”

“Forget it, Jake.”

“I can't.”

“Jake, your father is someone who likes things his way. He will handle this, whether you want him to or not.”

“I'm going to see if there is something I can do.”

“Like what Jake? Get on a plane to Saipan? Your father is a big boy, with a lot of friends.”

“Marilyn, did you read this fax? This girl is begging for help. She has gone through extreme measures to get this to us. We can't sit here and do nothing. And after what you have been through? Doing nothing is not a choice.”

“Jake, I can't help you. Winthrop Enterprises is my life. I have equity in the company. It is the only thing I know. I am a forty-five-year-old executive assistant who has only had one employer.”

“Fine. Forget the girl then. I won't. My father doesn't scare me.”

“That is because you don't know him.” Marilyn took another drink of her coffee and Jake gestured for the check. Silence filled the void as Jake threw a twenty on the table. “I may know someone who can help you,” Marilyn conceded quietly, staring out the window.

“Who?”

“His name is Al.”

“What does he do?”

“All I can say is that he may be able to help.”

“Give me his number.”

“I can't. I'll arrange for a meeting. That's the best I can do.”

“Fine. The sooner the better.”

Jake headed back to Winthrop Enterprises with Marilyn in tow, three paces behind. They exited the elevator and casually strolled through the whispers and stares before Jake locked himself in his office. He swiveled the monitor on his computer slightly and tapped into the single greatest source of information in the internet age: Google.com. He typed in the search words “Saipan” and “police department,” moved his cursor to the SEARCH button and hit ENTER. After a few clicks of the mouse, he was staring at the Department of Public Safety for the Island of Saipan. He jotted down the phone number and clicked through some other pages from the search results.

Jake read about Saipan, supplemental information to a history lesson from Mr. Jennings in eighth grade. A tropical island paradise where the U.S. dollar was the official currency and the U.S. Postal Service delivered the mail. Who knew?

The call to Saipan's Department of Public Safety's switchboard went through without a hitch.

“Saipan Department of Public Safety. Is this an emergency?” the female voice asked in a slow voice.

“No, this is an inquiry.”

“I'm sorry, but no one is available at the moment to handle inquiries. I can patch you through to voice-mail if it is not an emergency. Someone will get back to you as soon as they can.”

“Please. Put me in touch with the man in charge,” Jake said with fake authority, not knowing the minute size of the Saipan police force.

As Jake waited to be connected, he found himself looking around the office nervously.

“You have reached the voicemail of Captain Talua. I'm sorry that I'm unavailable to take your call. If you leave a detailed message, I will get back to you as soon as I am able.” A long beep followed and Jake prepared himself for his speech.

“Yes,” Jake stammered. “My name is Jake Patrick and I wanted to ask the police to check on the whereabouts and well-being of a Saipan resident. The resident's name is Wei Ling… I have reason to believe she may be in trouble.” Jake left his name for the second time and then repeated his work number twice slowly.
That should get the ball rolling
, he thought to himself. Just an inquiry to see if the notes stashed into the pockets of the imported shorts were a scam. If Marilyn wouldn't help, fine. He had no problem doing the right thing.

Captain Talua, a hefty man in his early fifties with a dark complexion and shallow wrinkles around the corners of his eyes, opened the blinds to his small office and looked out the window, taking in the depressing landscape across the police impound lot. A lone impounded truck, towed in a year before and never claimed, rested in the seashell-filled lot beside the skeletal remains of three police cruisers. Recent budget cuts on the island hit the police department hard. Fewer funds meant fewer officers and less equipment. The island was currently policing its seventy thousand residents with a fleet of five cars, most of them in need of repair. The cars in the growing graveyard behind the building were being cannibalized one part at a time to keep the current fleet on the road.

Captain Talua poured coffee into his favorite mug, brown stains stretching over the edge, dripping until they reached the emblem on the front, the University of Hawaii's official crest. His son went to UH, and every time he looked at the mug, it reminded him that his son would make something of himself. Get off the islands. See the world. The mug also reminded the captain that a tuition check was due in another month.

Armed with a cup of java and a view of paradise, Captain Talua pressed the button next to the blinking red light on his phone. The first call was from the local loony, Karliya Momali, a main figure on the streets of Saipan's main city, Garapan. Every morning Ms. Momali led an invisible tour group to all the island hotspots. It was the same routine rain or shine—the beach in the morning, the tourist trap souvenir shops in the afternoon, after-tour drinks down at
Brea
k
ers
for dinner. Captain Talua listened to the message from Ms. Momali informing the captain that a member of her make-believe tour entourage had gone missing. She would be waiting by the phone for the captain to call her back. Captain Talua knew Ms. Momali's memory wouldn't last as long as the message.

The second voicemail was from the captain's brother-in-law, a pain in the ass of such proportions that the captain had more than once considered divorcing the love of his life just to get away from him. His brother-in-law was calling to see if he could press charges against his neighbor. A coconut had fallen from the neighbor's tree, which straddled their property line, and hit one his free roaming chickens. The captain deleted the message as his brother-in-law explained in detail how the chicken was now walking in circles and may have to be put down. The captain shook his head. The things you should know before you say, “I do.”

The third message was Jake's and the captain listened to the voice-mail in its entirety. On the second pass, Captain Talua wrote down the girl's name, and on the third try, he managed to catch Jake's name and number.
Wei Ling
, he said to himself, followed by a surly grunt.

He pushed his rolling chair around his desk with his feet and pulled a file from a stack on the corner table near the window. No sirens went off in the captain's head. No warning bells of suspicion rang in his ears. The phone calls were not uncommon. They usually came from family members looking to make contact with a relative who was incommunicado. Saipan averaged two murders a year, and in his fifteen years as captain of the police force on the island, every killing had been committed by spouse, family member, or a boyfriend. Sure, there were accidents, people on the run passing through the island, lost causes looking for a place to be lost. But when the captain got a call looking for an Asian woman, he always checked the Chang Industries list first.

The captain opened the file and flipped the piece of paper with his scribble on it next to the file. He looked down the list, looked back at the name on the piece of paper, and checked the list again. Employee number one hundred eighty-seven. Wei Ling. Seamstress. Chang Industries.

As I thought
, the captain said to himself.

The captain looked at the folder and reminded himself that he needed an updated list of the girls at Chang Industries. It was summer and time for the arrival of a new shipment of hard-working sewing princesses. He made a note to stop by and see Lee Chang. He could pick up a new list and see if the Chang Industries coffers were in the mood to contribute to the captain's family education fund.

Captain Talua went to the john for his morning constitution, and then returned the call to Jake's office. He left a short message stating that the girl in question was present, accounted for, and in good health.

C.F. Chang ordered Chow Ying back to Beijing with a ten-second phone call that lacked explanation. The Mountain of Shanghai worked directly for Lee Chang, but everyone worked for C.F., also called “laoban,” loosely translated as “boss” in Chinese. And when C.F. Chang called, you went, no questions asked. Chow Ying closed his mobile phone, packed a single leather bag he had bought in Hong Kong a decade before, and grabbed his passport. Chow Ying, all two hundred thirty pounds of chiseled muscle, sat in the airport until a seat was available on a connecting flight through Seoul, and boarded the last plane out for the day.

Ten hours later Chow Ying checked into the top floor of the five-story Emerald River Hotel, twenty minutes from Tiananmen Square in downtown Beijing. He slept for a few hours in bed, got up for a glass of water and went back to sleep on the small sofa, legs hanging over the sweeping arm of the worn furniture. He woke from his slumber, took a shower, and tied a slightly stained hotel towel around his waist when he finished. He wiped the moisture from the mirror with his bare hand, leaving a streaking smudge in the glass, and looked at his reflection. He wondered what had happened to the carefree boy who once enjoyed school, sports, and his friends.

He checked the time and called down to the front desk to order a taxi. The young lady at the front desk answered in rough Chinese that the taxi would be there in five minutes. Chow Ying answered in an equally gruff tone, “I'll be down in four.”

The humidity in Beijing was stifling, sucking dryness from the air and everything in its grasp. A shiny coat of fresh moisture immediately replaced the sweat that Chow Ying wiped from the back of his neck. He slipped on a light pair of cotton pants, a lighter-weight shirt, and reached for his eight-inch hunting knife resting in its leather sheath on top of the TV cabinet. C.F. Chang could be demanding, but Chow Ying had yet to attend a meeting with laoban that wasn't professional. He threw his knife back on the sofa as he left the room.

The hall was empty when Chow Ying pulled the door shut and rattled the handle to make sure it was locked. He swaggered toward the elevator at the end of the long corridor with its communist red carpet and outdated lamps mounted sparingly on the walls. He thought about what he was going to have for dinner. Chow Ying was primitive. He operated on sleep, food, and gambling. He would take a woman too, if one found her way into his reach.

The elevator door opened with a quiet “ding” and Chow Ying joined two other male guests in the six-by-six foot lift. The door shut and the elevator dropped with an initial, prolonged chug.

Then all hell broke loose.

The man behind Chow Ying reached up and wrapped his arm around the thick neck of his target as the second man hit the stop button on the elevator. The lift lurched to a halt abruptly, causing Chow Ying and his attackers to momentarily lose their balance. The glimmer of a massive knife blade reflected in the mirror trim of the elevator control panel provided all the warning Chow Ying needed. The two would-be assassins didn't have a prayer.

When the elevator stopped on the second floor, Chow Ying casually stepped out, brushed himself off, and straightened his disheveled shirt. With the pulse of a surgeon about to perform an operation, he walked the three flights of stairs back up to his room to collect his meager belongings.

The female half of the young Chinese couple standing arm-in-arm in the lobby shrieked when the elevator door opened. Two male bodies were propped against the walls in opposite corners of the elevator, their arms resting in their laps like a warped rendition of Buddha in his meditative pose. The Mountain of Shanghai had a sense of humor. The knife, the intended weapon of the attackers, rested on the floor between the two bodies, spotlessly clean. There were no cuts on the victims, no blood. The injuries were internal and fatal; a fact confirmed twenty minutes later by the ambulance personnel who arrived to find that the bodies had been moved from the crime scene to a quiet corner of the small lobby.

There was only one elevator, and the guests needed it.

It was late evening when Peter took off his suit jacket and put it on a hanger dangling from the coat rack in the corner of his office. Thoughts of Wei Ling danced in his head, and he sighed the sigh of a man in trouble. He needed to do something. And nothing gave him better ideas than his regal friend, Chivas. He pulled the half-empty bottle of scotch from the small bar in the built-in bookshelves that lined one side of his office. He grabbed the Rolodex on the edge of the desk and leaned back in his chair, flipping through pages, corners tattered from wear. He flipped past the number for the head of the Trade Administration, the number for Clinton's office in Harlem, and the home address of the president of FedEx, Fred W. Smith. His Rolodex had girth and the index cards were full.

He was organized the old-fashioned way. In Peter's mind, paper was an invention that didn't need improvement. Computers broke down, got viruses, needed power. They were great when they worked perfectly, but when they didn't, they were as good as a rock sitting on the desk, taunting the user. Of course, Peter knew how to use computers, but short of a fire, nothing was going to stop his Rolodex from giving out numbers when he needed them. He stored a handful of contacts in his cell phone, programming the small Samsung a duty that Marilyn handled effortlessly. Thumbing the small device with his thick fingers was wasted time. That's what secretaries were for.

The black phone on the oriental antique table in Lee Chang's residence rang once before his part-time cook, part-time housekeeper picked up. She walked to his office at the far corner of the house and announced the caller. A minute passed before Lee Chang picked up the phone.

“Lee Chang, this is Peter Winthrop.”

“Good evening, Peter. How are you? I trust your clients got the shorts you ordered last week. It kept us pretty busy for a few days.”

“Yes, I understand they got the shorts on time.”

“What can I do for you? I hope it is not another rush order. We did what we could with that order but another one will put us behind on other business.”

“No, nothing of the sort.” Peter had bigger things on his mind than helping a retailer fill their shelves. “I'm coming to town in a week and wanted to arrange the usual companionship, with your permission of course. I wanted to take Wei Ling on a boat trip for the weekend.”

Lee Chang swallowed hard and said the first thing that came to mind. “Actually Mr. Winthrop, Wei Ling returned to her hometown in China two days ago. She won't be coming back. Family problems,” he added with definitiveness. “I can get you another girl, or girls.”

The chess game began and Peter was ready to put Lee Chang into check. “Do you have a forwarding address for Wei Ling? I would like to send her something.”

“Let me look around and see if I can locate it for you. I understand your desire to keep in touch with her.”

“Please, let me know when you find her address. I will call before I leave next week and let you know the specifics of my itinerary.”

“Fine,” Lee answered nervously before hanging up with a stream of goodbyes. He thought about the girl tied to the bed one floor under his feet. The goose that was about to lay the golden egg. It was time for the goose to have breakfast.

Peter put the pieces together in his mind. Wei Ling was pregnant and the odds were good that she was still in Saipan. Peter considered all the possibilities. “
Lee Chang
,” Peter said aloud. “
What are you up to?
” Inside, he knew the answer. The question was what to do about it.

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.