Sweat (5 page)

Jake flipped the business card through his fingers with the skill of a street magician. He batted the pros and cons of what he was considering back and forth in his head like a tennis ball going over the net at Wimbledon. He shut his eyes and opened them a minute later, no wiser. He looked up and said a prayer both to God and his mother, asking for guidance. He waited another minute, still looking upward, but received no heavenly intervention. No parting clouds. No rays of light. He picked up his phone and called the number.

No answer.

He left a message on his father's voicemail and hung up.
The ball's in your court
, he thought. He didn't expect a call back. He had stopped waiting by the phone when he was seven. “Expect nothing and you won't be surprised when you receive nothing,” he had learned. Defense mechanisms come in many forms.

The phone was still in Jake's hand when it rang. For the first time in two decades, his father had returned his call. He looked up at the ceiling, and for a moment he thought he felt his mother's presence. Miracles do happen.

“Hi, Dad.”

His father mustered up his friendliest greeting and before the conversation could stall, Jake laid his request on the table. “Say, any chance of getting a job at your company for the summer?”

Peter Winthrop managed not to choke on the request. Without his normal, careful consideration, he answered. “Sure. How does tomorrow suit you?”

The weekly Monday morning call was not a highlight for either Lee Chang or his father, the great C.F. Chang. Their conversation steered clear of friendly banter, family chitchat, and gossip, and when Lee did venture off topic, his father quickly brought him back to business. What was the weekly output of the facility per employee? What orders were next to be filled? How many units were shipped? Lee Chang had learned to answer the questions with precision. He knew the numbers of the business under his control. It was the one thing he absolutely had to know. He didn't plan on being banished to Saipan forever. He once believed that knowing his corner of the family business was his best chance off the island. But no longer. Wei Ling and her not-so-immaculate conception were going to expedite his return to favorable-son status.

C.F. Chang was the patriarch of the family and one of the most well-connected men in China. He prided himself on knowing everything that could affect his many businesses. He paid good money to smart people at home and abroad to keep him informed, and had no tolerance for surprises. With a billion dollars a year generated in manufacturing, defense, communications, and utilities, he couldn't afford to be asleep behind the wheel. So between his own ambition, and that of those he hired, he never slept.

The head of the family empire was not interested in listening to his son's big announcement, and he grew impatient as Lee explained the visit from the U.S. Senator weeks ago. C.F. Chang already knew about the senator's trip to the island, and he didn't want to have the facts rehashed through his son's warped perception. Confident his son couldn't possibly tell him anything he wasn't already aware of, C.F. Chang nearly missed the single biggest surprise of his adult life.

Lee Chang held his breath as his father digested the news. A thousand miles away, C.F. Chang stared into the picture of his own father hanging on the far wall of his office in Beijing. Then he spoke. “Keep this quiet and keep that girl healthy.”

Lee Chang smiled. For once, he and his father were on the same page.

Jake took his turn going through the revolving door and walked across the lobby to the information desk. Peter Winthrop kept his one hundred fifty employees busy on the top two floors of International Plaza at the corner of Thirteenth and K streets. It was as nice an office as there was in Washington, sharing two blocks in either direction with a dozen of the most prestigious law firms in the country.

The wood-paneled elevators with their brass fixtures opened on the fourteenth floor and Jake stepped into his father's world for the first time. An attractive blonde sat at the reception desk, under a formidable “Winthrop Enterprises” sign. She smiled eagerly as Jake approached.

“I'm Jake Patrick. I am here for my first day of work,” he said without pride or pretension.

“Yes, Mr. Patrick. Your father is expecting you,” the blue-eyed babe answered with a level of professionalism foreign to Jake. Another blonde receptionist was summoned and the son of the president and CEO followed his new, and equally attractive, host down the wide hall. The office was immaculate. No cheap carpeting, no cramped cubicles. Every seat had a view and everything was in its place. It looked like a place where serious people did real work.

Jake was handed off again, this time to an older receptionist who rose from her chair to greet Jake with yet another ear-to-ear smile. Dark blonde hair fell to her shoulders, a model's face with green eyes rested on a toned body. Sure, she was older, but Jake had little doubt that she had been a hottie in her day.

“Hi Jake, I'm Marilyn Ford, your father's personal assistant.”

“Nice to meet you, Marilyn.”

“Your father had to step out of the office on urgent business. He should be back in the afternoon. Until then, I am here to help you get settled. Your office is this way.”

“I don't need an office. A desk would be fine.”

“Well, I guess you are getting both—an office with a desk,” Marilyn answered without room for negotiation. “You'll like it. It has a nice view of McPherson Square.”

Marilyn opened the desk drawer and grabbed a key ring that would make any janitor weak-kneed with envy. A bell attached to the key chain rang with every move she made, as if the sound of the jingling keys alone wasn't loud enough to wake the dead.

“Quite a set of keys,” Jake said innocently.

“Somebody has to keep duplicates around here,” Marilyn answered. “People lose them and I'm the key master.”

Marilyn backtracked halfway through the office floor that Jake had just covered, took a left and headed toward an isolated corner. The description of the office she gave Jake as they walked didn't do the room justice. Jake stood at the doorway and watched Marilyn switch on the lights and open the blinds. Sun burst into the room transforming an already brilliant office into a masterpiece.

“Good God,” Jake said.

“Does this mean you like it?”

“It'll do,” he answered poker-faced. It was far nicer than anything he imagined. The wooden bookcases, handmade desk, and deep leather chairs were overkill for Jake's ambition. He was looking for a part-time job, not an extended stay in the oval office.

“I thought you might find it acceptable,” Marilyn answered.

“Are you sure this is okay? There must be a few people in the company eyeing this office.”

“Of course there are. But until you leave, they are going to continue eyeing it from a distance.”

Marilyn reached for the desk and picked up a piece of neatly typed paper. “Here are some phone numbers for you. The security desk on the first floor, the main reception desk, and some contact names in our legal, finance, and international departments. Numbers change around here from time to time, so you may get an updated list a couple of times a year. Feel free to move around, meet people, and ask questions. I also have your new email address, user ID, and password. The head of our IT team got here early this morning just for you. I will take you around to formally introduce you to everyone after you get settled in.”

Jake's small briefcase from Staples wouldn't take long to unpack. The office was large enough to live in, and the leather binder that held his schedule wouldn't fill a tenth of the desk space.

“I was sorry to hear about your mother,” Marilyn said.

Jake paused, surprised by the condolences. “Thank you.”

“She was a sweet woman,” Marilyn added, staring out the window at the park below.

“I didn't know you knew her.”

“I've been your father's secretary for over twenty-five years,” Marilyn replied. “I've met just about everyone in your family. I attended your parents's wedding.”

“I didn't know that.”

“I wouldn't expect you to. I even changed you once, though I'm quite sure you were too young to remember. Your father brought you into work and when you soiled your diapers, my job duties were expanded to cover the crisis. I didn't mind. You were a little angel.”

“I still am,” Jake replied, trying to cover his embarrassment.

Marilyn smiled. “Well, I'll leave you to get settled. Stop by if you need anything. I'll check in with you in an hour or so and give you the complete tour. The men's room is just beyond the reception desk, on the left-hand side.”

“Thank you,” Jake answered to Marilyn's departing backside.

“My pleasure,” she replied.

Jake tried not to stare as Marilyn walked away. A definite former hottie.

Peter showed up at work a little after four. Winthrop Enterprises in its entirety snapped to attention as if there were a buzzer on every desk that shocked the employees to life when the boss arrived. Jake noticed the increase in work effort, no small feat for a group that seemed plenty busy already. The more daring employees offered a “good afternoon” to the CEO. The good-looking female employees received a response.

Jake was at his desk in the corner suite alternating glances between the spread of documents on the desk and the crowd that was gathering in Franklin Park across the street. Welcome to Washington. There was never a shortage of protesters, or things to protest, and it looked like the group in the park was preparing to set up camp.

Jake flipped through Winthrop Enterprises' financial statements and marketing propaganda for the past year. Page by page he learned more about his father and his father's business than he had ever known. He moved back to the first page of the executive summary and looked at the picture of his father, showing his best used-car-salesman grin, standing in front of a huge Winthrop Enterprise sign in some unknown location.

“Glad to see you made it, son.”

Jake looked up at his father who was wearing the same grin as in the picture. It was a smile Jake himself was known for. With straight white teeth resting between two symmetrical dimples, Jake flashed an identical smile back. The fruit doesn't fall far from the tree.

“Yeah, I made it. You shouldn't be surprised. I said I would be here at the start of business and I always keep my word.”

“Of course you do. Just like your mother. The woman never made a promise she didn't keep. Do you have dinner plans tonight?”

Jake wondered if his father was capable of a real conversation. He wondered if they were going to continue talking as if they had been on speaking terms for the last six years. “Not really. Whatever falls out of the refrigerator, I guess.”

Peter looked at Jake and hoped his son wasn't speaking literally.

“Son, if you are having problems, I can advance you your first paycheck.”

Jake shook his head. He could use the money, but there was no reason to make himself look like a complete bum. “I'll pass on the advance, but I will take you up on dinner.”

“Fair enough. We will be having a nice meal with Senator Day from Massachusetts.”

“Oh,” Jake answered, wanting to take back his acceptance to dinner. A meal with his father was daunting enough. Dinner with a senator wasn't going to make an evening getting to know Dad any easier.

“We'll talk a little business, a little politics. It should be interesting.”

“Okay, sure.” Jake looked down at his slacks, shirt, and tie. “Am I dressed well enough?” He looked like any other twenty-four year old in an office.

“You look fine. I have an extra jacket if you need to borrow one. Marilyn will bring it to you.”

“Thanks.”

“My driver will pick us up in front of the building around six-thirty.”

“I'll be ready.”

The maitre d' stood at attention behind the podium, every white hair on his post-retirement head perfectly combed and slicked back. He checked the seating chart, looked over the waiting patrons, and smiled at the small well-dressed crowd standing near the door. Peter tipped the doorman a twenty, walked past two waiting middle-aged couples, and approached the maitre d'. Jake excused himself to everyone in earshot and followed in his father's presumptuous wake.

“Mr. Winthrop. Good evening, sir. How are you this evening?” The maitre d' recognized a hundred customers by sight and knew half of them by name. Mr. Winthrop was an erratic regular. Twice a week sometimes, once a month when he was occupied with business or pleasure. But he was unforgettable.

“Good evening, Albert. How is the wife?”

“She is well, thank you.” It was a lie the maitre d' told a half dozen times a day. Customers didn't want to hear about his ill wife before sitting down to fifty-dollar plate of linguini with fresh sea scallops.

“Your table is ready, sir. The senator is waiting.”

“Has he been here long?” Peter asked.

“Five minutes. He was early as usual.”

“Let's hope he's as enthusiastic and punctual at work. You and I are paying his salary.”

Albert laughed. “Sir, somehow I doubt that he is.”

Jake watched his father with interest. He was complex. A hard-ass and a charmer at the same time. Jake was getting a crash course in the type of education most kids learn through observation over a lifetime.

“Albert, this is my son, Jake.”

Jake stepped from the shadows of his father and extended his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Good looking young man, Mr. Winthrop,” Albert said shaking Jake's hand and looking at his father. Peter took the compliment for his son to mean that he, too, looked good.

The senator stood as Peter and Jake approached the table. The senator's guest, a blonde firecracker no older than Jake, put her lipstick back in her purse and tried to stand, balancing precariously on a pair of four inch heels.