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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 driverâs 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.
âAnother hour at the most,â 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 senatorâs hands moving like ivy on human walls. His Rolex came to rest on Wei Lingâs shoulder. His Harvard class ring continued to caress the bare skin on Shi Shi Wongâs 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 couldnât 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 didnât look up until the elevator doors had closed.
Chapter 2
The memorial service was held at St. Michaelâs, 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 wasnât a dry eye in the house.
His mother would have appreciated the
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 driverâs 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.
âAnother hour at the most,â 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 senatorâs hands moving like ivy on human walls. His Rolex came to rest on Wei Lingâs shoulder. His Harvard class ring continued to caress the bare skin on Shi Shi Wongâs 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 couldnât 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 didnât look up until the elevator doors had closed.
Chapter 2
The memorial service was held at St. Michaelâs, 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 wasnât a dry eye in the house.
His mother would have appreciated the
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