Sweat by Mark Gilleo Page B

Years of doing business with snakes taught him never to divulge all his information at once. The truth was simple. After Lee was caught with the underage daughter of a high-powered politician in the Chinese Ministry of Trade, Lee’s father had been forced to make a decision. And C.F. Chang chose money over his youngest son.
    â€œYes, Lee is the only son working outside of China on a full-time basis,” Peter finally answered, his mind filtering every word of the conversation, trying to gauge where the senator was going.
    â€œWhat about money?”
    Peter smelled blood. “I’m sorry, Senator?”
    â€œDoes Lee share in his family’s fortune?”
    â€œI imagine he is well taken care of.”
    Peter thought about the senator’s question and stored it in his memory bank. “Is there a problem?”
    â€œNo. No problem at all. I’m just gathering background information. I know I asked some questions about Chang Industries before our trip, but I wanted some more information on our host. I need to be prepared for the Senate Committee. You know how it is with politicians. Any imaginable question could come up.”
    â€œI understand, Senator.”
    â€œOf course you do, Peter. That is why you have your office right here in D.C., close enough to hear the whispers circulating the halls on Capitol Hill.”
    â€œI’m not hiding my intentions, Senator. I’m into money, politics, and women. Usually in that order.”
    â€œPlease, there is no need to get defensive. I’m just saying that you could have your office anywhere, but you choose to keep it in D.C. Very prudent. Keep an eye on legislation that will affect your business. Very smart.”
    â€œSenator, my home is D.C., but the world is my office.”
    The senator had asked enough questions for one evening. He reached to the table and raised his glass. “To continued success.”
    The two powerhouses clinked their glasses and sipped their drinks. They finished their cigars and brandy, dousing themselves in alcohol, thick smoke, and suspicion.

Chapter 7

    The stainless steel handcuff dug into Wei Ling’s left wrist, leaving a purple bruise in the shape of a bracelet like a punk-rock fashion statement. Her backside was sore from lying hours on end, the only alternative she had to standing directly next to the bed. A bedpan in need of attention rested on the floor under the mattress, just beyond the outstretched toes of her bare feet. She was trapped in a world so narrow it made a cell in the solitary confinement block seem like a suite at the Four Seasons.
    The middle-aged lady who took care of Lee Chang visited Wei Ling three times a day. She brought soup and rice for breakfast, noodles with a plate of steamed vegetables for lunch, and a full meal in the early evening. It was a balanced diet, and better than the food from the sweatshop kitchen served to the able-bodied seamstresses. Wei Ling’s food was coming directly from Lee Chang’s personal refrigerator. No bruised fruit. No vegetables on the verge of spoiling. Every dish contained real chunks of chicken, pork, or beef, a vast culinary improvement over the usual unidentifiable meat particles. Everything had its positive side, and for Wei Ling the food was the only thing she had to look forward to.
    Food aside, Wei Ling knew she was in trouble. No one with your best interest in mind locks you in a storage room and chains you to a bed. The good doctor hadn’t come since the morning she was diagnosed as pregnant, and Wei Ling wasn’t holding her breath waiting for his next visit. With the bloated body of the doctor sitting on a slab in the morgue, skull caved-in, she was right to assume he wouldn’t be stopping by anytime soon.
    Wei Ling wanted an abortion. She didn’t care that it would cost her five hundred dollars in penalty money to the Changs. The baby would bring shame to her own family, and her family’s honor