The Voting Machine

A Path in the Wilderness

Outside the window, a pair of powder blue swallows sat on the branches of a sycamore tree and sang happy melodies. The air was sweet with the scent of pink ladies in the gardens below my second story window. The texture was something between damp and dry. I took in the view of opulent houses on a flat street surface. There weren't too many neighborhoods this rich that weren't on a hill or by the ocean. It figured it had to be Hancock Park, smack in the middle of mid-town, just a couple miles from the Chinese Consulate General in Koreatown.

"He's awake," Chen said.

My fingers tingled as I reached for the bruise on my neck.

"What did your guy do to me?"

"We needed you calm and quiet. Otherwise, you and my men would all be in FBI custody right now. I am sure you wouldn't like that."

"I guess you wouldn't like that either," I said. I stuffed a pillow under my head, propping it up on the arms of the couch. I ran my fingers over my sun-scorched head. The Dodgers cap was probably back in the alley behind the Golden Pheasant. My vision was still blurry and I had to squint to bring their faces into to focus.

Teresa was in a new pantsuit, with her hair slicked back and her makeup perfectly applied. You would've never guessed we'd been dressed in tatters, wandering the sewers together four days earlier. "Mr. Chen is offering to help us," she said. "He has a special relationship with the Chinese government and they all have diplomatic immunity from prosecution. Once we get to the Consulate General we are technically on foreign soil. The building is off limits to the FBI."

The wall behind them was decorated with an old Chinese painting. It showed a journey through an exotic, natural landscape from the perspective of the traveler. A rugged, narrow path twisted through bamboo, rocks and trees until it reached the foot of a foggy mountain. It was impossible to decide whether the trail continued to a destination or just ended in a tangle of wilderness.

"Why do you want to help us now?" I asked Chen. "You didn't want to help us in Vegas. You asked us to leave the Paiza Club right?"

"Circumstances have changed." Chen spoke English in a slow, even rhythm that seemed to drain the emotions out of the words. He wore a black, silk shirt under an Italian suit. The ring on his finger cost more than everything I'd ever owned in my life. I knew a little about the super-rich Chinese who were moving into L.A. and Las Vegas in ever-larger waves, knocking down old ranch houses in San Gabriel and Arcadia to build 4,000-square-foot feng shui mansions. Their manners were impenetrable to me. They seemed to shout when they were relaxed and smile when they were sad. My experience was that most people had a similar set of motivations once you knew how to get past the exteriors. Faces might come in all shapes and shades but underneath everybody bled the same color.

"I think I know what changed. You're scared of what happened to JP on the balcony. If they could get to him, you might be next."

"J.P. was working for Shiro. I was merely a client."

"Yeah, but you are one of the more high profile customers, wouldn't you say: The lead investor on China's first attempt to buy an American bank?"

"You're correct. J.P. death has made me reconsider what Shiro is capable of. You, me, Teresa, I think we have a common enemy who is targeting us. And we should help each other if we share a mutual interest in staying alive."

"You want to be partners with us?"

"My family has survived a long time in Chinese politics, which is not an easy thing to do. One of the things my father taught me was the important of a wide human network, creating alliances with people from all corners. I realize I did not treat you kindly at the Paiza Club. I think you can understand my situation then and your situation now. As Teresa mentioned, I can offer special protections to you through the Consulate General. Who else is likely to make such an offer?"