Unclaimed Money

By Leo Wang

In her first job after college at the Washington, D.C. office of a Swiss bank, Sylvie hopes for stimulating and challenging work, the excitement and lifestyle opportunities of the nation’s capitol, and, last but not least, romantic adventure. Orphaned in the Vietnam War and adopted by a couple in Kansas, Sylvie knew little about her Vietnamese birth parents and grew up feeling isolated and disconnected. She seeks a fuller and richer life in Washington. What she didn’t expect was a lecherous pig of a boss who gives her a mysterious assignment that takes her into a vortex of deception, fraud and murder. Sylvie is new to Washington, and has no friends, mentors or allies to turn to. However, when she is repeatedly threatened and harassed, Sylvie fights back with help from Frank, a burned out Vietnam vet, and stumbles upon hints of a very dark secret at the bank. She pursues the clues, follows the money, and improbably discovers a profound connection to her birth parents, learning how dearly they loved her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leo Wang
• Release date: Jul 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005859077

Leo Wang

Once upon a time, life was good. Other people took care of everything. Growing up was a mistake.

Book preview

UNCLAIMED MONEY

by

Leo Wang

Smashwords Edition

© Copyright, Leonard W. Wang, 2022. All rights reserved. None of the contents of this book may be reproduced in any format, file, printed material, or other form whatsoever without the author’s written permission.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank for respecting the hard work of this author.

To the Dispossessed

Especially my parents, who

were dispossessed of their

homeland but then thrived

in America

And to Lisa and Eddie

This is a work of fiction. The story is imaginary. Any resemblance by the characters to real persons is unintended and coincidental.

Other books by Leo Wang: Tale of the Magic Dragon

Pizza With Panache

CHAPTER 1

Sylvie was thoroughly creeped out by her boss, François. His beetle eyes bulged whenever he turned to look at her, and his gaze invariably began at her breasts. The bug eyes would visually molest her bosom for at least ten seconds before drifting downward, making her tighten up as if holding her bladder. Then the eyes would fondle her thighs before continuing their assault in a more personal place. Sylvie always tugged down on her dress or skirt before entering his office, not that it did anything to deter his leering, or the undulating protrusion of his lower lip, an almost involuntary movement that betrayed his animal urges. He made sure the chairs in front of his desk were placed far enough back that he could see all of a seated woman’s body. For him, pleasure came before business.

Ah, Sylvie, it is nice to see you. Thank you for coming so quickly, he said in his clipped Swiss-French accent, a lustful smirk working its way onto his outsized lips.

I was in the middle of collecting the marketing information you wanted, but I put my work on hold when you called, Sylvie replied, to signal that she was busy and wanted to keep the meeting as short as possible. Not that it would do any good, since the lecher would drag things out as long as he wanted.

Sexual harassment wasn’t what Sylvie had envisioned when, after college, she left her home in Kansas for a job in Washington, D.C. with an international bank. She thought she’d have an exciting job in a city of power and intrigue with numerous cultural opportunities and a lively nightlife. Last, but hardly least, she harbored hopes for romantic adventure, something that had been so frustratingly difficult back home.

But the reality of Washington was grinding down her hopes. This was a city of hustlers—not the loud, flashy types that you found in New York, but more discreet mountebanks who maneuvered and manipulated others to do their bidding while they quietly and sometimes surreptitiously reaped the rewards. Although it was the nation’s capitol, there were few idealists here. The denizens were narcissistically ambitious, reflexively dishonest, preternaturally amoral, and compulsively immoral. Everyone in town had a story and most had a sales pitch, but few had any substance.

I have something very important to discuss with you, said François, shifting around in his chair, a movement hampered by his bulging potbelly. His double chin seemed to triple when he spoke, and his yellowish teeth hovered over a badly receding chin, imprinting a ghoulish cast on his face. The pronounced nose between his beady eyes called to mind a vulture’s beak, and nothing he did dispelled the image.

I see, said Sylvie cautiously, trying to sit at an angle so that he couldn’t try to stare in between her legs. But that only tempted him to stare at her toned thighs and he did not resist temptation. She hated being alone with her boss. It would be hard for her to win in a he said-she said situation.

I’m going to tell you something extremely confidential, which you must keep absolutely secret unless I tell you otherwise, said François.

Sylvie gulped as unobtrusively as she could. Anything confidential from him would be nothing she wanted to know. Her eyes flitted about, looking for a way out of the office. But she saw none. So, she discreetly reached down to her lap and with her right hand pushed against her waist, where she felt the start button of the tiny audio recorder she often tucked into her undergarments when she had to go to François’ office alone. The little recorder was her best friend and protector, at least when François was nearby.

Do you understand? he asked harshly.

You said you would tell me something extremely confidential, she said, keeping her voice clear and strong so that it would be picked up by the recorder.

Good. We have a problem with Rick, he continued. His lips contorted into a crooked twist, which Sylvie had learned was meant to be a smile.

Rick Atchison? she asked.

Yes, the equities trader.

He seems like a good guy.

Sylvie, don’t judge the situation by the superficialities of his personality. Anyone can appear congenial.

François, I was just commenting that Rick has always struck me as dependable and responsible.

That is exactly what he would have you think, replied François. Don’t allow yourself to be manipulated by Rick.

Sylvie, who had only chatted in passing with Rick Atchison, was quite sure he wasn’t the person who was trying to manipulate her. Rick was from North Carolina, born to a working class family, who had made his way in the world by first serving in the military, then going to college on the GI bill, and building a career in the financial markets. He had a knack for numbers and numerical relationships, and could follow the ebb, flow and numerical gyrations of the stock markets the way a skilled taxicab driver maneuvered through rush hour traffic. His arithmetic deftness allowed him to convert and invert numerical relationships faster than the eye could blink, giving him an advantage in financial markets that moved ever faster by the day. He had proven to be a successful trader, and consistently produced revenue for the bank. Being a Southerner, he wasn’t given to the overt hyper self-promotion of the many of his colleagues who hailed from more loquacious regions, and with his quiet demeanor seemed out of place in the world of trading and markets. Someone had told Sylvie that Rick had once been a soldier, a Green Beret during the Vietnam War, and had seen combat. But Sylvie discerned little martial spirit in Rick. He was laconic and laid-back, still a Southerner even though he now lived and worked in Washington, D.C.

I don’t think Rick has ever tried to manipulate me, said Sylvie, hoping that François might end the meeting if she were disagreeable enough.

Perhaps not. But he’s done worse.

What do you mean?

François leaned forward, as if to emphasize what he had to say. Sylvie instinctively shrank back, trying to maintain distance between herself and the would-be molester.

Rick is betraying the bank, he growled.

I find that hard to believe. How is he betraying the bank?

He is secretly working for one of our competitors.

Do you mean another bank?

Yes.

Which one?

I am not entirely certain. I have suspicions, but I cannot voice them without more information.

What is he doing for them?

Making money for them, it seems. His trading in recent months has been uneven. He has seemed clumsy lately and loses money by paying too much for stock, or selling too low. An experienced trader such as he should not be so inept. But Rick’s results have been disappointing. His losing trades are usually done with the same one or two other banks, which means that our losses are their profits. I have strong suspicions that he has some secret arrangements with them. François smirked, and then he inhaled and exhaled audibly, sounding like a warthog snorting. Sylvie suppressed a gag reflex.

Could I see his trading records? she asked.

No. Not now. This matter is highly confidential and I must be cautious about what I reveal, even to you. But you can trust me on this.

Sylvie wasn’t about to trust François about a goddamn thing.

Why are you telling me this? she asked.

Because I have a special assignment for you.

Sylvie felt a surge of nausea. This was definitely not what she wanted. Whatever François wanted her to do, it wouldn’t be good. It would be probably be evil, and possibly illegal. But what choice did she have? If she refused, she’d be resigning her job, and she needed the job. She could only hope that the special assignment didn’t involve any physical contact with François.

I see, she said, trying to suppress any hint of her dismay.

I want you to hire this man, said François, handing her a scrap of paper with a name and address written on it. Sylvie took the closest edge of it, making sure that she did not touch even the end of any of François’ fingers.

The name Frank McTigue was written in François’ ragged scrawl, followed by an address on 7th Street, NW, in Washington, D.C., and a telephone number.

Who is this Frank McTigue guy? asked Sylvie. The man’s office was in a rather marginal neighborhood, barely at the edge of urban renewal.

He is a private investigator, who is supposed to be effective. Ask him to find out if Rick is having secret contacts with anyone.

Do you want him to put Rick under surveillance?

Exactly. I have concerns that Rick is meeting with our rivals somewhere, and I want to find out everything possible about these contacts.

Why do you think he is having these contacts? asked Sylvie.

Conspirators must hatch their plots somehow, said François. Don’t ask me more, because I cannot say anything else. One thing, however, is that you must hire McTigue in your own name. Do not let him know that the bank has anything to do with this. I have arranged for you to receive a cash deposit in your checking account to cover the expenses. The cash will not be traceable to the bank because we cannot allow the bank to be connected to this matter.

Why? asked Sylvie timorously. If this matter couldn’t be connected to the bank, she’d be on her own if anything went wrong. It all definitely sounded like something she should refuse to do.

The possibility that an employee is a traitor would be embarrassing and nothing we want the customers to know. It is important to avoid any hint of scandal or improper activities at the bank.

Well, what do I tell this investigator is the reason for hiring him?

You will think of something. Maybe you can tell him Rick is your husband and you think he is having an affair.

I don’t have a wedding ring. I couldn’t tell him Rick is my husband.

That is a just a detail. Get a ring and pay for it with the expense money. Or you can think of something else. Now please turn to this task. It is a priority above everything else you are doing.

François’ dismissive tone gave her an opportunity to leave his office, and she didn’t hesitate to take it. Getting up carefully so that she remained outside the reach of his long, hairy arms, Sylvie quickly said, Okay. I’ll hire this guy and let you know what he reports.

François glowered at her, giving her a feral look blending lust, annoyance and, to Sylvie’s surprise, a hint of fear. I want a report as soon as possible. And one thing you must find out is what sort of gun the investigator carries.

What sort of gun?

Yes. These detectives, or whatever you call them, carry guns, I believe. Find out what he has.

Why do you want to know what gun he carries? asked Sylvie.

Sometimes, Sylvie, you should do what I say and not ask questions, said François impatiently, glowering as he growled.

I’ll do my best, said Sylvie, not wanting to provoke the lecher.

You’ll do better than that. You will find out this information. Quickly.

Sylvie bit her lip and walked out of François’ office as quickly as she could. She kept the tape recorder running until she was safely ensconced in her own office, with the door shut.

* * *

Later on, after it was all over, Frank would realize that the problem was she was good looking—damn good looking. Gorgeous, in fact. Beautiful girls attract a lot of things. Trouble is always among them. And the better looking the girl, the more the trouble she attracts. But the only thing Frank noticed when she walked into his office was that she was stunning.

Like many of the girls he had seen in Vietnam, she had straight, jet black hair that shimmered in bright light, flashing brown eyes, and delicate, refined features that had seemingly been hand-painted on her face. Her skin was as smooth as a baby’s. Her hands were works of art, tiny, perfectly proportioned, and graced with slender, nimble fingers. She had thin, agile lips meticulously highlighted with bright red lipstick. Her smile was dazzling and she grabbed your attention whenever she wanted it.

She wore a dark blue suit and white blouse. The skirt, being fastened around the waist, accentuated the curves of her slender, exquisite figure. A simple string of large, round pearls provided understated ornamental balance against her lustrous skin. Frank had no idea what she was wearing on her feet, as he was too busy looking at the rest of her.

Are you Mr. McTigue, she asked softly. She spoke clear American English, without any hint of an accent.

Frank suddenly remembered his manners, stood up and extended a hand. Yes, ma’am, Frank McTigue. Please have a seat.

She briefly shook his hand and then sat gracefully, delicately placing herself in the battered chair across from his desk rather than plopping down in it.

You are a private investigator?

Yes, ma’am.

Could you take an assignment for me?

Yes. I think I could fit another job into my schedule, said Frank, choosing not to mention that he didn’t have any other jobs right now. His business ebbed and flowed, sometimes filling up his days and nights, but often leaving him with nothing to do except ponder when the Red Sox would ever again win the World Series after decades of failure. They had catastrophically imploded last year, in the 1986 Series against the Mets, and Frank now lived with the bottomless despair that had burdened generations of Boston faithful. May I ask your name?

I’m Sylvie Tanner.

Tanner? Frank realized that he had subconsciously been expecting something less Anglo-Saxon in origin.

Yes. T-a-n-n-e-r.

Okay. What can I do for you, Ms. Tanner?

I want you to look into what a man is doing.

What a man is doing? Is he your husband? Frank couldn’t help but look at Sylvie’s left hand to see if there was a wedding band. There wasn’t. That didn’t mean she wasn’t married. Maybe the marriage had deteriorated to the point where she stopped wearing the ring.

No. He’s a man at the place where I work. He’s been sending me signals that he’d like to have more than a professional relationship with me. I . . . I’m kind of interested in him. But I want to know more about him. He’s quiet and doesn’t talk too much about his life outside of work. I don’t want to get involved with him unless I know more about him.

I see, said Frank. This was a strange request. He’d never before been hired to investigate a potential boyfriend. Husbands, fiancés, current boyfriends--he’d been paid many times to check them out. That, in fact, was the bread and butter of private investigators. But it was unusual for a client to want to shell out the hundreds and maybe even thousands that it could cost to get the scoop on a potential date.

Then again, he wasn’t running his meter on any other client’s dime, and there wasn’t a law that said potential dates couldn’t be checked out. Since the landlord expected payment of the rent on his office come sunshine or rain, it made sense to take paying work when he could get it. At least, that was what Frank thought at the time, although later he would realize that her lousy cover story for hiring him should have been a signal that this wasn’t a job to take. But it was a signal he didn’t see because he was too busy noticing how dazzling she was.

Okay, I’ll take the job, he said. My rate is one hundred dollars an hour, plus out of pocket expenses.

Frank expected a little pushback about this rate, since it was high for ordinary follow-the-cheating-bastard work. But she didn’t hesitate for a second.

Thank you for taking the assignment. Your charges will be fine.

Frank gulped in surprise. If money was no object, then what the hell was going on?

Please give me the details, he said. What’s his name, where do I find him to start working, and so on. Also, do you have a photograph of him?

His name is Rick--Rick Atchison. And he works with me at a bank called Banque Financiere Confidentiel.

Alarm bells went off in Frank’s head. He had heard these names before, and not in a good way. He tried to stay outwardly calm, as he never wanted to let a client see him flustered.

Excuse me, he said. You said his name is Rick Atchison?

Yes. A-t-c-h-i-s-o-n.

And he works at Banque Financiere Confidentiel?

That’s correct.

Is that a European bank? Frank asked, trying to sound curious, as if he had never heard of this bank before, even though his heart was pounding.

It’s Swiss. But it has an office here in Washington, DC. Rick and I work in the DC office.

I didn’t know Swiss banks had Washington offices, he said, struggling to get his pulse rate down.

They usually don’t. Most have their American offices in New York. But my employer opened an office here as well as in New York.

That didn’t make sense to Frank—Washington was no center of finance--but he kept going. What do you and Mr. Atchison do?

I’m a vice president. I do mostly administrative work and anything the branch manager asks me to do. Rick is an equities trader.

What does an equities trader do?

He trades stock.

Like buy and sell stock in the stock markets?

Exactly.

Do you have a photo of him?

No.

What does he look like?

About six feet, one inch, brown hair, square face, blue eyes.

How old is he?

I would guess early forties.

This was the description Frank was hoping he wouldn’t hear, but it came as no surprise. He also couldn’t help noticing that Sylvie looked like she was around twenty, at most. He’s not too old for you?

Sylvie’s face tightened up, as if she were starting to blush. I don’t judge a man by his age.

Frank was more than idly curious about how she judged a man. But other thoughts were screaming for attention inside his brain. Banque Financiere Confidentiel was a name he didn’t want to remember. Anything about Rick Atchison was even less welcome. When you’ve fought alongside a man, you never forget him. And you never forget how he fought--how well or how badly. In Rick’s case, it had been badly. Very badly. Other men had died because Rick hadn’t done his job--men who had been Frank’s friends.

Frank wondered if he should back out of this job for Ms. Tanner. He didn’t want to see Atchison again. And if Atchison saw him, the result could be non-non-violent. There were things to settle between the two of them. Frank wasn’t looking for a fight. He wanted to put the Vietnam War behind him, not re-live it. But he wasn’t going to back away if challenged by Rick Atchison.

When do you want me to report back to you? he asked, hoping she’d have an impossible deadline so he’d have a pretext to back out.

Whenever you think you have enough to give me a good idea of what’s going on with Rick, she replied. We . . . uh, I would like it as soon as possible, but there’s no deadline you have to meet. After all, I don’t have to agree to any dates. But the situation is rather awkward, so I would like to know as soon as you have an answer.

Frank thought furiously. He could pretend that he suddenly remembered a crush of other assignments that he had to do right away. Or he might mumble something about a pressing trip he had to take for another client. But then he might never see Sylvie again. That’s another problem with beautiful girls--you want to see them again.

Okay. I’ll try to move quickly, he said.

Excellent.

Do you by chance have his home address?

I don’t know the exact address. But he says he lives in a high-rise apartment building on upper Connecticut Avenue, just above the Van Ness Metro Station.

What’s his daily routine?

He comes to work around seven o’clock--early because he has to prepare for the opening of the stock market at nine-thirty. He stays at the trading desk all day—he rarely leaves while the market is open and if he goes out, he’s gone for only a short time. Then, he usually leaves work pretty soon after the market closes, which is at four o’clock.

What does he do after work?

I don’t know. He’s sometimes said something about playing sports. But I don’t really know.

Does he enjoy the nightlife?

He doesn’t talk about it if he does. I don’t think he barhops during the week, since he has to get to work so early.

Thanks. That helps. If you see me around your offices, pretend you don’t know me. I might do some surveillance there but I want you to act like I’m a total stranger.

Yes, of course.

Good. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you to sign this contract for my services, he said, pulling out a multi-copy form contract from his desk. He required it from clients so that they would understand that his job was to investigate, not to act as a bodyguard, or a relationship counselor, or a hired gun, or any of the other dicey roles that clients sometimes wanted private investigators to take on. There were some dangers in his job, and most of them came from his clients.

Sylvie signed the contract without reading it. Frank tore off one copy and gave it to her.

Thank you, he said. Now, if I could trouble you for a retainer of say, two thousand dollars, that would let me get started right away.

Sylvie reached into her purse and pulled out a checkbook. Without saying a word, she wrote a check for two thousand dollars and handed it to Frank. He waited in vain for her to protest about the amount of the retainer. It was a lot of money to check out a potential date. But she didn’t bat an eyelash. Money clearly wasn’t an object to whatever was going on here. This, too, was something that Frank would later realize was a warning that he should pause and think before he leaped into the job. But he was too besotted with the elegant features that seemed to have been hand painted on her face and the astonishing narrowness of her waist.

May I ask you a question? Sylvie said.

Sure, said Frank.

Do you carry a gun?

Uh . . . why do you want to know that?

I’m just curious.

Well, I might carry a gun if I think I need to, said Frank cautiously. Being a private investigator, he was licensed by the District of Columbia to own and carry a firearm. But he kept a low profile about it because there was so much sensitivity inside the District about guns and gun violence. And, truth be told, Frank had learned plenty well during the war what guns could do. He didn’t want to use them anymore. Even the most dedicated soldier could get his fill of killing if he saw and did enough of it. But the demands of Frank’s job as a private investigator made it prudent to carry a gun now and then.

What kind of gun is it? Sylvie asked.

This question really puzzled Frank. Why does that interest you?

I guess I was just wondering.

Frank didn’t like this line of questioning. It’s enough of a gun for my needs.

Can you tell me the specific kind of gun?

She spoke softly and almost sweetly, with an alluring half-smile. Frank tried to think of a reason to not tell her, but his brain was turning into mush.

It’s a .38 special revolver, he said.

‘I don’t know much about guns. Is that a big gun?"

No. It’s actually a small gun that has enough firepower, but not more than enough.

Does it fire a lot of bullets?

It’s what they call a snubbie--a snub nosed revolver. It loads five rounds.

Is that enough bullets?

Depends on what I’m facing. It’s not much if you’re in a war. But I stay out of wars these days.

I see. Were you in a war once?

Frank didn’t feel like discussing this aspect of his past life. The war was over, and it seemed everyone in America wanted to forget it. He was no exception. The memories weren’t good, and he didn’t want to dredge them up. And there had been too many pretty girls who had turned him down for a date when they found out he was a vet.

I was in the Vietnam War, he said, trying to avoid detail.

Sylvie gazed silently into his eyes for a moment that seemed too long. Sadness had crept into her eyes. She was no longer an exotic woman of mystery, but seemingly a young girl who might be weighed down by memories.

I’m from Vietnam, she said. I was born there. When the Communists conquered the south, my parents tried to flee. But I was told my father was captured and put in a re-education camp. He apparently died there. My mom reached a refugee camp in Thailand, with me. I was very young at the time. I was told she went back to Vietnam to try to free my father and didn’t come back. That left me without any family that I could turn to. I was very young and didn’t know where any relatives were and had no way to contact them. A refugee service arranged for me to be adopted by an American couple--the Tanners--and I grew up in a suburb of Kansas City.

Frank had no words. He knew a lot of men who had been wounded or killed in Southeast Asia, and he could talk to them or their family members in the special code of those who had served their country in wartime. But Sylvie was a different kind of casualty. She had been an innocent kid during the war, collaterally damaged by the events she couldn’t control which eventually took her away from family, culture and homeland.

I see, he said; and then he kicked himself for saying something so meaningless. You must be doing well now, being a vice president of a bank.

I’m doing okay, said Sylvie, sounding sad. Then, she appeared to pull herself together, and asked, You’ll be able to start right away?

Sure, said Frank. I’ll get right on it, and I’ll let you know what I find as soon as I can.

Thank you.

Then she was gone, her trim ass swaying briskly as she turned her head and gave him a little smile. He wouldn’t be able to get that smile out of his mind.

CHAPTER 2

The shadow that came across the door of Sylvie’s office was large and dark. She knew even before she looked up that it was François.

So, did you hire McTigue to investigate Rick? he asked.

Yes, I did, replied Sylvie, trying to sound matter-of-fact and unenthusiastic without coming across as insubordinate.

When will he start working for us? asked François.

Right away, he said, replied Sylvie.

Good. What kind of gun does he have? asked François.

He said it’s a .38 special revolver. Something called a snub-nosed revolver, said Sylvie.

Thirty-eight special revolver. What was the word you used? asked François.

He said it’s called a snub-nosed revolver—a small gun that loads five bullets.

Snub-nosed. Is that how you say it? asked François.

Yes, said Sylvie.

That is an odd word, commented François.

Sylvie didn’t reply. She had learned that François had little knowledge of idiomatic American English.

François stood there, looking expectantly at her.

I’m working on the list of customer prospects you asked for, said Sylvie, looking away to signal that she was busy and needed to get back to work.

There’s one prospect I’m interested in, and it won’t be on that list, said François, a leer spreading across his face.

Sylvie shrank back even though François was still on the other side of her desk.

"I really have to get back to work,’ she said briskly.

You can take a short break, said François as he took a step closer.

Sylvie rang the bell. Or, rather, she knocked a souvenir cow bell she had bought at a tourist shop in Wisconsin, and used as a paperweight, onto the floor next to her desk. The cheap carpeting of the office building did little to soften the impact and the bell clanged loudly, a dissonant combination of a clunk and a ring that was clearly audible through the thin drywall separating the offices. Flustered, Francois hesitated for a moment.

That’s all the time Kathleen needed to pop up at Sylvie’s door. The women in the office had organized an anti-François defense system. If the fat pig-lecher began to make a move, the target would make a loud noise inappropriate to a working environment and the nearest member of the defense team would pop over to turn the situation into an undesired three-some.

Oh, hello, everyone. Is everything okay? said Kathleen cheerfully, with a glowing smile. She was tall, overweight, married and not possessed of the attractiveness scouts for modeling agencies look for--in other words, exactly the kind of woman François would not have wanted to enter the picture.

Oh, I guess so, said Sylvie. I knocked over my bell by mistake. I’m so busy, I can hardly keep track of what I’m doing.

Oh, I love your bell, said Kathleen. You’ll have to tell me where you got it, because I want one just like it.

I got it at a tourist trap in Wisconsin Dells. They were selling all sorts of knick knacks and I just liked it, said Sylvie.

I think it’s absolutely darling, said Kathleen.

With a sulky look on his face, François silently scuttled out, driven away by the inane conversation about souvenir bells. Sylvie knew she had been lucky this time. He would try again. He always did, especially with her. Sylvie wondered if it had something to do with her in particular, or if he was another one of those White males who were fascinated with Asian women. Probably the latter, since he had focused his unwanted attentions on her from her first day in this job. If she didn’t need the job so badly, she’d have quit. But in the big, anonymous capitol city, Sylvie was a newcomer who had no connections, no mentors, and no fallback. Sometimes you don’t have the option to quit.

* * *

As Frank began his surveillance of Rick Atchison, he dug into a late lunch of chicken with garlic sauce from