Lawrence Sanders - Timothy's game

“Not recently,” Cone says.

“Well, I do. I have an understanding with the desk clerk at the Bedlington. Everything is handled very discreetly. I mean, I have no wild parties or anything like that. I’ve had absolutely no problems until I got those stupid phone calls.”

“How long you been using the Bedlington for fun and games?”

“Oh, about two years now.”

“You trust the desk clerk?”

“Completely. He’d never try to blackmail me.”

“What makes you think it’s blackmail? You’re over twenty-one. So you’re having a toss in the hay with a consenting adult. Big deal. Your playmates were adults, weren’t they?”

“Of course,” Edward says, offended.

“Well, then? How can anyone blackmail you? What are you worried about?”

Lee shifts uncomfortably in the creaky armchair. “It’s my father, d’ya see,” he says. “He’s from the old school. Very straitlaced. I know that if he found out, there’d be hell to pay.”

Cone shrugs. “Sounds thin to me,” he tells Lee. “You’ve got a right to live your own life. If those phone calls are driving you bananas, why don’t you go to your father, confess all, ask for his forgiveness, and promise to be a good little boy in the future. He impresses me as being a very shrewd, intelligent man. He’s lived a long life, and I’d guess he’s seen everything and probably done more than you realize. I just can’t see him making a federal case out of your occasional bangs at the Bedlington.”

“You just don’t know him,” Lee says in a low voice. “He can be a very vindictive man when he’s angered.”

“Well,” Cone says, “I don’t see that there’s a helluva lot you can do about it. You could have your private number changed, but they’d just call you at the office.”

“And there’s nothing you can do about it?”

“Like what?”

“Find out who’s behind it.”

Cone shakes his head. “Not on the basis of what you’ve told me. I could get someone to put a tap on your phone and record the calls-but what good would that do? If the guy only talks for a minute or two, the chances of tracing the call are zero. The only thing I can suggest is this: If it is blackmail, sooner or later your mystery caller is going to tell you how much he wants and how it’s to be delivered. If it’s a person-to-person payoff, I can handle it for you and maybe collar the guy or at least get a line on him. If the payoff is to be made by drop or by mail, it’ll still give a possible lead. Right now we’ve got nothing.”

“Then if I do get another call and I let you know, can I depend on your help?”

“Sure.”

“Thank you!” Edward Tung Lee cries fervently. He rises and leans across the desk to pump Cone’s hand. “I can’t tell you what a load you’ve taken off my mind. Thank you!”

After he’s gone, Cone lights another Camel, leans back, parks his feet on the desk. That had to be, he reflects, one of the sleaziest stories he’s ever heard in his life. It’s got more holes than a wheel of Emmentaler. The only reason he’s giving it a second thought is that the guy who called Edward Lee said, “We know about the Bedlington.” And the guy who sent the letter to Claire Lee wrote: “We have the photographs.”

That’s interesting.

On Thursday evening Timothy Cone ambles up Broadway at a leisurely pace, stopping in bars twice en route to have a beer and smoke a cigarette. He can’t get Edward Lee’s fish story out of his mind. It may have elements of truth in it, but it also has gaps big enough to drive a Mack truck through.

For instance, if Edward wants to make nice-nice with a tootsie, why doesn’t he invite her up to his apartment? He’s got a private entrance, hasn’t he?

And that business of dreading his father’s wrath is so much kaka. Chin Tung Lee may be old and straitlaced, but Cone can’t believe he’d go into an Oriental snit upon discovering that his Number One son likes to get his ashes hauled occasionally.

No, Edward isn’t Telling All. His report of the phone calls may be legit, but Cone would bet the family farm that those calls are making Edward sweat for a more significant reason than fear of shocking dear old dad.

It’s a creamy night, pillow soft, with a clear sky and a teasing breeze. Stars are beginning to pop out, and a waning moon is still strong enough to silver the city. Cone hates to go up to the loft, but figures he’ll eat, feed the cat, and later do a little more pub crawling if the mood is on him.

His phone is ringing when he enters, and he kicks Cleo out of the way to get to it.

“Yeah?” he says.

“Hello, asshole,” Samantha Whatley says. “I figured I better call you early before you started pub crawling.”

“Nah,” he says. “Farthest from my thoughts. How are you?”

“Eating up a storm. Mom is stuffing me. I’ve gained three pounds so far, all in the wrong places. How are things at the office?”

“Okay.”

“Hiram giving you any problems?”

“Not me. I’m keeping out of his way.”

“I spoke to him this afternoon. He says you’re working on some Chinese thing.”

“Yeah, I’m up to my tail in chop suey.”

“Anything exciting?”

“Not very,” Cone says.

“Jesus, you’re a chatty sonofabitch,” Sam says. “Cutting down on your smoking?”

“Trying to,” he says, fumbling the pack out of his jacket pocket and shaking a cigarette free.

“And how’s that miserable cat?”

“Hungry. When are you coming back?”

“A week from tomorrow. But I’ll be in late. See you on Saturday?”

“Sure,” he says, “sounds good.”

“Take care,” she says lightly.

“Yeah,” he says. “You, too.”

“That was Sam,” he tells Cleo after he hangs up. “She says to give you her best.”

He inspects the contents of the refrigerator. It’s famine time. There’s a half-can of tuna, a couple of odds and ends of this and that, but nothing to eat. He gives Cleo the tuna and fresh water, then heads out again.

“Be back soon,” he promises the cat, “but don’t wait up.”

There’s a Greek joint around the corner that’s usually open till nine o’clock. Cone calls it the Ptomaine Palace. “The food is poisonous,” he once told Samantha, “but the portions are big.”

He sits on a stool at the Formica counter and orders a bowl of lamb stew with rye bread and a bottle of Heineken. He finds a few shreds of lamb floating in the viscid gravy, but there are chunks of potatoes, carrots, celery, and onions. He uses a lot of salt and pepper and fills up, which is all he asks of any meal.

He finishes by sopping puddles of gravy with pieces of bread. Before he leaves, he orders another lamb stew to go, figuring it’ll keep Cleo happy for at least a couple of days. It’s poured into a Styrofoam container and put into a brown paper bag.

Carrying that, he heads back for the loft. He’s on Broadway, close to home, when two short guys step out of a doorway and crowd him. They’re both wearing black trousers and gray alpaca jackets. He makes them as young Chinese.

“You are Mr. Timothy Cone?” one of them asks.

“Not me, friend,” Cone says. “I’m Simon Legree from Tennessee.”

There’s a rapid jabber of Chinese, then the other man stoops swiftly and runs his hands down Cone’s shins. He plucks the.357 magnum from the ankle holster and hands it to his partner.

“So you are Timothy Cone,” the speaker states. “Come this way, please.”

Since he’s now waving the S amp;W, Timothy goes along, still carrying the lamb stew. They lead him to an old, black, bulge-bodied Buick, a real doctor’s car. There’s a third Chinese sitting behind the wheel. They get Cone in the wide back seat, between the two men who took him.