Lawrence Sanders - Timothy's game

“Timothy Cone to see Mrs. Claire Lee,” he says. “She’s expecting me.”

The mastodon unfolds his arms, and the Wall Street dick wonders if he’s going to get a karate chop that will decapitate him.

“You wait,” the guy says in an unexpectedly high-pitched voice.

He disappears and Cone waits in the corridor. In a few moments the door is opened again by the juggernaut.

“You come,” he says.

Timothy follows him through that maze of rooms and hallways. He’s finally ushered through a double set of doors, into a small living room, and then into an adjoining bedroom. The woolly mammoth withdraws.

Edward Tung Lee is seated in a leather club chair. He’s wearing cerise silk pajamas under a brocaded dressing gown. There’s a white handkerchief neatly peaked in the breast pocket of the robe. His feet are bare. Claire Lee is standing next to him. She looks like a pom-pom girl in a middy, short pleated skirt, bobby socks and white Reeboks.

“Mr. Cone!” she carols. “What a pleasant surprise!”

“I was in the neighborhood,” he says, “and thought I’d drop by to see how your husband is doing.”

“Much better, thank you,” she says. “So well, in fact, that he insisted on going into the office this morning.”

“Silly thing to do,” Edward says. “He just won’t slow down.”

They all look pleasantly at each other.

“Now listen,” Claire says, “I really don’t think it’s too early in the morning for a drink. Do you, Mr. Cone?”

“It’s never too early,” he tells her.

“And I know what you like,” she says archly. “Vodka on the rocks with a splash of water. Right? Edward, I think you should have something. Perhaps a brandy. The doctor said it would do you good.”

“A small one,” he says.

“And perhaps a small something for me,” she says gaily. “Be back in a jiff.”

She sashays out the door and Edward says, “Pull up a chair, Mr. Cone.”

But he sits on the edge of the unmade bed. Now he’s facing Lee and the other armchair. He wants them both in his sights when the woman returns.

“You look a little puffy around the gills,” he says, “but none the worse for wear. They give you a hard time?”

Edward is startled. “You know what happened to me?”

Cone nods.

“How did you find out? It hasn’t been in the papers.”

“The grapevine,” Cone says. “The FBI did a helluva job grabbing you out of there.”

“They saved my life. And one of them was critically wounded in the shoot-out-did you know that?”

“I heard.”

“I’ll never forget that,” Edward says somberly. “Never in my life.”

“Yeah,” Cone says.

Claire comes bustling in, carrying a silver tray of drinks. She hands them around: vodka rocks to Cone, small snifter of brandy for Edward, and something green in a stemmed glass for herself.

“Cone knows what happened to me,” Edward tells her.

“Oh, Mr. Cone knows everything,” she says lightly. “Don’t you! Mr. Cone?”

“Just about,” he says.

She takes the armchair, and now he can look at both of them without turning his head from side to side. They lift their glasses in a silent toast, then sip their drinks delicately. Very civilized.

“You two are a nice couple of bums,” Timothy says.

Their faces congeal. Edward’s hand begins trembling. He sets the snifter down on the floor next to his chair.

“What?” Claire Lee says, voice strangled. “What did you say?”

“Bums,” Cone repeats. “Cruds. Both of you. How long did you think you’d be able to have those matinees at the Bedlington? Forever and ever?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says hotly. “And I think you better leave right now.”

“Oh, stuff it,” he says angrily. “I couldn’t care less if you rub the bacon every day of the year. What I don’t like is that you both played me for a fool, each telling me how much you hated the other. I fell for it because it was a classic setup: younger stepmother, older son, both competing for an old man’s inheritance. Only you’ve been rumpling the sheets together for two years.”

“You’re a dirty, filthy man,” Claire says, glaring at him.

“You better believe it,” he tells her, taking a gulp of his drink. “Look,” he says, addressing Edward, “if you want to put horns on your pop, that’s your business. My business is finding out why the price of White Lotus stock has been going up, up, up. Do you want to hear my scenario? It’s a cutie.”

Neither replies.

“It goes like this,” Cone continues. “And don’t interrupt to tell me I’m wrong-because I don’t think I am.

“One: Claire and Edward are shacking up and making jokes in the sack about what a senile old fart Chin is. Two: Edward is still steaming because his father wouldn’t finance his great idea of having White Lotus market a line of frozen gourmet Chinese dinners. Oh, yeah, I saw how riled you got at Ah Sing’s when you told me about it. Three: During those tosses in the hay, Claire eggs you on, and you decide to cut loose from White Lotus, go off on your own, start a new business and make a zillion.”

“Now see here-” Edward starts.

“Shut up, you,” Cone says savagely. “Nothing wrong with your plan, but it’s the way you went about it that sticks in my craw. Your sixteen percent of White Lotus stock at the old price of thirty bucks a share would be worth a nice piece of change if you sold your stock on the open market. But it would take that to open a pizza parlor these days. You needed a lot more loot to start a frozen food operation.”

“Claire,” Edward says stiffly, “maybe you better phone the police.”

“Go ahead and call them,” Cone says. “And tell them to bring along reporters and photographers-you jerk! So your problem was how to increase your capital. The answer? Greenmail! You make a deal with Giant Panda. Those thugs play along because they’re anxious to get into a legitimate business and put all that money to work they’ve made from dope and shakedowns. The scam is this: Fronts for Giant Panda start buying White Lotus stock. The price goes up. When it’s high enough, as it was last week, Giant Panda makes a play for White Lotus, working through Yangtze International.

“Look, both of you know how much Chin Tung Lee loves his company. It’s his whole life. You figured he’d pay a premium to keep control. So Yangtze pretends they want to take over when what they really want is for Chin to pay greenmail-buy their shares at more than the market price. That would yield enough dough for you to start your frozen dinner business.”

“You’re insane,” Edward Lee says in a low voice.

“Sure I am,” Cone admits cheerily. “But I’m also right. Almost everything fits: Your father’s need to hang onto the company he created. Your need to get your new business started and prove you’re as smart an operator as your old man. And Giant Panda’s need to get into a legitimate moneymaker. What was the deal? Were they going to give you a controlling interest? Like shit they were! Those guys are gangsters, even if they work through a financial front on Pine Street. You’d be lucky to end up with thirty percent. Am I right or am I right?”

Edward Lee, stunned, makes no reply, but Claire does. “You said ‘almost everything fits.’ What doesn’t fit?”

“You don’t,” he tells her. “You and Edward could have taken over White Lotus anytime you wanted. Between the two of you, there’s enough stock to elect your own Board of Directors and put the old man out to pasture. But you didn’t go that route. Why not? Mrs. Lee, I make you for a streetwise lady who’s always had an eye on the main chance. You’re a nice-looking woman, no doubt about it, but when it comes to spine, you got short-changed.