Lawrence Sanders - Timothy's game

“I figure your thinking went something like this: Yeah, I could go in with Edward on his greenmail scheme, but would it really be smart? What if Chin conks out tomorrow from a stroke or cardiac arrest and I inherit? It’s more than possible at his age. So maybe I should play my cards cautiously. If Edward’s plot comes off, and his business is a big success, then I’ll think about dumping the father and going with the son. But meanwhile I’ll play it cozy, let Edward carry the ball and see how far he gets. I’m young; I can afford to wait. If Edward’s a winner, I’ll go with him. If he takes a pratfall, it’s ta-ta, Eddie darling.”

“You’re disgusting,” she says, spitting it out.

“Oh, yeah,” Cone says, draining his drink. “Almost as disgusting as you two upright citizens.” He rises, places his empty glass on a bedside table. “Thanks for the belt. I’ve got to run along now. So much to do, doncha know.”

“Mr. Cone,” Edward Lee says nervously, “you’re not going to tell my father about the Bedlington matter, are you?”

“Like the lawyers say,” Cone tells him, “I’ll take it under advisement. Meanwhile, sweat a little. Now will someone show me how to get out of this damned place?”

Claire Lee leads the way in silence. But at the outside door she pauses and turns to face him.

“You had eyes for me, didn’t you?” she says.

“Yeah,” Cone says. “At first. Until I remembered I’ve got a lady who makes you look like a Barbie Doll. And she’s got spine to spare.”

“I’m not so bad,” Claire says defensively.

“Compared to whom?” Cone asks.

He gets to Exchange Place by one o’clock, after stopping at a Lexington Avenue saloon for a cheeseburger and a bottle of dark Heineken. And another cheeseburger and another bottle of dark Heineken. He’s famished because he’s coming off a high after that confrontation with Claire and Edward. Feeding his face brings him down, and he can plan what he’s going to say to Chin Tung Lee.

But he has to wait in the White Lotus reception room. “Mr. Lee is busy at the moment, sir, but he’ll be with you shortly.” That’s okay; it’s still Monday, Cone’s still breathing, and if Henry Wu Yeh’s hatchetmen are on his tail, Timothy hasn’t spotted them.

When he’s conducted into Lee’s garish office, the old man appears chipper enough. He’s got his long ivory holder with a scented cigarette clamped between his plates at a jaunty FDR angle. The mustardy toupee is slightly askew, giving him a raffish look. Even the wispy Vandyke is alive and springy.

“So happy to see you, Mr. Cone,” he says in his boomy voice, offering his tiny hand across the desk. “I meant to call you, but this is the first day I’ve been out of bed. Please, sit down and tell me what you’ve been doing.”

The Wall Street dick slumps into the leather tub chair. He shakes a Camel from his pack and lights it. “Glad you’re up and about,” he says. “I went to see your son this morning.”

“I know,” Lee says. “He called right after you left. He said you knew about his rescue.”

“That’s right.”

“What a happy ending to an unfortunate affair. You had nothing to do with it, did you?”

“Not me.”

“In any event, all’s well that ends well, as your Shakespeare said.”

“He’s not my Shakespeare,” Cone says, “and a lot of other guys said it first.”

Then they sit in silence a moment. Lee seems to sober under Cone’s hard stare; the sprightliness leaks away, the smile fades. He sets holder and cigarette down carefully in the brass ashtray.

“Is something troubling you, Mr. Cone?”

“Yeah,” Timothy says, “something is. You suckered me good, didn’t you?”

“What? What are you saying?”

“I thought you were a cocker spaniel, and you turn out to be a pit bull. How long have you known about your wife and son?”

Chin Tung Lee doesn’t answer, but he seems to shrivel and slide down in his wheelchair.

“Any other man would have kicked their butts out the window,” Cone goes on. “But that’s not your style. You’re a chess player with a habit of winning. You prefer to think five plays ahead-at least. You like to move people around the way you maneuver chess pieces. So you got a friend or employee to type up a scary letter to your wife and make threatening phone calls to your son. For a man in your position that would be duck soup. You figure to spook them into ending those matinees at the Hotel Bedlington. Then you’d forgive and forget.”

“What my son did to me,” Chin says stonily, “I can never forgive or forget.”

“Come on,” Cone says. “If it wasn’t Edward, it would be someone else-and you know it. Would you prefer a stranger? Would that make it better?”

“You are a very cynical man, Mr. Cone.”

“Nah. Just realistic. How old are you-late seventies?”

“Eighty next year.”

“So you’re more than three times her age. What did you expect? You probably knew her history when you married her; you must have figured something like this would happen.”

“Yes, I anticipated it. But not my son!”

Cone shrugs. “The family that plays together stays together.”

That, at least, earns a wan smile. “Tell me, how did you find out I was responsible for the threats?”

“No great job of detecting. Just elimination. It couldn’t have been the United Bamboo mob, because they kidnapped your son, and you don’t kidnap a potential blackmail victim. And it couldn’t have been the Giant Panda gang, because Edward is practically in bed with them.”

Then the old man straightens up on the telephone directory he’s sitting on. He glares wrathfully at Cone.

“Are you certain of what you’re saying?”

“As sure as God made little green apples. Look, this thing between Claire and Edward is a sideshow. It’s none of my business. My job was to find out why the price of White Lotus stock has been galloping. All right, here’s the answer: Your son and Giant Panda, working through Yangtze International, have been shafting you by driving up the price. Edward has probably pledged his shares to the Pandas to give them more clout.”

“My own son? He wants to force me out?”

Cone sits back, lights another cigarette slowly. He sees Chin’s hands are trembling, and he gives the geezer a few moments to settle down.

“You got it wrong,” Cone tells him. “Your son couldn’t care less about taking over White Lotus. He thinks it’s got no pizzazz. He wants to start his own company, to market frozen gourmet Chinese dinners-the idea you turned down. The only way he can get enough capital to swing that is to force you to buy him out at an inflated price. And give Giant Panda a nice profit at the same time, of course. It’s greenmail, Mr. Lee. They know you’ll pay a premium over the market price of the stock to keep control of White Lotus.”

The old man tugs gently at his wispy beard. “So other people play business chess, too,” he says.

“On Wall Street? You better believe it.”

“Mr. Cone,” Lee says, “in that ugly commode across the room you will find a bottle of sake. A Japanese drink, but tasty. Rice. Also some crystal sake shot glasses from the Hoya Gallery. Very handsome. I suggest this might be the right time for a drink.”

“I’m game,” Cone says.

He brings bottle and glasses back to the driftwood desk. He pours the miniature tumblers half-full. Chin drains his in one gulp and holds it out for a refill. Cone pours again, filling both. He’s glad to see Lee’s hand is now steady.

They settle back, smiling at each other.

“Do you play chess, Mr. Cone?”

“Nope. I don’t play anything.”

“Ah. Too bad. I think you may have the gift. Tell me, how do you suggest I react to this extortion?”