Timothy's game

One

It never occurs to Cone that Samantha Whatley doesn’t want to be seen with him in public because he dresses like a refugee from Lower Slobbovia. She says it’s because she doesn’t want to run the risk of being spotted by an employee of Haldering amp; Co., and then their rare liaison will be trivialized by office gossip.

So their trysts are limited to her gentrified apartment in the East Village or his scuzzy loft in a cast-iron commercial building on lower Broadway. That’s okay with Timothy; he’s a hermitlike creature by nature, and perfectly willing to play the game according to her rules.

So there they are in her flossy apartment on Sunday night, August 8th, gnawing on barbecued ribs and nattering of this and that.

“When are you going to take your two weeks?” she asks him.

“What two weeks?”

“Your vacation, you yuck. When do you want to take it?”

He shrugs. “Makes no nevermind to me. Anytime.”

“Well, I’m taking off on Friday. I’m going home.”

He ponders a moment. Then: “You’re flying on Friday the thirteenth?”

“Best time. The plane will be practically empty. I don’t want you tomcatting around while I’m gone.”

“Not me.”

“And try to cut down on the booze.”

“Yes, mother. Who’s going to fill in for you at work while you’re gone?”

“Hiram himself.”

“Oh, Jesus!” he says, dropping his rib bone. “Don’t tell me that while I’m eating.”

On Monday morning after Sam leaves, Cone wanders to work an hour late, as usual. He finds two file folders on his desk: assignments to new investigations. He flips through them listlessly; they look like dullsville to him. One concerns a client who’s invested a nice chunk of cash in a scheme to breed miniature horses. Now, with his money gone and the phones of the boiler shop operation disconnected, he wants Haldering amp; Co. to locate the con men and get his investment back. Lots of luck, Charlie.

The second case concerns a proposed merger between two companies that make plastic cocoons for scores of consumer products-the kind of packaging that breaks your fingernails and drives you to stabbing with a sharp paring knife to open the damned stuff. One of the principals wants a complete credit check on the other. Instant ennui.

Cone tosses the folders aside and finishes his breakfast: black coffee and a buttered bialy. He’s on his second cigarette when his phone rings. He picks it up expecting a calamity. That’s always safe because then a mere misfortune arrives as good news.

“Yeah?” he says.

“Cone? Hiram Haldering. Come here at once, please.”

He was right the first time. It’s usually a calamity when H.H. says, “Please.”

He slouches down the corridor to the boss’s office, the only one with two windows. The bright summer sunlight is bouncing off fatso’s balding pate, and he’s beaming and nodding like one of those bobbing dolls in the back windows of cars driven by morons. But at least his two air conditioners are wheezing away, so the room is comfortably cool.

Which is providential because the visitor, who rises when Cone enters, is wearing a black three-piece suit that looks heavy enough to be woven of yak hair. He’s a tall, cadaverous gink with a smile so pained it surely seems his drawers must be binding. The hand he gives to Cone when they’re introduced is a clump of very soft, very shriveled bananas.

“This is Timothy Cone,” intones Hiram Haldering. “He is one-and I repeat one-of our experienced investigators. Cone, this gentleman is Mr. Omar Jeffreys.”

“Of Blains, Kibes and Thrush,” Jeffreys adds. “Attorneys-at-law.”

Everyone gets seated, and H.H. turns to the lawyer.

“Mr. Jeffreys,” he says, “will you explain to Cone what it is you want.”

“It is not what we want,” the other man says. “Oh, dear me, no. Our desires are of no import. We merely wish to present, to the best of our abilities, the wishes of our client.”

“Yeah, well,” Cone says, “who’s the client?”

“For a number of years Blains, Kibes and Thrush, P.A., has provided legal counsel to an Oriental gentleman, Mr. Chin Tung Lee. He is the Chairman and Chief Executive Officer of a corporation that processes and markets a variety of Chinese foods under the White Lotus label. You are, perhaps, familiar with the products?”

“Oh, hell yes,” Cone says. “Lousy grub.”

“Cone!” Haldering shouts indignantly.

“Well, it is,” he insists. “Take their chicken chow mein, for instance. My God, you can hardly find the meat in it. They must be using the same chicken for ten years. So what I do is buy a small can of boned chicken and add it to the chow mein. That makes it okay. Even my cat loves it.”

He ends triumphantly, and the other two men stare at him glassily.

“Very interesting, I’m sure,” the attorney finally says. “But I do not believe the ingredients in White Lotus chicken chow mein are germane to this discussion. Mr. Chin Tung Lee is presently faced with a financial problem outside the expertise of Blains, Kibes and Thrush. He wishes to employ the services of Haldering and Company, and I am authorized to conclude an oral agreement, prior to the execution of a written contract that will finalize the terms of the aforementioned employment.”

“Why didn’t he just pick up the phone and call us?” Cone wants to know. “Or come over here himself?”

“Mr. Lee is an elderly gentleman who, unfortunately, has been confined to a wheelchair for several years and is not as physically active as he would like to be. He specifically asked for your services, Mr. Cone.”

“Yeah? How come? I never met the guy.”

“He is a close personal friend of Mr. Simon Trale of Dempster-Torrey, and I believe it was Mr. Trale’s recommendation that led to Mr. Lee’s decision to employ Haldering and Company, and you in particular.”

“And I’m sure he’ll be happy with our services,” Haldering booms. “We guarantee results-right, Cone?”

“Nah,” the Wall Street dick says. “No one can do that. Mr. Jeffreys, you said that Lee has a financial problem. What is it?”

“I’m afraid I am not at liberty to reveal that at this particular time. Our client wishes to discuss the matter with you personally.”

“Okay,” Cone says equably. “If he wants to play it cozy, that’s fine with me. How do I get hold of him?”

The attorney proffers a business card. “This is the address on Exchange Place. It is the corporate headquarters of White Lotus. On the back of the card you will find a handwritten telephone number. That is Mr. Chin Tung Lee’s private line. Calls to that number will not go through the company’s switchboard.”

Cone takes the card and stands. “All right,” he says, “I’ll give him a call and find out what his problem is. I also want to tell him to put more chicken in his chow mein.”

He shambles back to his office, digs through the mess in his desk (what’s a stale package of Twinkies doing in there?), and finally roots out an old copy of Standard and Poor’s Stock Guide. He looks up White Lotus.

The corporation, listed on the OTC exchange, sells packaged Chinese foods to consumers, restaurants, and institutions. It is capitalized for slightly over two million shares of common stock, no preferred. It has no long-term debt. It has paid a cash dividend every year since 1949. What is of particular interest to Cone is that the price range of the stock for the past fifteen years has varied from 31 to 34, never below, never above.

Similarly, there has been little change in the annual dividend rate. White Lotus stock is currently yielding slightly over 5 percent. Its financial position appears exemplary: high assets, low liabilities, and a hefty bundle of surplus cash and cash equivalents.

All in all, it seems to be a solid, conservative outfit, but maybe a bit stodgy. It sounds like the kind of stock Chinese widows and orphans would love to own: a nice 5-percent return come wars, inflation, or financial foofarows. No one’s going to get rich trading White Lotus, but no one’s going down the drain either. So what could their financial problem be?

“Ah so,” Cone says aloud in a frightful Charlie Chan accent. “It is written that when icicles drip on the mulch bed, the wise man hides his peanut butter.”

He then dials the direct line to the Chairman and Chief Executive Officer of White Lotus. But when Mr. Chin Tung Lee comes on the phone, he sounds nothing like Charlie Chan. And nothing like an invalid confined to a wheelchair. His voice is strong, vibrant, with good resonance.

He says he will be happy to see Mr. Timothy Cone in an hour, and thanks him for his courtesy. A very polite gent.

Cone plods down Broadway to Exchange Place. It’s a spiffy day with lots of sunshine, washed sky, and a smacking breeze. Streets of the financial district are crowded; everyone scurries, the pursuit of the Great Simoleon continuing with vigor and determination.

But as he well knows, Wall Street is usually a zero-sum game: If someone wins, someone loses. That’s okay; if you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. And thinking that makes him smile because once, not too long ago, Samantha was bitching about how difficult it was for women to rise to positions of power on the Street. To which Cone replied, “If you can’t stand the heat, go back in the kitchen.” She kicked his shin.

The corporate offices of White Lotus are in a lumpish building that looks in need of steam cleaning. The frowsy lobby is vaguely Art Deco, but the old elevators still have operators-which has become as rare as finding a shoeshine boy or paperboy on the streets of Manhattan.

Timothy, a fast man with a stereotype, figures the offices of any outfit that sells canned chop suey are going to look like a joss house: carved teak furniture, brass statues, and paneled silk screens. But the offices of White Lotus are done in Swedish modern with bright graphics on the walls and, on the floor, a zigzag patterned carpet that bedazzles the eye.

The receptionist-female, Caucasian, young-phones and says Mr. Lee will see Cone in a few minutes. The Wall Street dick spends the time inspecting a lighted showcase in the reception room. It contains packages of all the White Lotus products: noodles, fried rice, chop suey, chow mein, pea pods, water chestnuts, soy sauce, fortune cookies, bean sprouts, bamboo shoots. Cleo would approve.

It really is no more than two minutes before he is ushered into the inner sanctum. Lee’s personal office is a jazzy joint with not a hint of any Oriental influence or even the slightest whiff of incense. It’s all high-tech with splashes of abstract paintings and clumpy bronze sculptures that look like hippopotamus do-do. There’s a mobile hanging from the high ceiling: a school of pregnant pollack in flight.

“You like my office, Mr. Cone?” Chin Tung Lee asks in his boomy voice.

“It’s different.”

Lee laughs. “My wife decorated it,” he says. “I admit it took some time getting used to, but now I like it. My son says it looks like a garage sale.”

He presses buttons on the arms of his electric wheelchair and buzzes out from behind the driftwood desk to offer a tiny hand.

“So pleased to make your acquaintance, sir,” he says. “Mr. Trale has told me a great deal about you and what a fine job you did for Dempster-Torrey.”

“That was nice of him,” Cone says, shaking the little paw gently. “You and Trale old friends?”

“Please sit down there. I insisted I have at least one comfortable chair for visitors. As you can see, my chair is mobile, but I must sit on a Manhattan telephone directory to bring me up to desk level.”

He laughs again, and Cone decides this guy is the most scrutable Oriental he’s ever met. Timothy flops down in the leather tub chair, and Lee whizzes around behind his desk again.

“Oh, yes,” he continues, “Simon and I have been friends for many, many years. We play chess together every Friday night.”

“And who wins?”

“I do,” the old man says, grinning. “Always. But Simon keeps trying. That is why I admire him so much. Mr. Cone, I received a phone call from Mr. Jeffreys of Blains, Kibes and Thrush. He informed me that he has negotiated a satisfactory service contract with Haldering and Company, and that you have been assigned to our case. I was delighted to hear it.”

“Thanks,” Cone says. “So what’s your problem?”

“Before I get into that, I’d like to give you a little background on our company.”

“I got all the time in the world,” Cone says. “You’re paying for it.”

“So we are. Well, I’ll try to keep it mercifully brief. I emigrated from Taiwan-called Formosa in those days-in 1938, just before the beginning of the war. I had been waiting several years to get on the quota. At that time it was extremely difficult for Asians to enter the United States legally.”

“I can imagine.”

“However, eventually I did arrive. I came to New York and, with the aid of relatives already here, started a small business on Mott Street. It was really a pushcart operation; I couldn’t afford a store. I sold Chinese fruits and vegetables. Well, one thing led to another, and now I own White Lotus. A typical American success story.”

“You make it sound easy,” Cone says, “but I’ll bet you worked your ass off.”

“Eighteen hours a day,” Lee says, nodding. “In all kinds of weather. Which is probably why I’m now chained to this electric contraption. But the family members I eventually employed worked just as hard. The pushcart became a store, offering poultry and meats as well as vegetables. That one store became four, and we began selling prepared foods. And not only to local residents but to tourists and uptown visitors who came to Chinatown. They wanted mostly chop suey and chow mein in cardboard containers, so that’s what we sold. It was merely a small step from that to the canning process. We went public in 1948.”

“And the rest is history.”

Chin Tung Lee smiles with a faraway look, remembering.

“Do you know, Mr. Cone,” he says, “I miss those early days. The hours we worked were horrendous, but we were young, strong, and willing. And you know, I don’t think any of us doubted that we’d make it. This country offered so much. If you devoted your life to your business, you would succeed. It seemed that simple.”

“Things have changed,” Cone offers.

“Yes,” Lee says, looking down at the spotted backs of his hands. “I try not to be a boring ancient who talks constantly of the ‘good old days,’ but I must admit that things have changed-and not always for the better.”

He pauses, and Cone has a chance to take a close look. The man has got to be Simon Trale’s age or more-well over seventy. And he’s even smaller than Trale, though it’s hard to judge with him sitting in the wheelchair, propped on a telephone book, short legs dangling.

He’s got a polished ivory complexion and sports a faded and wispy Vandyke that makes his face appear truncated and incomplete. His eyes are dark and sparkling-nothing enfeebled about those eyes-but he’s wearing what is obviously a toupee, and a hellish one at that: a mustardy mixture of white, gray, black, with reddish strands. The guy who made that rug, Cone decides, should be shot.

“All those relatives,” Chin Tung Lee goes on, “who worked so hard with me-brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins-I’m afraid I’ve outlived them all. Their portions of the business have passed to the second and, in some cases, to the third generation. But I still think of White Lotus as a family business, Mr. Cone. Not as large as La Choy, certainly, but with a personality and distinctiveness all its own. I am sorry to bore you with all this; you must forgive the maunderings of an old man.”

“No, no,” Cone says. “I’m getting the picture. But how come you haven’t retired?”

“To what?” Lee says, flaring up. “To chess every Friday night with Simon Trale? No, thank you. White Lotus has been my life and will continue to be while life lasts.”

“You mentioned the second and third generations-you’ve brought them into the business?”

“Only my son, Edward Tung Lee. He is my child by my first wife, who died several years ago. The others-nephews, nieces-none showed any interest in White Lotus, other than cashing their dividend checks. Perhaps they all thought devoting their lives to the production of quality canned chop suey was beneath them. However, I must admit that most of them have done very well-doctors, lawyers, musicians. One nephew is doing computer research at M.I.T. I’m very proud of him.”

“And the son who works for the company-what is his position?”

“Edward? I suppose you might call him our Chief Operating Officer. He oversees production, labor relations, marketing, financial planning, advertising, and so on. I want him to be experienced in every department.”

“That means you expect him to take over someday.”

“Perhaps,” Chin Tung Lee says, looking at Cone queerly. “Perhaps not. But enough of these personal details. They really have nothing to do with why you are here.”

“Your financial problem?”

“More of a puzzle than a problem. Mr. Cone, have you any idea what price White Lotus common stock closed at on Friday?”

The Wall Street dick shrugs. “I don’t know exactly, but I’d guess it was somewhere between thirty-one and thirty-four dollars a share.”

Lee stares at him a second, then breaks into a jovial laugh again, tugging at his silky beard. “Ah,” he says, “I see you have been doing your homework. I like that. Well, if you had given me that answer six months ago, you would have been exactly right. But as a matter of fact, on last Friday White Lotus stock closed at forty-two and a half.”

“Oh-ho,” Cone says, “so that’s it. How long has this been going on-for six months?”

“Approximately.”

“Has the volume of trading increased?”

“Appreciably. And the price of the stock continues to rise.”

“Are you planning anything? Like a buyout? A merger? A big expansion? New products?”

“No to all your questions. We are a very well-structured corporation, Mr. Cone. Profitable certainly, but not wildly so. We keep a low profile. We don’t dabble in anything in which we have no expertise. As far as I’m concerned, our product line is complete. No increase in the dividend has been declared or even discussed. You may think we are ultraconservative, perhaps dull, but that has been my business philosophy all my life: Learn what you can do, do it as well as you possibly can, and don’t take risks trying to conquer new worlds. So I really can’t account for the run-up in our stock. As I say, it puzzles me-and it disturbs me. I’m at an age where I don’t enjoy surprises-especially unpleasant surprises. I want to know what’s going on.”

“Yeah,” Cone says, “can’t blame you for that. Okay, I’ll look into it and see if I can come up with something. I’d like to talk to your son if that’s all right.”

“Of course. Today he’s at our factory in Metuchen, New Jersey, but he should be back later this afternoon. I’ll tell him to expect a call from you and to cooperate fully.”

“Thanks. That should help. All of your stuff is produced in New Jersey?”

“Only the consumer products. The restaurant and institutional sizes are made up at a new facility in the industrial park at what used to be the Brooklyn Navy Yard. We also have several small buying offices around the country to ensure a steady and dependable supply of fresh ingredients.”

“That’s another thing,” Cone says. “Why don’t you put more chicken in your chicken chow mein? There’s no meat in there.”

Chin Tung Lee looks at him with an ironic smile. “Eat more noodles, Mr. Cone,” he advises.

“Yeah,” Cone says, “I guess that’s one solution. Well, thanks for the information. I’ll ask around and see what else I can pick up. And I’ll get back to you if there’s anything more I need.”

“Whenever you wish; I am at your disposal. You may think it odd that I should be concerned at this sudden and unexplained increase in our stock price and trading volume. Other companies would welcome such activity, I know. But it’s so unusual for White Lotus that I can’t help wondering what is going on. And I must admit to a fear that if you discover what it is, it will not be pleasing. I hope you will expedite your investigation, Mr. Cone.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Cone says. “If I come up with something, you’ll be the first to know.”

He rises, reaches across the desk to pump the little hand again. He’s still in that position when he hears the office door open behind him. He straightens, turns slowly.

A woman has come bursting into the room. She is young (about twenty-five), tall (almost six feet), blond (very), with a velvety hide (tawny), and summer-sky eyes. She is wearing a cheongsam of thin, pistachio-colored silk that clings.

Those jugs have got to be silicone, the Wall Street dick decides, because if they were God-made there’d be a slight sag just so He could remind the public of human imperfection.

“Oh, darling,” she carols, “please excuse me. I didn’t know you had a visitor. Sorry to interrupt.”

“Come in, Claire,” Chin Tung Lee says gently. “You’re not interrupting at all. Mr. Cone, I’d like you to meet my wife.”

Cone nods from where he stands across the room. Which is just as well, he figures, because if he went close to shake her hand he might flop to his knees in humble obeisance.

He meanders back to John Street, inspecting the women he passes and comparing them to Mrs. Claire Lee. She’s got them all beat by a country mile.

So stricken was he by her sudden appearance that his impressions are still confused, and he tries to sort them out. He debates if she is the model type, the dancer type, the actress type.

“The goddess type,” he says aloud.

He buys a meatball hero and a couple of cold cans of Bud, and goes up to his office. He reflects mournfully that it’s a fitting lunch; that’s exactly what he is-a meatball hero. Besides, she’s the client’s wife, and he doesn’t dast fantasize depraved dreams about her. A waste of time. Still, a few modest dreams couldn’t hurt anyone. Not even Samantha.

He resolutely vanquishes the scintillant image of Claire Lee, and unwraps his oozing sandwich. While he’s scoffing, he calls Jeremy Bigelow at the Securities and Exchange Commission.

“Hey, old buddy,” Jerry says happily, “that short-trading scam is really panning out. The bad guys are falling all over themselves to squeal and cop a plea.”

“Yeah, I read about it,” Cone says. “So you owe me one-right?”

“Oh-oh,” Bigelow says, instantly worried. “Now what?”

“Very easy. Your secretary could look it up. There’s this outfit on the OTC exchange. White Lotus. They sell canned chop suey. I just want to know if anyone has filed a 13-D public disclosure form on them.”

“Why would anyone want to buy five percent of canned chop suey?”

“Beats the hell out of me. Look it up, will you?”

“Okay,” the SEC man says. “I’ll get on it and let you know.”

“How soon?”

“As soon as my secretary gets back from lunch.”

Cone finishes his hero and starts on the second beer. He leans back in his squeaky swivel chair, puts his feet up on the desk, and broods about what he knows and what he doesn’t know.

He knows that a sudden run-up in stock price and an increase in trading volume is frequently-not always, but frequently-a tipoff that someone is going to make a tender offer for the company concerned. Usually the first step is to accumulate sufficient shares to prove you’re serious and then make a bid to purchase enough stock from other shareholders-customarily at a premium over the current market price-to give the offeror control.

It can be a friendly takeover in which the company’s management cooperates, or unfriendly, during which the company’s executives and directors fight tooth and nail to defeat the bidder-and keep their jobs. The benefaction of shareholders is not always the highest good on Wall Street. “Corporate democracy” has all the modern relevance of “Fifty-four forty or fight,” and sometimes the poor shareholders have to take their lumps.

One kicker here is that when any entity-individual or corporate-accumulates 5 percent or more of another company’s stock, the entity must file a 13-D public disclosure form with the SEC, stating the purpose of the purchase: tender offer or simply an investment.

Jeremy Bigelow’s secretary calls in about an hour and tells Cone there is no record of a 13-D form having been filed for White Lotus. He thanks her, hangs up, and goes back to his pondering, demonstrating his enormous physical strength by crumpling an empty aluminum beer can.

The absence of a 13-D form doesn’t faze him; it’s still possible a tender offer for White Lotus is in the making. There are several ways of getting around the 13-D law, all of them devious. If you like things in black and white, security regulations are not for you. Wall Street prefers grays.

Cone is certain of one thing: If a tender for White Lotus is in the works, it’s going to be treated as an unfriendly offer by Mr. Chin Tung Lee. Cone will not soon forget the little man’s passion when he spoke of a “family company” and how White Lotus was his entire life. Any hopeful raider is in for a knock-down-and-drag-out fight before Lee surrenders White Lotus-if he ever does.

What Cone can’t answer is the question Jeremy Bigelow asked: Why would anyone want White Lotus? Admittedly it has a clean balance sheet; the bottom line looks good. But it has no subsidiaries that could be spun off for instant profit. Its product line offers nothing new or different. It would take an enormous infusion of advertising dollars to increase its market share at the expense of La Choy.

Figure White Lotus stock is selling at forty bucks a share. That means, with two million shares outstanding, anyone taking over the company would have to come up with eighty million dollars. That may not sound like much, Cone acknowledges, in this era of megadeals, but it’s still a nice piece of change.

And Cone doesn’t think White Lotus is worth it. There’s little opportunity for growth there, and even with a more dynamic leadership than Chin Tung Lee offers, the company seems fated to amble along at a tortoise pace, paying a nice dividend but with no potential of becoming a real cash cow. Cone can name a dozen companies at the same price, or lower, that would provide a better chance to make a killing.

All this cerebral activity makes him drowsy. His chin sinks onto his chest, and he dozes at his desk for almost an hour. He doesn’t even dream of Claire Lee, but he twitches awake when the phone rings. He picks it up.

“Mr. Timothy Cone?”

“Yeah. Who’s this?”

“Edward Tung Lee. Mr. Cone, I’m still in New Jersey, but I just spoke to my father and he said you’d like to talk to me.”

“That’s right. Whenever you have the time.”

“Well, I’m about to drive back to Manhattan. I have a business appointment at a restaurant on Pell Street at five o’clock. It shouldn’t take long-ten or fifteen minutes. If you could meet me there, perhaps we can have a drink together.”

“Sounds good to me,” Cone says. “What’s the name of the place?”

“Ah Sing’s Bar and Grill. They’re in the book.”

“I’ll find it. I better describe myself so you can spot me.”

“Don’t bother,” Edward Lee says, laughing. “You’ll be the only honkie in the joint.”

He disconnects, and Cone hangs up thoughtfully. The guy sounded high. Maybe he’s snorting monosodium glutamate or mainlining soy sauce. Cone shakes his head to rid his still sleep-befuddled brain of such nonsense, and starts flipping through his tattered telephone directory to find the address of Ah Sing’s Bar amp; Grill on Pell Street.

It turns out to be exactly like a hundred other cheap Chinese restaurants Timothy has frequented from Boston to Saigon: all Formica and wind chimes, fluorescent lights and plastic poppies. The walls are white tile, reasonably clean, decorated with paintings of dragons on black velvet and a calendar showing Miss Hong Kong in a bikini.

A small bar is on the right just inside the entrance. Drinkers have a fine view of the frenetic activity on Pell Street through a big plate glass window, though right now the bar is empty. But the remainder of the long, narrow restaurant has plenty of early diners, all men, all Asian, seated at tables and in booths.

Cone has no sooner swung aboard a barstool when there’s a slender guy at his elbow. He’s dressed like an Oriental yuppie.

“Mr. Cone?” he says in that bouncy voice. “I’m Edward Tung Lee.” They shake hands. “Look, why don’t you have a drink. I’ll be finished in a few minutes and join you here.”

“Take your time,” Cone says. “No rush.”

“Henry,” Lee calls to the bartender, “put this on my tab, please.”

Cone watches him stride back to a booth. He’s tall, about Cone’s height, but with better posture. He moves with quick grace: a young executive on the fast track. His jetty hair is blow-dried, and during the few seconds they talked, Timothy noted the gold Rolex, gold chain bracelet, diamond cuff links. Edward Lee doesn’t need a fortune cookie to predict a glorious future; he picked the right father.

“Sir?” the bartender asks.

“As long as he’s paying for it,” Cone says, “I’ll have a double Absolut vodka on the rocks. Splash of water. No fruit.”

“Very wise,” Henry says.

He gets to work, playing a conjuror. Tosses ice cubes into the air. Catches them in the glass. Begins to pour from the vodka bottle. Raises the bottle high without spilling a drop. Sets the glass smartly in front of Cone and adds a dollop of ice water with a flourish.

“Nicely done,” Cone says. “If I tried that, I’d need a mop.”

“Too much water?” the bartender asks anxiously.

Cone takes a sip. “Just right,” he says.

Henry moves away, and Cone works on his drink slowly, looking out the big window at the mob scene on Pell: pedestrians rushing, street vendors dawdling, traffic crawling, a guy carrying a clump of live chickens (heads down, feet trussed), and a young woman strolling in a sandwich board covered with Chinese characters.

He turns to look back into the restaurant. Lee was right; Cone is the only Caucasian in the place. That makes him think the food must be something special. But then he decides that conclusion is probably as stupid as the belief that truckers know where to eat. Follow that dictum and you’re in for a humongous bellyache. Those guys are interested only in quantity and low price. Cone figures the patrons of Ah Sing’s Bar amp; Grill have the same needs.

He spots Edward Tung Lee sitting in a booth against the far wall. Lee is leaning over the table, talking rapidly and earnestly to a roly-poly Asian with three chins and a gut that doesn’t end. The two have their heads together, which looks funny because Edward has thick, glossy hair and the fat guy is bald as a honeydew melon.

While Cone watches, Lee slides out of the booth, shakes hands with the other man. He comes quickly to the bar, threading his way through the tables, and takes the stool next to Cone. Henry is in front of him instantly.

“The usual, Mr. Lee?” he asks.

“Why not.”

They both watch as Henry goes into his act, mixing a scotch sour with all the showy skill of a professional juggler.

“Best bartender I’ve ever seen,” Cone says.

“Henry belongs uptown,” Lee says. “I could get him a job like that”-he snaps his fingers-“but Chen would kill me. That’s the tubby gentleman I was talking to: Chen Chang Wang. He owns this joint and a dozen others like it around the city. He has enough labor problems without me luring away his favorite bartender.”

“Chen Chang Wang is the owner?” Cone says. “What happened to Ah Sing?”

“Long gone,” Lee says with his burbling laugh. “But the name lingers on. Ah Sing’s is a lot easier to remember than Chen Chang Wang’s Bar and Grill.”

“A good customer?” Cone guesses.

“A very good customer. You’d be amazed at the quantity of White Lotus products he moves. Not exactly gourmet food, but he gives good portions and his prices are reasonable.”

“You call on customers yourself? I should think your salesmen would do that.”

“Oh, they do, they do. But I like to visit all our wholesale customers myself now and then. Listen to their complaints, make sure they’re getting deliveries on time, ask for suggestions on how we can improve our service. Orientals place a lot of importance on close personal relationships, Mr. Cone.”

“It makes sense. Listen, I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I talked to your father this morning and got most of the information I need. I also met your stepmother,” he adds.

Edward Lee makes a face. “There’s no fool like an old fool,” he says.

Timothy doesn’t like that. If Chin Tung Lee wants to marry a dish one-third his age, it’s nobody’s business but his own. Edward has no call to bad-mouth his father-unless the luscious Claire cut him out of an inheritance he expected.

“I thought she was a nice lady,” Cone says, “but that’s neither here nor there. I guess your father told you why he hired Haldering and Company.”

“The run-up in our stock price? Nothing to it. Much ado about nothing.”

“Yeah?” Cone says. “How do you account for it?”

“Easy,” Lee says. “With this bull market, a lot of people are getting nervous. There’s going to be a huge correction. I don’t mean there’s going to be a calamitous crash, but what goes up has got to come down. As they say on Wall Street, trees don’t grow to the sky. So a lot of investors are getting out of the high-fliers. Lately there’s been a stampede to quality. And White Lotus has always been an undervalued stock. My God, where else can you get a safe five-percent return year in and year out from a solid, well-managed company?”

While he expounds all this, Cone has been inspecting him in the mirror behind the bar. In that blued reflection Lee looks older than Cone first thought. His wrinkle-free skin seems more the result of facials and bronzing gel than the placidity of a man at peace with himself and the world.

He’s a handsome guy with gently curved lips, cleft chin, and a high unblemished brow. The slant of the eyes is slight but exotic, and the black, horn-rimmed glasses with tinted lens give him the appearance of an off-camera movie star. He’s not wearing a wedding band, but Cone wonders if he’s married, and makes a mental note to find out.

His glib explanation of why White Lotus stock is on a rampage disturbs the Wall Street dick. Too much frowning sincerity. The guy seems to be pushing when there’s no need to push.

“Well, you may be right,” Cone says. “I’ve just started on this, so I’ve got no ideas, one way or another.”

Edward signals the bartender and points to Cone’s empty glass and his own. Henry gets to work.

“Take my advice, Mr. Cone,” Lee says, “and don’t waste your time. Believe me, it’s just a demonstration of normal market forces at work. In another six months or so, I expect the price of White Lotus stock will be back in its usual range.”

“Have you told your father this?”

That’s when the man’s ire becomes apparent. “Tell him? Who the hell can tell him anything? He’s always been stubborn, but he’s getting worse. Ever since he married that-Well, ever since my mother died and he remarried. Sometimes I wonder if he’s getting senile. Let me give you a for-instance. A year ago I went to him with what I thought was a great idea-and everyone in the business I talked to said it would fly. I wanted White Lotus to get into frozen dinners. Packaged gourmet Chinese food. Slide them in the oven or microwave and you’d have a delicious meal as good as anything prepared fresh by the best Chinese chefs. I’m talking about steamed sea bass, salt-baked chicken, mu shu pork, five-fragrant beef, smoke tea duck, and things like that.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t know much about highfalutin food, but it sounds like a commercial idea.”

“Commercial?” Lee cries. “A blockbuster! I spent six months researching it. The numbers looked good. I’m not only talking about frozen Chinese dinners sold to consumers in supermarkets, but the restaurant trade, too. So a joint like this could expand its menu. The cost would be doable. No chefs to hire. No fresh produce going bad on you. Someone orders, say, twice-fried shredded beef, you just pop the package in the microwave, and that’s it. Sensational!”

“And what did your father say?”

“He said no. He wants to stick to the same old crap we’ve been turning out for forty years. Damn it!” Then, as if ashamed of his vehemence, Edward Tung Lee tries a smile. “Ah, well,” he says lightly, “you lose one, you win one-right?”

The owner, Chen Chang Wang, comes waddling by. He gives them a Buddha smile, waves a flabby hand, goes out the door to Pell Street.

“Well,” Cone says, “I think I-”

Then the world comes to an end. They hear sharp explosions-more booms than cracks. The plate glass window shatters, comes crashing down. A hole and star appear in the mirror behind the bar. Someone starts shrieking and can’t stop. There are more shots.

Cone falls off his barstool and drags Edward Lee to the floor along with him. He goes for the magnum in his ankle holster.

“Stay down!” he orders the other man. “Don’t even raise your head.”

He looks cautiously to the rear of the restaurant. Tables and booths are empty; the patrons are flat on the floor.

“Keep down,” he cautions Lee again.

He rises slowly to a crouch. No more explosions, the shrieking has finally ended. Now there are shouts, and someone is blowing a whistle: short, loud, repeated blasts.

Cone slips the.357 into his jacket pocket. Gripping it, he goes out the front door onto Pell Street. People are coming from doorways, from behind parked cars and pushcarts. A uniformed cop is already there, and another comes pounding up. A circle of gawkers forms.

And in the center, spread-eagled on the sidewalk and leaking blood, lies the body of Mr. Chen Chang Wang, looking like a beached and punctured whale.

Cone goes back inside. Edward Lee is standing, brushing off his black silk suit. Henry rises slowly from behind the bar.

“Sorry I knocked you over,” Cone says.

“Glad you did. What the hell happened?”

“I’m afraid,” says Timothy, “you just lost a good customer.”

Lee stares at him, face twisted. “Chen?”

Cone nods.

“Dead?”

“Very.”

Lee’s face scrunches up even more. He begins pounding on the bar with a clenched fist. “Bastards!” he spits out. “Oh, the rotten bastards!” Then, calming: “Henry, pour me a brandy, and one for Mr. Cone, and you better have one yourself.”

No tricks this time, no wizardry; the bartender fills three snifters with a trembling hand. He drains his glass in one gulp. Cone and Lee right the toppled barstools, sit down, turn to watch the confusion on Pell Street. A squad car, siren growling, has nosed through the mob and parked. They hear more sirens coming closer.

“Ah, Jesus,” Lee says, taking a swallow of his brandy, “he was a sweet man.”

“Someone didn’t think so,” Cone says. “Who are the bastards?”

“What?”

“When I told you he was dead, you said, ‘The bastards, the rotten bastards.’ Who did you have in mind?”

“Oh,” Lee says, “that. I meant the man who shot him.”

“Uh-huh,” Cone says. “Probably more than one. Wang is pretty well perforated. Sounded like forty-fives to me.”

Two uniformed officers come into Ah Sing’s Bar amp; Grill. One is Chinese, the other black. They have notebooks and pens ready. The Chinese goes to the back of the restaurant where the patrons, now seated at tables and booths, are again digging into their rice bowls. The black officer stops at the bar.

“Were you gentlemen seated here when the incident occurred?” he asks them.

“Yeah,” Cone says. “Having a drink. Then all hell broke loose. We heard shots, and the plate glass window came down.”

“Did you see anything that happened outside?”

“Not me,” Cone says.

“You?” he asks Edward.

“I saw nothing,” Lee says. “We were talking together, facing each other.”

“Okay,” the cop says. “This is just preliminary. Could I have your names, addresses, and phone numbers, please. And I’d like to see any identification you have.”

He copies everything down in his notebook.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” he says politely. “Anything else you can tell me?”

“Yeah,” Cone says, pointing at the holed and starred mirror. “A wild slug went in there. You’ll be able to dig it out if you need it.”

The officer looks. “Thanks again,” he says gratefully. “I might have missed that.”

“Can we leave now?” Lee asks him.

“Sure,” the cop says. “Everything’s under control.” He moves down the bar to question Henry.

“He didn’t even search us,” Lee says.

“Why should he? They’ve probably got witnesses who saw the shooters make their getaway. I doubt if killers would pop Mr. Wang and then come into his bar and order drinks.”

“If he had searched us,” Lee persists, “he’d have found your gun. I saw you take it from a holster on your leg.”

“So?”

“You always carry it?”

“Yep. My security blanket. I’ve got a permit for it.”

“You’re a valuable man to know,” Edward Tung Lee says in a low voice.

What he means by that, Cone has no idea.