Timothy's game

Four

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.

“I must blindfold you now,” the leader says. “So sorry.”

The blindfold is white, padded, and is put on so slickly that Cone figures it’s got to be fastened with Velcro. The car starts up.

“Nice night for a drive,” he offers, but no one answers, and after that he doesn’t try any chitchat.

He lets his body go slack, feeling gravity and momentum, swaying slightly when the car takes a corner. He tries to imagine the route. A right-hand turn, a straightaway with the Buick accelerating, then slowing to make another right. Now we’re around the block and heading uptown, he guesses.

He can’t get a glimmer through that thick bandage over his eyes, but he can hear traffic noises change as they pass cross-streets. He counts the number of blocks, and when the Buick veers slightly to the left, he estimates they’re about at 14th Street. They pause awhile, probably for a traffic light, then make a left turn. Heavier traffic noise now, and Cone thinks it’s got to be a wide east-west street, either 14th or 23rd.

The car slows after traveling for about four minutes, and Cone sways as it turns to the right. They go down an incline, and the Buick’s engine takes on a reverberant sound, almost like an echo. An underground garage, Cone decides. The car comes to a stop, a back door is opened. He’s helped out, gently, no rough stuff, and still carrying his lamb stew, is led about twenty feet, hands gripping both his arms. He scuffs his work shoes on concrete and smells gas and oil fumes. Now he’s convinced it’s an underground parking garage.

The men holding him press closer, and the three of them slow, stop, wait a minute. Sound of elevator door opening. Forward, with a smoother floor under his feet: tile or linoleum. Metallic sound of elevator door closing. Then they go up, and Cone silently counts off seconds: A hundred and one, a hundred and two, a hundred and three … He’s figuring two seconds per floor; the elevator stops at 118. The doors swish open, he’s ushered out.

Now he’s walking on a rug, springy beneath his feet. A long walk and Cone, counting his paces, estimates forty feet at least. His captors are no longer pressing him, so it’s got to be a wide corridor. A hotel maybe? No, they wouldn’t run the risk of bumping into guests while hustling a blindfolded man.

They halt. Three sharp raps on wood. Small squeak of a door opening. Cone’s pulled forward, stumbling a bit on thicker pile carpeting, maybe a deep shag. Around a corner. He’s thrust forward, hands on his back. Stop. A fast spatter of Chinese. Then …

A precise voice: “Mr. Cone, what is that you are carrying?”

“Lamb stew,” he says. “You can have some if you like.”

There’s a snap of fingers. The brown paper bag is taken, and Cone hears the crinkle of paper, the pop of the lid coming off the Styrofoam container.

“You are right,” the voice says, “it is lamb stew. It looks and smells dreadful.”

“It’s not so bad,” Cone protests. “It’s filling.”

“Mr. Cone, I must apologize for this unconventional method of making your acquaintance. I trust you were not physically harmed.”

“Nah,” Cone says, “your guys did a nice job. Can you take the blindfold off now?”

“I fear that would be most unwise. And please do not try to remove it yourself. There are two very quick men standing behind you, both of them armed.”

“Okay,” Cone says, “I’ll be good.”

“Excellent. This will only take a few moments, and then you will be returned to your home. Mr. Cone, I understand you are investigating the increase in the price of White Lotus stock.”

“Where did you hear that?” Cone says. Then: “Listen, if we’re going to have a confab, could I sit down?”

“I prefer you remain standing,” the voice says sharply. “I am not going to ask you to terminate your investigation, Mr. Cone. I know you are an employee of Haldering and Company, and have been assigned to the case. All I am asking is that you delay your inquiries for perhaps another week. Two weeks at the most. Surely you could do that without insurmountable objections from your employer.”

“Maybe I could,” Cone says. “But why should I?”

“Because I request it,” the voice says with a silky undertone. “In return, naturally, you may expect to profit.”

“Yeah?” Cone says. “How much?”

“Five thousand dollars. In small, unmarked bills.”

“Forget it. I work for a salary. It’s not king-sized, but it’s enough.”

“Come, Mr. Cone,” the voice says softly, “it is never enough. We all want more, do we not?”

“I got enough,” Cone insists stubbornly.

“And there is nothing in this world you want?”

“Yeah, I’ve always wanted to screw a contortionist. It’s something I’ve dreamed about for a long time.”

The voice gives a chuff of laughter, then rips off some Chinese, and the two men standing behind Cone also laugh.

“That could be arranged, Mr. Cone,” the voice says dryly.

“Just kidding,” Cone says. “Listen, I don’t like standing here with this shmatteh over my eyes, so let’s get down to the nitty-gritty. If I refuse to stall on this White Lotus thing, what happens then?”

“Please do not ask me to say it.”

“Go ahead; say it.”

“Then I am afraid we shall have to kill you, Mr. Cone.”

“Okay,” the Wall Street dick says cheerfully. “As long as I know where I stand. Give me a chance to think about your cash offer-all right?”

“How long?”

“A week.”

“Three days,” the voice says sternly. “Then we must come looking for you. You can run, but you cannot hide.”

“Good line,” Cone says, “but it’s not yours. Joe Louis. Can I go home now?”

“We shall contact you on Monday, and expect your answer at that time. Yes, you may go now.”

“Can I take my stew?”

“Please do.”

“And how about my piece?”

“Your piece?”

“My gun. Revolver. Your guys lifted it.”

“Your weapon will be returned to you, Mr. Cone. Thank you for your kind cooperation.”

There’s a long chatter of Chinese. The brown paper bag is thrust into his hands, he is gripped, and the film starts running in reverse: Around the corner, across the shag rug, through the door, along the corridor, down in the elevator to the garage, into the car, and then the drive back. Cone, counting to himself, figures it takes about fifteen minutes.

The car stops, he’s helped out, still carrying his lamb stew. The blindfold is whisked away. He stands there, blinking.

There’s another rat-a-tat of Chinese between the two alpaca jackets. One turns and starts walking south on Broadway toward the corner. The speaker is now armed with a sleek 9mm Luger which he waves at Cone.

“Your revolver will be left on the sidewalk,” he explains. “Please do not attempt to reclaim it until we have left, or we will be forced to return.”

Through bleary eyes Cone watches the other guy place his magnum on the pavement near a fire alarm box. Then he returns, and the two young Chinese climb into the car.

“Good night, Mr. Cone,” the leader calls, and the Buick accelerates, turns the corner with a chirp of tires, and is gone.

Cone goes down to the corner and reclaims his iron. He inspects it quickly under a streetlight. It looks okay. Still loaded. He slips it into his jacket pocket. Then he walks slowly back to his building. But before going upstairs, he stands a moment on the deserted street.

It has been a scarifying experience, being blind. He doesn’t want to go through that again. Now he can see the haloed glimmer of the streetlight, see the gleaming gutters of his city and, looking upward, see the glittering stars whirling their ascending courses. A blessing. More than that: a physical delight. Almost a thrill.

Up in the loft, he pours some of the gelatinous stew into Cleo’s dish. The happy cat goes to work on it immediately. Cone goes to work on a stiff shot of brandy while he undresses, staring with new eyes at Cleo, the loft, furniture, everything.

He strips to his skivvies, turns out the lights, and rolls onto his floor mattress.

“Now for a lot of Z’s,” he calls to the cat, but all he gets in reply is the noisy slurping of lamb stew.

He’s still in his skivvies when he phones Johnnie Wong on Friday morning.

“Don’t tell me you’re in the office already,” the FBI man says.

“On my way,” Cone says. “Listen, you told me to contact you if anything happened, even if I didn’t think it was important. Okay, something happened; I got taken for a ride.”

“Well, you’re talking to me so it couldn’t have been a one-way trip.”

Timothy describes the events of the previous evening. Wong listens without interrupting. Then, when Cone is finished, he says, “Could you ID the two foot soldiers who picked you up?”

“I doubt it.”

“I know,” Johnnie says. “We all look alike to you blue-eyes.”

“Not me; my eyes are shit-brown.”

“What about the boss?”

“I’d make him for a Chinese. He speaks English like a professor or like it’s his second language. I mean he never uses contractions. Never ‘I’m’ or ‘You’re’ but always ‘I am’ or ‘You are.’”

“I know what contractions are. Anything else about him?”

“An iron fist in a velvet glove kind of guy. Very polite. He’d apologize before he had your head blown off. He talked about me stalling for two weeks, so you’re right; something’s going down soon.”

“And that’s all you can give me on him?”

“I told you I was blindfolded the whole time.”

“Any idea where you were?”

“I figure I was in an apartment house on West Fourteenth Street, somewhere around Tenth Avenue. It’s on the north side of the street. At least nine stories high. It’s got an underground garage and automatic elevators. The corridors are wide and carpeted. The apartment I was in had a wood door and a thick shag rug.”

“I thought you said you were blindfolded.”

“I was, but I could hear and smell, and feel things under my feet. Also, I counted seconds and minutes.”

“You’re something, you are,” Johnnie Wong says. “Well, you’ve given me enough to make an educated guess. You were in a twelve-story apartment house owned by the Giant Panda mob. It’s on West Fourteenth Street like you said, but it’s between Eighth and Ninth. It’s all rentals, but the entire tenth floor is the East Coast headquarters of the Pandas. The bossman you talked to was probably Henry Wu Yeh. He’s the warlord of the New York branch. From Hong Kong. Educated at UCLA. A very flinty customer. And a real tycoon type. He’s the guy who’s trying to muscle Giant Panda into legitimate businesses. You will turn General Motors over to us-or else! That kind of guy.”

“Yeah, that sounds like him,” Cone says. “One minute he’s Mr. Nice and the next he’s the Voice of Doom.”

“By the way,” Wong says, “you’ll find Henry Wu Yeh on that list of White Lotus shareholders you showed me.”

“No kidding?”

“No kidding. I forget how many shares he owns, but it’s more than a thousand. Listen, do you want protection?”

“What for?”

“Well, Yeh said they’re going to come looking for you on Monday, didn’t he?”

“So? That’s Monday. I got three days before they yank my chain.”

Johnnie Wong laughs. “As we Chinese say, ‘Rots of ruck, old buddy.’”

After he hangs up, Cone stands a moment, staring at the wall. It comes as no surprise to him to learn he was rustled by the Giant Panda gang. His reasoning goes like this:

He meets Edward Tung Lee at Ah Sing’s Bar amp; Grill on Pell Street.

He sees Lee and Chen Chang Wang in deep conversation.

Wang gets blown away and is later revealed to be an officer in the Giant Panda organization.

During the excitement, Edward Lee notices that Timothy Cone carries a shooter in an ankle holster.

When the Giant Panda soldiers pick Cone up, the first thing they do is dust him down for an ankle holster. It was no normal frisk; the alpaca jackets went directly to his shins.

Ergo: Edward Tung Lee is a member of, or working closely with, the Giant Panda mob and tipped them off that Cone was carrying on his leg bone.

So, if Edward Lee is buddy-buddy with the Giant Pandas, those phone calls he received must have come from someone else. The United Bamboo gang maybe? And are they also responsible for the letter to Claire Lee? United Bamboo owned the San Francisco kip where she worked, and could easily have taken the photographs.

Musing on all these permutations and combinations, Cone lights his first cigarette of the morning, coughs, and wanders over to his desk to consult the White Lotus shareholder list. He’s curious about how many shares are owned by Henry Wu Yeh, the pooh-bah of the Giant Pandas.

No list. He can’t find it. He searches, even in such unlikely places as the cabinet under the kitchen sink. No list. He gets down on hands and knees and peers beneath the claw-footed bathtub, thinking Cleo might have dragged it there. No list. The White Lotus annual report is still on his desk, but that confidential record of shareowners has disappeared.

He inspects the locks on the loft door. No signs of a break-in. But that doesn’t mean shit. A good picklock could open almost any door and never leave a trace. And no use wondering when it was done. Last night or yesterday afternoon while Cone was at work. Whenever, the White Lotus shareholder list has been snaffled.

Cone glares accusingly at Cleo.

“What a lousy attack cat you turned out to be,” he says to the beast. “What’d the gonnif do-toss you a fish head? You fink!”

He’s in his office in a sour mood and telling himself he’s got a lot to be sour about.

That missing list bothers him, mostly because he promised Chin Tung Lee he’d take good care of it. It would be easy to assume it had been glommed by the Giant Pandas while they had him in custody, but that just won’t wash. If Edward Lee is snuggling up to the Pandas-and Cone believes he is-he could easily provide a shareholder list anytime it was wanted.

That probably means the guy who burgled the loft was a paid-up member in good standing with the United Bamboo mob. But what would that gang of cutthroats want with a list of White Lotus investors? Unless they were going to put the company into play.

Three days, he reflects: that’s how long he’s got before he faces the long knives. The prospect of his immediate demise doesn’t dismay him as much as fears for Cleo’s future without him. He wonders if he should leave Samantha Whatley a letter, willing the cat to her. Unless, of course, when he is knocked off, Cleo is also sent to the great litter box in the sky.

Engrossed with these morose musings, he suddenly becomes aware that his phone is ringing. He picks up, wondering if it’s Mr. Yeh, calling to remind him that the clock is ticking.

“Yeah?” he says.

“Mr. Cone? This is Claire Lee. I’m calling from home. My husband is with me and would like to see you as soon as possible.”

She sounds breathless. Maybe distraught.

“At your Fifth Avenue apartment?” he asks.

“Yes. Please. As quickly as you can, Mr. Cone.”

“Okay,” he says, “I’ll be there.”

He has no idea what it’s all about, but figures that maybe it would be smart if he had wheels. So he grabs a cab back to his neighborhood, reclaims the red Ford Escort from a parking lot on Wooster Street, and heads for the Lees’ Fifth Avenue apartment.

Finding a parking space in that area is like the search for the Holy Grail. Finally Cone gives up, double-parks on East 68th Street, and locks up. If the Escort is towed, so be it; the client will pay the ransom to get it out of hock.

Claire meets him at the door of the apartment. She looks yummy in a white linen jumpsuit with an alligator belt. But her face is drawn, and when she clasps Cone’s hand in both of hers, her skin feels moist and clammy.

She draws him into the apartment, closes and bolts the door, then turns to face him. He wonders if she’s been weeping; her eyes are lost in puffy bags. She leans close, and he catches a whiff of 80-proof something.

“My husband is ill,” she says in a low voice. “Maybe not ill, but very upset. Troubled.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Cone says. “What’s he troubled about?”

“You better hear it from him.”

She leads the way through a maze of hallways, corridors, empty rooms, up two steps, down two steps, until they finally reach what is apparently the master bedroom.

It is a huge, high-ceilinged chamber dominated by an enormous oak four-poster that could sleep the Celtics, spoon-fashion. And there are armoires, dressers, escritoires, cabinets, chests, cupboards, etageres-all in dark, distressed woods, looking as if an entire Scottish castle had been denuded to furnish this one melancholy room.

In the center of the immense bed is Mr. Chin Tung Lee, shrunken under a sheet and light blanket drawn up to his scrawny neck. His complexion is tallowy and his eyes are dimmed. Even his little beard seems limp. He withdraws a hand from beneath the covers and offers it to Timothy. The skin is parchment, the bones as thin and frail as a chicken’s wing.

“Thank you so much for coming,” he says in a wispy voice. “Please, pull up a chair.”

Cone wrestles one as heavy as a throne to the bedside and sits, leaning forward.

“Sorry you’re feeling under the weather, Mr. Lee. Is there anything I can do?”

Claire Lee is standing on the other side of the bed, opposite Cone. Her husband turns his head slowly in her direction.

“The first letter, dear,” he says, and there’s no vigor in his voice. “Please show it to Mr. Cone.”

She plucks a single sheet of paper from a bedside table and brings it around to him. It’s heavy stationery, thrice folded. The letterhead is embossed. Cone scans it, then looks up at Chin Tung Lee.

“Yangtze International, Limited,” he says. “On Pine Street. Never heard of them. Have you?”

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard of them. My countrymen.” Then, bitterly: “I understand criminal elements are involved.”

“Uh-huh,” Cone says, and reads the letter. It’s in polite legalese, but the meaning is clear. Yangtze International has accumulated 16 percent of all White Lotus stock, with the pledge of proxies by “many other shareholders” and requests a personal meeting with Mr. Chin Tung Lee with a view toward “proper representation” on the Board of Directors.

Cone reads it twice, then folds it and taps the letter on his knee.

“I checked with the SEC early this week,” he says. “No one has filed a 13-D notifying an investment in White Lotus of five percent or more and declaring intent. But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything; there’s a ten-day delay allowed.”

“But what does it mean, Mr. Cone?” Lee asks.

“You know what it means,” Cone says harshly. “They’re making a run on your company. Now we know why the stock has been going up, up, up.”

“I’ll never sell out,” the old man wails. “Never!”

“You won’t have to,” Cone says, “if you play your cards right. You’ve got options. You can pay them greenmail-more than the market value of the stock-and buy them out. You can start a poison pill defense to make it so expensive to take over White Lotus that they’ll just go away. You can look for a friendly buyer. You can consider a leveraged buyout: You buy everyone’s shares and go private. You’ll have to take on debt to do that. But then, in a couple of years or so, depending on what the Dow is doing, you can go public again. It could make you a zillionaire. But I’m not the one to be giving you advice on this. Have you got an investment banker?”

“No. I’ve never had the need for one.”

“Well, you’ve got the need for one now. Mr. Lee, you’re in a war, and you better have the best strategist money can buy. Ask around, then pick one. If you want a tip from me, try Pistol and Burns on Wall Street. It’s an old outfit. Very conservative. Talk to G. Fergus Twiggs. He’s a full partner and a smart apple.”

Lee looks imploringly at his wife. “Claire, will you remember that?”

“Yes, daddy,” she says. “Pistol and Burns. G. Fergus Twiggs.”

“Thank you, dear. Now show Mr. Cone the second letter.”

She goes back to the bedside table, returns with a sheet of white foolscap. She hands it to Cone with fingers that are trembling even more than they did at Carpacchio’s bar.

Timothy unfolds the paper and reads. No letterhead on this one. Just two typed lines: We have Edward. Do not go to the police if you wish to see your son alive again.

He looks up in astonishment. “What the hell is this?” he demands. “Has someone grabbed him?”

“I checked,” Claire says, gnawing at a knuckle. “He didn’t sleep in his bed last night. No one’s seen him or heard from him since yesterday afternoon.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Cone says. “No wonder you’re in bed, Mr. Lee.”

The oldster sighs. “As the Good Book says, ‘Man that is born of a woman is of few days and full of trouble.’”

“I’ll buy that,” Cone says. “This is the only letter you’ve received?”

“The only one,” Claire says. “It came this morning.”

“Phone calls?”

“About Edward? No, none.”

“Well, if he’s been snatched, you’ll be hearing from the people holding him. They’ll either phone or send you another letter. I think you should bring the cops in on this, Mr. Lee.”

“No,” the gaffer says in an unexpectedly firm voice. “Absolutely not. I’ll pay anything to get him back, but I won’t endanger his life.”

“You’ve got no guarantee,” Cone argues. “You could pay off and they still might croak-they still might do away with him because he can identify them. But listen, this is a rough decision and you have to make it yourself. Don’t listen to me.”

“I want to do the right thing,” the septuagenarian says, his voice faint again.

“Sure you do.”

“You won’t tell the police, will you?”

“If you don’t want me to, I won’t.”

“But is there anything you can do to help?”

“Very iffy,” Cone says. “Right now they’re just letting you sweat a little. You’ll be hearing from them again. Then we’ll know where you stand.”

He looks at Claire to see if she picks up on that: practically the identical language he used at Carpacchio’s. But she won’t look at him.

“Tell me something,” Cone says. “How did this letter arrive? In your regular mail delivery?”

“No,” Claire says, “it wasn’t mailed. A messenger left it with our concierge this morning. The other letter-the one from Yangtze International-that was hand-delivered, too.”

“Uh-huh,” Cone says. “Both letters came at the same time by the same messenger?”

“No,” she says. “I asked. They both came this morning but at different times. About an hour apart. The letter from Yangtze came first, delivered by a commercial service. Then, an hour later, the letter about Edward was brought by a young Chinese boy. The concierge says he dropped the letter on his desk and ran out.”

“I get the picture,” Cone says. “Look, I’m going to leave you folks now. I’ve got some calls to make to people who may be able to help.” Then, when Chin Tung Lee glares at him, he adds hastily, “Not the cops. Just some guys who might have heard some talk. It’s worth a try. Listen, do you mind if I take this letter about Edward along with me? I got a pal in the typewriter business. He’ll be able to identify the machine used. That might help; you never know.”

“Take it,” Lee says wearily.

“And call me if you hear anything more. Either by letter or phone. And don’t forget to contact an investment banker. I know that your son’s disappearance is enough troubles, but you’ve got to start moving to protect your business, too.”

The old man nods and holds out his hand. Cone shakes it gently, afraid the wrist bone might snap.

“I’ll be in touch, Mr. Lee,” he says as lightly as he can. “I’m not going to tell you not to worry because I know you will. But you’ve lived a long life and had a lot of problems, and you solved them all, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Chin Tung Lee says, straightening up a little and raising his head from the pillow. “That is true.”

“So? I’m betting you’ll grab the brass ring on this one, too.”

Claire Lee leads the way to the front door. Cone appreciates that or he’d be lost in the warren.

“First that letter I got,” she says in a low voice, “and now this. I think I’m going nuts.”

“Nah,” Cone says. “You’re a survivor. And your husband needs you. Got any ideas who might have snatched Edward?”

“Anyone out to make a lot of fast bucks,” she says bitterly. “But no, I have no idea who it might be.”

“How about your problem? Did you get another letter or phone call?”

“No.”

“Okay,” Cone says at the door, “hang in there and take care of your husband. He looks shvach.”

“Just the way I feel,” she says. She puts a hand on his arm. “Please, Mr. Cone, help us.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he says gruffly.

Mercifully, the Ford Escort is still peaceably double-parked, which Cone considers a good omen-but of what he cannot say. He drives back to the loft, his brain whirling like one of those spheres of ivory intricately carved by Chinese artists. Within the outer ball, the size of a softball, is a smaller one, turning freely; within that a golf ball; within that something smaller, the balls dwindling down to a carved pea, and all these nesting globes are perforated with ornate designs and revolve dizzily like Timothy’s brain.

The first thing he does in the loft-even before he pours a vodka-is to compare the letter from Edward Lee’s kidnappers with the letter from Claire Lee’s blackmailers. Even to his inexpert eye it’s obvious the two letters are of different sizes and grades of paper and were typed on different machines.

“Shit!” he says aloud.

Then he mixes a vodka and water.

He works on that, smokes a butt in short, angry puffs, and ponders his next move. First things first, he finally decides, and calls Johnnie Wong at FBI headquarters on Federal Plaza. A real grouch of a guy tells him Wong is not available, but he can leave a message if he wants to. Cone wants to, and does.

It’s one hour, two drinks, and three cigarettes later before Johnnie gets back to him.

“The office told me you called,” he says breezily. “Second time today we’ve talked. When are we going to start living together?”

“God forbid,” Cone says. “Where are you-can you tell me?”

“Sure,” Wong says, laughing. “I’m calling from my car. I was over in Jersey on a job, and just came through the Lincoln Tunnel. Traffic is murder! Right now I’m heading south on Ninth Avenue. What’s up?”

“Listen, I think we better meet as soon as possible. The pasta fazool just hit the fan.”

“Yeah? Well, don’t say any more about it. Too many big ears on these mobile circuits.”

“So I’ve heard,” Cone says. “How’s about you stopping by my place? Don’t come up; I’ll wait for you downstairs. Double-park and we can talk in your car. How does that sound?”

“Okay by me,” Johnnie Wong says. “Give me fifteen minutes or so. I’m driving a black Chrysler two-door.”

Cone’s waiting on the sidewalk when the Chrysler pulls up about twenty minutes later. He slides into a leather bucket seat.

“Nice yacht,” he says to Wong. “So this is where the taxpayers’ money goes.”

“This is where,” the FBI man agrees. “What’ve you got?”

“The first thing I got is a question. Then I’ll trade. Ever hear of Yangtze International, Limited?”

Johnnie turns sideways to stare at him. He’s not smiling. “You really come up with some doozies,” he says. “Yeah, I’ve heard of that outfit. It’s the business arm of the Giant Panda mob. Handles all their purchases, leases, rentals, and investments. How did you hear about it? And don’t tell me it was in idle conversation.”

“Chin Tung Lee, the boss of White Lotus, got a letter from Yangtze this morning. They claim they now own sixteen percent of White Lotus stock and want to put their people on the Board of Directors. Sounds like the start of a takeover to me.”

“I’ll be damned,” Wong says thoughtfully. “But then I shouldn’t be surprised. I see the fine Italian hand of your old pal Henry Wu Yeh behind that deal. Did I tell you the guy’s an MBA? It fits the pattern of the Pandas trying to muscle into legitimate businesses. What’s Lee going to do?”

“Fight it, of course. I gave him the name of a good investment banker. The old man really loves that company; it’s his whole life, and he’s not going to fold because of one letter from Yangtze. But all that is just an appetizer. Here’s one from Column A: It’s a letter that was delivered to Lee’s apartment house this morning.”

He hands over the two-sentence note from the kidnappers. Wong scans it, then looks up in shock.

“Jesus,” he says, “they grabbed his son? The guy you were with at Ah Sing’s?”

“That’s what it says. Listen, Johnnie, you’ve got to cover my ass on this. I promised the father I wouldn’t go to the police.”

“So? We’re not the police-exactly.”

“I know, but if you guys go charging up there, install phone taps and tape recorders, put on around-the-clock guards and all that crap, Chin Tung Lee will know for sure I tipped you, and my name will be mud. He’ll probably send a hatchetman after me, and I got enough problems with Henry Wu Yeh.”

“Maybe you should read How to Win Friends and Influence People. You figure Giant Panda pulled the snatch? It makes sense. They put more pressure on Lee to make him turn over White Lotus to them. And if he pays a hefty ransom, they use the money to buy more White Lotus stock. It’s neat.”

“Too fucking neat,” Cone says angrily. “And it doesn’t listen. Because Edward Lee is palsy-walsy with the Pandas.”

Then he tells Wong the story of how, when he was frisked by Giant Panda foot soldiers, they went directly to his ankle holster. Only Edward could have told them about that. Also, Lee and Chen Chang Wang were thick as thieves at Ah Sing’s Bar amp; Grill before Wang got popped.

“Yeah,” the FBI man says, “I see what you mean. It sure sounds like Edward is sleeping in the Pandas’ bed. Maybe he’s in so deep that he gaffed his own kidnapping. It wouldn’t be the first time the so-called victim was working hand in glove with the so-called kidnappers.”

“That’s possible, too. But look, you told me the United Bamboo and Giant Panda gangs hate each other’s guts-right?”

“You better believe it. Like Cain and Abel, the Yanks and Red Sox, Texaco and Pennzoil.”

“You think they both got spies in the other’s camp?”

“You believe there’s honor amongst thieves? Of course they do. About a month ago we found two Giant Panda thugs sliced to linguine in a Jersey pig farm. Only it turned out they weren’t really Pandas; they were actually United Bamboo undercover guys. Their cover was blown, and they ended up feeding the pigs-personally.”

“So you’ve got to figure both mobs have a pretty good idea what the other one is up to. How’s this for a scenario: Giant Panda starts buying White Lotus stock through Yangtze International, planning a takeover. United Bamboo hears about it, takes a look at White Lotus, and decides they want a piece of the action. But Giant Panda has already accumulated sixteen percent of the stock, so United Bamboo has got to move fast. That they do. They kidnap the son of the CEO and biggest shareholder in White Lotus. You want to see Edward alive again? Okay, the ransom will be all your stock in White Lotus. And that amounts to about twenty-six percent of all outstanding shares. So by snatching Edward, United Bamboo ends up with a bigger hunk of the company than Giant Panda assembled by buying shares on the open market.”

Johnnie Wong, frowning, considers it for a moment. Then: “I’ll buy that. Mostly because it’s the way United Bamboo operates: they’re tough, direct, violent. They prefer physical action to reading SEC regulations before they move.”

“Have you guys got snitches in United Bamboo?”

The FBI man gives him a blazing grin. “You don’t expect me to answer that, do you? I will neither confirm nor deny.”

“Okay, then I reckon you do,” Cone says. “How about contacting your plants and find out if United Bamboo is holding Edward Tung Lee.”

“I’ll try,” Wong says cautiously.

“You’ve got to do better than that,” Cone urges. “This thing has to be wrapped up by Monday, or I may end up in a pig farm.”

“All right, I’ll move on it as soon as I get back to the office.”

“When will I hear from you?”

“Depends. You’ll be home tonight?”

“Oh, yeah,” Cone say. “With the door locked, bolted, and chained.”

“Why don’t you teach Cleo karate?” Johnnie Wong suggests.

After the black Chrysler pulls away, Cone goes around the corner to a deli and buys a whole barbecued chicken, a container of potato salad, and two dills. He carries the fragrant bag back to the loft, rips it open, and starts on his dinner, after twisting the tail off the chicken and tossing it to Cleo.

He eats slowly and methodically because he’s got a lot to brood about. He figures he’s done all he can on Edward’s kidnapping; now it’s up to Johnnie Wong. But that’s not what’s bothering him; it’s the threatening letter Claire Lee received and those phone calls to Edward Lee.

Cone’s first idea had been that the United Bamboo mob was behind both letter and calls. But that no longer makes sense. You don’t act like a blackmailer on the phone and then kidnap your intended victim. And it couldn’t have been the Giant Pandas for the reason he had given Wong: Edward Lee is playing kneesy with that gang.

Which means, if Cone’s reasoning is half-assed correct, there’s a wild card in the deck: some free-lancer out to make a nice score by leaning on Claire and Edward. Timothy can’t totally buy that notion, but it’s the best he can come up with.

He gives the wingtips to Cleo and starts on the second leg, pausing occasionally to gulp potato salad or chomp on a pickle. He’s drinking a beer with his meal and making it last because he only wants a single before getting back to vodka.

Vodka, he sincerely believes, is a great aid to mental labor because it frees the mind of discipline and diminishes linear thinking. You can fly on vodka, and if ever a case demanded an unfettered, soaring brain, the White Lotus caper is it.

He bundles up the de-winged, de-legged, de-tushed carcass of the bird and puts it in the fridge along with the remains of the potato salad and the second pickle. He reckons it’ll make a nice Saturday morning brunch. Cleo can have the neck and back.

Then he goes back to his cigarettes and vodka. He runs out of ice cubes, but that doesn’t annoy him. What nags is a feeling that he’s missing something in this whole cockamamy jumble. He’s missing something or someone is jerking him around. Either way, he doesn’t like it.

Johnnie Wong hasn’t called by 11:00 P.M., or midnight, or 1:00 A.M. Finally Cone gives up and undresses. He checks the door, turns off the lights, rolls onto his mattress. The magnum in its holster is close at hand. Cleo comes padding up to curl into the bend of his knees. The two of them sleep, both snoring gently.

When the phone rings, Cone comes groggily awake. It’s still dark. He stumbles over to the wall phone, cursing when he stubs his toe on the refrigerator.

“Yeah?” he says, his voice thick with sleep.

“Aw,” Johnnie Wong says, “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

“What time is it?” Cone asks.

“After five. But don’t complain; I’ve been up all night.”

“Any results?”

“Oh, yeah. I think we got a world-class flap on our hands. Listen, can you meet me down on the street in front of your place in about twenty minutes?”

“Sure. What’s going on?”

“I want to drive you somewhere, and I’ll tell you about it on the way.”

Cone dresses quickly, straps on his shin holster, makes sure he’s got cigarettes and matches, waggles his fingers at a drowsing Cleo, relocks the door, and clatters downstairs to an early morning that’s just beginning to break over Brooklyn.

Timothy hasn’t been out at that hour in a long time, and it’s nice. The air is fresh-it hasn’t yet been breathed by a million other people-and the sky is a patchwork of grays and violets. Stars are fading, and an unexpectedly cool August breeze is coming from the northwest. Sprinkler trucks have wet down Broadway; the pavement gleams in the pearly light.

Johnnie Wong is late, but Cone waits patiently, walking up and down slowly, smoking his first Camel of the new day. When the Chrysler arrives, Cone slides into the passenger seat.

“Hey, old buddy!” the FBI man cries, clapping him on the shoulder. “Sorry to interrupt your beauty sleep.”

Cone looks at him closely. “Christ, you’re wired,” he says. “Haven’t been popping bennies, have you?”

“Nah, I’m just hyper. A lot going on, and it could make me a hero or leave me looking like a putz.”

He starts up, turns eastward, accelerates down a deserted street.

“Great morning,” he says. “Best time of the day. No traffic. No pollution. Everything fresh and clean.”

“That’s what you wanted to tell me?” Cone says. “How wonderful the world is at six o’clock in the morning?”

Wong laughs: “Not exactly. Listen, you were right; the United Bamboo pirates are holding Edward Lee. They grabbed him late Thursday afternoon. It took me all night to authenticate that, and I had to call in a lot of chits.”

“Where have they got him?”

“Where we’re heading: Doyers Street in Chinatown. The Yubies’ headquarters. That’s what I call them-the Yubies. From the ‘U’ and ‘B’ in United Bamboo.”

“You don’t have to draw me a diagram,” Cone says.

“God, you’re grouchy early in the morning.”

“I’m always grouchy.”

“Well, the Yubies have three or four hangouts that we know about. Mostly in Manhattan, but one in Queens. Anyway, their headquarters is on Doyers Street in a five-story tenement. They’ve got the whole building except for a ground-floor restaurant, which happens to be the best dim sum joint in Chinatown. Edward Lee is being held in a third-floor office. He’s been roughed up a little, but he’s alive and okay. At least he was a couple of hours ago.”

“You guys going in for him?”

“Ah, there’s the rub. That’s why I’m taking you to see the place. It’s a fucking fortress.”

Even at that early hour Chinatown is bustling. Merchants are taking down their shutters, street vendors are setting up their stalls, the narrow streets are crowded with men and women carrying live ducks, dead mackerel, and net bags filled with fruits and vegetables. Tea houses are already open for business, and the whole area has a raucous vitality.

Wong finds a parking space on Chatham Square. As they walk back to Doyers, he describes the setup.

“The entrance to the Yubies’ headquarters is alongside the dim sum restaurant. There’s an iron grille door on the street, kept locked, a small vestibule, and then a steel door painted to look like wood. Also kept locked. And if that wasn’t enough, there are always two United Bamboo soldiers on the sidewalk outside the entrance. Twenty-four hours a day. I figure they’re carrying. They don’t let anyone inside the iron grille or the steel door unless they’re recognized or expected. There’s an intercom to the upper floors and also an alarm bell the guards can sound in case they get jumped.”

“Beautiful,” Cone says. “Back entrance?”

“Nope. Just a small blind courtyard. Fenced and topped with razor wire. There it is; take a look.”

They saunter along on the other side of Doyers Street, pausing while Cone lights a cigarette, giving him a chance to eyeball the place. Three red-brick tenements in a row. The center building has the ground-floor restaurant. He spots the guards lounging near an iron gate. They look like kids to him: short and wiry.

Cone and Wong continue their slow stroll, turn onto Pell and then Mott Street.

“There’s a place up near Canal where we can get coffee and a nosh,” Johnnie says. “It’s probably open by now.”

“Yeah,” Cone says, “that sounds good. My treat.”

They sit at a table against a white-tiled wall. Wong tucks into a down-home breakfast of buttermilk pancakes and pork sausages with a side order of hush puppies. Cone has a bagel with cream cheese, lox, and a slice of onion. Both swill black coffee.

“You were right,” Timothy says. “A fucking fortress. You guys thinking of hitting it?”

“Our legal eagles say we don’t need a warrant; we’ve got probable cause: a kidnap victim being held against his will on the third floor. But how do we do it? We rush the place like gangbusters and already we’re in deep trouble. Those two jerko guards will probably draw and start blasting away; you know that. And if they don’t, they’ll push the alarm button. That’s what scares me most, because if the alarm goes off before we get upstairs, the guys in the third-floor office are liable to pop Edward Tung Lee just so he can’t testify against them. I told you they were savages, didn’t I? Real primitive types.”

Cone continues munching his bagel sandwich and gulping black coffee. “So what do you want from my young life?”

“We can’t let Edward Lee rot in there, can we? We’ve got to make a try at getting him out as long as it doesn’t endanger his life.”

“You could surround the front of the building and make a big show of force. Then bring in your hostage negotiation team.”

“You think that would work?” Wong says, pouring more syrup on his pancakes.

“No,” Cone says. “Because if they cave and hand you Lee, they’ll know you’ve got them on a kidnap rap.”

“Right. Well, you were an infantryman. Vietnam and your medals and all that shit. So what do you suggest?”

Cone pushes back from the table, lights another cigarette. He finishes his coffee and signals for a refill.

“You got some cowboys in your office?” he asks.

“You mean like a SWAT team? Sure, we got guys like that. An assault squad. Specially trained. Real hotshots. They just don’t give a damn.”

“Uh-huh,” Cone says. “Listen, you know anything about the tong wars back in the twenties and thirties?”

“A little. I know the area bounded by Mott, Pell, and Doyer streets was called the Bloody Triangle.”

“That’s right. Well, during one of those wars the boss of a tong was threatened by an opposing gang. They swore they were going to top him. So he surrounded himself with bodyguards. On the street outside his headquarters. In the room where he worked. Even in his bedroom. But he got slammed just the same. You know how?”

“How?”

“The enemy went up on the roof of the building next to the tong headquarters. Same height. They crossed over and let a shooter down in a bosun’s chair. He popped the bossman through a front window.”

Johnnie Wong stares at him. “Son of a bitch,” he says softly.

“Probably the world’s first demonstration of vertical envelopment,” Cone goes on. “When you’re in a firefight, or going into one, you tend to think horizontally. You figure the enemy will be on the same level. You never expect to get a load of crap dumped on your head. In World War Two it took a while for our guys in the South Pacific to learn the Nip snipers were up in the trees.”

Wong leans forward, interested. “You think it would work here?”

“You’ve got buildings on both sides of the United Bamboo headquarters. All the buildings are tight together and the same height. Crossing to the middle roof should be a cinch. You couldn’t lower just one guy; you need more firepower than that. The Yubies’ headquarters are three windows wide. You make sure your lines are secure, and then three guys rappel down the face of the building, one guy to each stack of windows. They’re armed with Uzis or maybe Ingrams or whatever lightweight choppers you guys are using these days. They rappel down to the third floor and start blasting the bejesus out of everything in sight, keeping their shots high because you don’t want Edward Lee cut in two. If you think all that shooting is too risky, then have your hotshots kick the windows out with their boots and toss in stun grenades.”

“Or tear gas,” Wong says. He’s getting excited now.

Cone shakes his head. “Gas would take too long to knock out Lee’s guards. And besides, while this is going on, you’re going to have a squad charging up the stairs to the third floor. And unless they’re wearing masks, the gas will take them out, too.”

“And how does this squad get past the guards, inside the two locked doors, and go galloping up to the rescue?”

“When the guys come down from the roof and the party begins, those two guards are going to run out into the middle of the street and look up, to see what’s going on. That’ll be your chance to grab them-while they’re still peeing their pants. As for those locked doors, they shouldn’t take more than a minute or two to pry open if you’ve got the right tools. My advice would be to blow them. Look, I haven’t been in the war business for years, so I don’t know what new goodies you guys have in your armory. But I’ll bet you’ve got gizmos to get you through locked doors in seconds. Then you go hotfooting up to the third floor where the bad guys are still spooked.”

“You really think that meshugass would work?”

Cone shrugs. “Fifty-fifty,” he says.

“Come on,” Johnnie Wong says angrily, “give it to me straight. If you had to make the top decision, would you say go or no-go?”

“Go,” Cone says.

Wong sighs. “All right,” he says. “I’ll give it the old college try. We’ll have to buck this one all the way up the line, probably to D.C. It’s the time factor that worries me. I want to get Edward Lee out of there before the media gets wind of it or we’ll have a three-ring circus on our hands. By rights, we should have conferences on this, liaise with the NYPD, and maybe even run a rehearsal down at Quantico. But we just don’t have the time. Listen, are you going to be home this weekend?”

“I’ll be in and out.”

“I’ll try to keep you up to speed on what’s going on. I owe you that; it’s your idea.”

“Look,” Cone says, “if you can’t get enough guys to jump off the roof, I could do that. I know how to rappel.”

Wong looks at him with amusement. “Smell action?” he asks. “Can’t get it out of your system, can you? Thanks for the offer, but we’ve got weapons you haven’t even heard about.”

“Guns are guns,” Cone says. “You point and pull the trigger.”

“Forget it,” the FBI man advises. “My God, you’re just a lousy civilian.”

Johnnie says he wants to get back to his office as soon as possible, so Timothy decides to walk home-a nice hike that’ll get his juices flowing. The sun has popped up, but the air is still cool enough. It promises to be a hot, beamy day, not a rain cloud in sight. There’s a skywriting plane at work over Manhattan, and Cone wonders what would happen if a berserk pilot spelled out FUCK YOU for all the city to see and ponder.

He buys a morning Times and a Barron’s from a sidewalk kiosk. Then, nearing home, he begins stocking up on groceries and potables, figuring he’ll spend the weekend in the loft; he doesn’t want to be out if Johnnie Wong calls.

The elevator works until noon on Saturdays so Cone doesn’t have to lug all his bundles up six flights of steep stairs. He gets everything stowed away, gives Cleo fresh water, fresh litter, and a Twinkie. Then he undresses and sacks out on the floor mattress to complete his night’s sleep.

He awakes a little after noon, feeling grungy and tasting that onion from the bagel sandwich. So he brushes his teeth, showers, shaves, and pulls on fresh skivvies. Then he pops a beer, lights a cigarette, and eats two Mallomars.

He figures the action he suggested to the FBI man has a reasonable chance of success. It’s got surprise going for it, and if the guys on the roof and the guys on the street can coordinate, it should go like silk. If their timing is off, it could be the biggest foozle of all time.

What it requires, of course, is luck. Cone has seen perfectly plotted combat operations go awry because of accidents, breakdowns of equipment, or acts of God. Other rumbles, planned by wetbrains who didn’t know shit from Shinola about fighting a war, went off without a hitch because they had luck going for them.

He hopes Johnnie Wong has luck, or a lot of good men could get their butts shot off. Still, he reflects, that’s what they’re getting paid for, and if they don’t like the odds, they should get into another line of business-something a frontline grunt in Nam would have found a wee bit difficult.

He resolutely puts memories of that time and that place into the farthest, dimmest corners of his mind, and tries to concentrate on today’s trials and tribulations. He wishes Samantha wasn’t a thousand miles away. Not that he would ever ask her advice or cry on her shoulder, but her physical presence is spice in a world he finds flat and tasteless without her.

He wonders how he ever got diddled by the fickle finger of fate and ended up an investigator, prying into other people’s lives and sticking his nose into financial brannigans. Because, he ruefully admits, his own life is so dull. He’s living vicariously, and if it wasn’t for Cleo, he could go nights without speaking to a living soul-assuming cats have souls. And why not?

It’s that kind of a moony weekend, with a lot of reading, drinking, smoking, and pigging out on food that comes in plastic wrappers. Not a phone call, from Wong or anyone else, and his cabin fever is just about to drive him to a seizure of pub-crawling when his phone rings late Sunday night, and he kisses it for luck before he says, “Yeah?”

“It’s on,” Johnnie Wong says. “And if I sound whacked-out it’s because I haven’t slept for forty-eight hours. I can’t talk about it on the phone. You remember where I parked my car on Saturday?”

“Sure.”

“Can you meet me there at two-thirty?”

“I’ll be there. Anything I can do to help?”

“Pray,” Wong says, and hangs up.

Cone’s got about three hours to kill and figures it’s too risky to take a snooze; he might not wake up in time to witness the fireworks. So he spends a half-hour cleaning his S amp;W.357 magnum and oiling the ankle holster.

Since it’s going to be a night operation, he debates the wisdom of wearing a black turtleneck sweater and dark gray slacks. But then he realizes he’s just conning himself; he’s going to be a spectator, not a combatant, and his costume is of no importance. So he wears a navy blue T-shirt under the usual corduroy jacket, and stuffs his cap in the pocket.

He spends the last hour reviewing the plan again, trying to spot flaws. He can’t find any; the plot still looks good to him. If everyone does his job, and Lady Luck is smiling, Edward Tung Lee should be sleeping in his Fifth Avenue apartment by dawn.

He exits his building to find a low-hanging cloud bank over the city. If there are moon and stars up there, they can’t be seen-which Cone takes as a promising portent for night action. Also, there’s no wind to speak of, nothing strong enough to bother those cowboys rappeling down from the roof.

He drives the red Escort over to Chatham Square, finds a place to park on the Bowery, and walks back. Johnnie Wong is waiting for him. The FBI man is wearing camouflaged combat fatigues and looks unexpectedly bulky. Cone digs a finger into his ribs and feels the armor beneath the cloth.

“Bulletproof vest?” he asks.

“I hope so,” Wong says, grinning.

“Don’t tell me you’re flying off the roof?”

“Hell, no; I’m no bird. I’m leading the squad up the stairs after we blow the outside doors.”

“Then it’s going down like we said?”

“Pretty much,” Wong says. “With a few minor refinements. The guys going off the roof will be carrying Ingram Mark Tens. Plus stun grenades.”

“What are you carrying?”

“Old Faithful: a Thompson forty-five with drum magazine.”

“How do you blow the doors?”

“Our boffins have come up with a cutie. It’s a high-energy explosive made to look like a credit card, and just as thin. You slide it between the door and jamb, pull the friction snapper, and run like hell because it’s got a five-second fuse-if you’re lucky. Listen, I haven’t got much time so let me give you the scoop. We had to liaise with the NYPD, and in about fifteen minutes they’re going to close off Doyers Street at both ends with barricades and unlighted, unmarked police cars. They’ll position flatbeds at each end loaded with floodlights and searchlights. And portable generators, of course.

“Our combat control is on the roof of the building across the street from the Yubies’ headquarters. You get up there by going through a courtyard and climbing six flights of stairs. We’ve got men posted on every floor to keep tenants inside their apartments. Everyone’s connected by walkie-talkies-and let’s hope they work.”

“What about the guys on the roof of the United Bamboo building-did they get there okay?”

“No sweat. They’ve been up for about a half-hour now, moving around on felt boots so they don’t spook the bandidos downstairs. They report they’ve got their lines securely anchored-one around a chimney and the other two with grappling hooks. Time’s getting short; let’s go.”

Johnnie leads the way to Doyers, and they begin passing men in dark suits, some of them talking quietly into their radios.

“How many guys you call in on this caper?” Cone asks.

“Almost a hundred. The controller flew up from Quantico. He’s run operations like this a dozen times before. He’s got a good score, but he’s a bastard to deal with. It took me a while to persuade him to let you watch the action. After all, it was your idea.”

“I know,” Cone says. “But I’m just a lousy civilian.”

They go across a bleak courtyard, through the back door of a tenement, and climb the stairs to the top floor, where there’s an iron ladder leading through an opened skylight to a tarred roof. There are two brick chimneys and a number of vent pipes protruding from the roof. Cone spots a waist-high wall with a coping of slates facing Doyers Street.

There are five men up there. One has what appears to be a 4X5 Speed Graphic, another has a shoulder-mounted video camera.

“We’re recording all this for posterity,” Wong says dryly. “I’m not going to introduce you to anyone; they’re too tense for politeness.”

“Yeah,” Cone says, “I know the feeling.”

Two of the other FBI men are using their walkie-talkies. The fifth man, apparently the controller, is standing well back from the wall, hands jammed into his pockets. He’s staring up at the dark sky, his mouth half-open. Johnnie goes up to him, speaks a few words, and jerks a thumb in Cone’s direction. The controller turns to look, nods, then says something. Wong comes back to Cone’s side.

“Keep back from the roof edge until the action starts,” he says. “And no lighting matches, no smoking. Okay?”

“Sure,” Cone says. “Listen, I don’t want to put the whammy on this, but have you made plans for casualties?”

“Two ambulances and medical evac teams standing by on Mott Street. And paddy wagons. Only they’re buses. Well, I’ve got to leave now and get on station.”

“Look,” Timothy says, “do me a favor, will you? Remember that White Lotus shareholder list I showed you at my place? Someone copped it from my loft, and I think it was a United Bamboo picklock. When you get up to their offices, and this whole thing is winding down, will you take a look around and see if you can find it? I promised Chin Tung Lee I’d take good care of it. It’s confidential information.”

“Sure,” Johnnie says, “I can do that. See you soon, old buddy.”

“You bet,” Cone says.

Wong leaves, and the Wall Street dick reaches into his pocket for a cigarette, then pulls his hand guiltily away. He notices the five FBI men on the roof are inching closer to the wall overlooking Doyers Street. Cone inches right along with them.

The controller is holding what appears to be a stopwatch, big as an onion. He consults it and says quietly to his talkers, “Coming up to one minute.”

They murmur into their radios.

“One minute … mark,” the controller says in dullish tones.

The talkers repeat.

They all wait in silence.

“Forty-five seconds,” the controller says. His voice is sluggish. “Thirty seconds … twenty … ten … five, four, three, two, one. Go.”

The talkers begin shouting into their walkie-talkies. Everyone moves to the edge of the roof. They grip the wall coping, stare across the street.

Three men drop on lines from the top of United Bamboo headquarters. They rappel swiftly downward. They use leg kicks to keep themselves bouncing off the brick front of the building.

They come to a stop facing the third-floor windows. They smash the glass with their boots. They toss in grenades. The three explosions are almost simultaneous: one titanic boom!

“Lights,” the controller says in his listless voice.

Searchlights and floods make day of night. The street is frozen in a harsh, greenish glare.

“Go with Unit Two,” the controller says.

Cone figures no one is going to send him to Leavenworth for smoking a Camel now. He lights up, leans over the wall, peers down.

One of the Yubie guards has run out into the street, is staring upward. The other has his back against the iron grille door. He’s fumbling at his belt.

Wong’s squad comes spilling out of tenement doorways. They rush the guards. Grab them. Johnnie works at the iron grille. Motions everyone back, then ducks away. Sheet of flame brighter than the floodlights. Sparks. The grille hangs crazily from one hinge.

Same thing with the inner door. It’s blown completely inward. The attackers cram into the entranceway, Wong leading.

Now the three rappelers have disappeared. They’re inside, through the shattered windows. Gunfire. Single shots. Then short bursts from automatic weapons.

“Unit Three,” the controller says stolidly.

Cone wonders if a reserve has been put on standby. It has. A dozen men come charging down Doyers. These are New York City cops, wearing helmets and flak jackets. Following them is a platoon of uniformed police who set up a cordon around the United Bamboo building.

More gunfire. A lot of it.

“Medics,” the controller mentions. Then: “Let’s go.”

He leaves first, climbing carefully down the iron ladder. Followed by his two assistants. Then the photographers who have been working steadily since the action started.

Cone lights another cigarette and follows them. By the time he hits the street, the small-arms fire is dwindling; just single shots or brief chatters of submachine guns.

An ambulance comes slowly up the street, siren growling. Cone stands in the doorway, watches the stretchers and body bags unloaded. Then an armored bus pulls up.

By this time every building on Doyers Street is lighted. People are leaning out windows; some have gone to their roofs for a better view.

The shooting stops. Cone lights another cigarette and realizes he’s got two going at once. He finishes the butt with quick drags and starts on the other.

Two FBI men come out of the United Bamboo building. They’re gripping Edward Tung Lee by the arms. His knees are buckling, but he can walk. They help him into the ambulance. Then more cops come out, FBI and NYPD. They’re herding a long file of prisoners, some dressed, some in pajamas and robes, some wearing shorts. All have hands clasped atop their heads. They’re stuffed into the bus. It pulls away; another takes its place.

Johnnie Wong comes out, helping to carry a stretcher. The supine body is covered to the chin with a blanket. A medic walks alongside, holding a plastic bag high, the connecting tube disappearing under the blanket.

The ambulance pulls away. A second comes purring up. Wong stands dazedly, looking around. The Thompson dangles from one hand.

Cone crosses the street, goes up to him.

“Johnnie,” he says gently.

The FBI man turns slowly to stare, not recognizing him at first. Cone knows the symptoms: shock, flood of adrenaline, postaction shakes.

“You okay?” he asks Wong.

“What? Oh, yeah, I’m all right. One of my guys caught it.”

“Ah, Jesus,” Cone says. “Bad?”

“I think so. It looked bad. Chiang Ho. He’s been with the Bureau almost ten years. A sweet man. Oh, God, what am I going to tell his wife?”

“Maybe he’ll make it.”

“No,” Wong said, “he won’t.” Then, savagely: “But I got the fucker who chilled him. We grabbed Edward Lee out of there-did you see?”

“I saw. It was a beautiful job, Johnnie.”

“I guess. Yeah, it was. It went real good. We’re taking everyone in. You know, after Chiang went down, I wanted to dissipate all those guys. I never felt like that before in my life. Not a nice feeling.”

“I know. But what the hell, you’ll get an ‘I love you’ letter from the Director for all this.”

“Maybe,” Wong says. “Hey, I found your fucking list. It was right on top of the desk in the office.”

He reaches into his fatigue jacket, pulls out the White Lotus computer printout.

“Thanks,” Cone says. “I owe you a big one, payable on demand.”

“I’ll remember that, old buddy,” the FBI man says. “Keep in touch.”

By all rights, he should zonk out the moment he hits the loft and sleep until late Monday morning. But he is too wired. Granted he has been a sideliner, not an active player in that raid on United Bamboo headquarters. But the tension and suspense have clutched him. He can still hear the controller’s phlegmatic “Go” and then the eruption of gunfire.

It takes a stiff vodka to soothe the jits, and by that time he’s concentrating on the remainder of the puzzle-the reason he was dumped into this mishmash in the first place.

Why the run-up in the price of White Lotus stock? Obviously because the Giant Panda mob has been buying up shares through Yangtze International with the aim of taking over the company. That’s a perfectly legitimate ploy. So why did Henry Wu Yeh have Cone kidnapped and tell him to stall his investigation or be prepared to knock on the Pearly Gates? That doesn’t make sense.

And where do the blackmailing letter to Claire Lee and phone calls to Edward Lee fit into the jumble?

Groaning, he starts flipping through the White Lotus shareholder list. He pays particular attention to investors owning more than a thousand shares-the people Johnnie Wong said were associated with Giant Panda.

Revelation comes slowly, not in a sudden inspiration. No light bulb flicks on over his head as in a cartoon strip. The answer comes from dry numbers which, the Wall Street dick well knows, can relate a tale as gory as bloodstains, a wet knife, or brain-splattered hammer.

The first step is adding up the holdings of all those thousand-share investors and realizing that no way, no way can they represent 16 percent of the outstanding shares of White Lotus. Yet that is what the letter from Yangtze International claimed-that they owned 16 percent of the stock, with the pledge of proxies by “many other shareholders.”

So how did they come up with that magic number of 16 percent? Timothy knows how. Edward Tung Lee personally owns 16 percent of White Lotus. What a beautiful coincidence. And if you believe that, try the Tooth Fairy on for size.

What it means, Cone realizes, is that Edward Lee is conniving with Giant Panda to make a run on his father’s company. But for what reason? Cone thinks he has the answer to that one, too.

He turns to the first page of the glossy White Lotus annual report. There is the photograph of Edward Tung Lee, Chief Operating Officer. Even with his frozen smile he’s a handsome devil: curved lips, cleft chin, high brow, blow-dried hair.

He could be a matinee idol. And Cone decides that’s exactly what he is.

“Cleo,” he calls, and the slumbering cat lifts its head.

“I’ve been snookered,” Cone says.

He wakes late on Monday morning, sits up on his mattress, yawns, roughs his scalp with his knuckles. He thinks of that punky saying: “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.” If he doesn’t get to work, he reflects sourly, it may be the last day-courtesy of Henry Wu Yeh.

It’s almost ten o’clock before he gets his act together; two Camels, two cups of black coffee, and a tot of brandy bring the roses to his cheeks.

He gives Cleo fresh water and a pickled pig’s foot to chew on. He checks the revolver in his shin holster, makes sure his wallet is stuffed with lettuce. Then he tears the photograph of Edward Lee from the annual report and sticks it in his jacket pocket. He sallies forth, feeling full of piss and vinegar, and not a little vindictive.

He drives directly to the Upper East Side and spends ten minutes wedging the Escort into a parking space that would be jammed with a moped. He walks back to the Hotel Bedlington on Madison Avenue, a few blocks away from the Lees’ apartment on Fifth.

He knows this joint; it’s figured in other cases he’s handled. It’s a staid, almost mousy establishment, with a lot of over-the-hill permanent residents, a cocktail bar that is proud of its Grasshoppers, and a lobby that smells faintly of must and has a magnificent framed lithograph of Grant’s Tomb over the desk.

Cone wanders around a few moments before he spots a bellhop. The guy is short, squat, and has a heavy blue jaw. He looks one year younger than God. Cone figures he belongs in an OTB with a cigar butt stuck in his kisser. He’s got that New York wisenheimer look, and Timothy knows it’s going to cost him.

“Can I talk to you a minute?” he asks.

The bellhop gives him the up-and-down, taking in the black leather cap, ratty corduroy suit, scuffed work shoes.

“Talk is cheap,” he says.

“I hope so,” Cone says. “Anyplace where we can have a little privacy?”

“What’s in it for me?” the guy says. He looks like a tall midget, and his gut is busting the brass buttons on his waistcoat.

“A couple of bucks?” Cone says hopefully.

“G’wan. I don’t even say hello for a deuce.”

“A fin,” Cone says.

The bellhop jerks a thumb toward the door of the men’s room. “In there,” he says. “And make it snappy. I got a job to do, you know.”

They lean on urinals in the empty loo. Cone hands over a fiver.

“You ain’t no cop,” the guy says. “That I guarantee. A private eye? Bill collector? Maybe a reporter for a scandal sheet?”

“Something like that,” Cone says. “What’s your name?”

“Max.”

“Listen, Max, I’m going to show you a photograph. I want to know if you’ve ever seen the guy before. Just a simple yes or no. That’s easy enough-right?”

“Let’s see it.”

Cone pulls out the photograph of Edward Tung Lee and holds it up. The bellhop stares at it.

“Never saw him before in my life,” he says, but meanwhile he’s rubbing a thick thumb against a bent forefinger.

The Wall Street dick sighs, pulls out his wallet. “You already got a Lincoln,” he says.

“It’ll cost you a Hamilton,” Max says. “Look, you’re making a nice couple of Washingtons on your job, aintcha? What am I-chopped liver?”

Cone fishes in his wallet, hands over a ten-dollar bill.

“Yeah, I make the guy,” Max says. “He checks in two, three times a week. Always in the afternoon. Stays maybe a couple of hours.”

“Since when has this been a hot-pillow joint?” Cone asks.

“Since day one,” the bellhop says. “Whaddya think, every hotel in the city don’t do it? It’s easy money-and fast turnover.”

“And how long has this guy been checking in for a few hours of fun and games?”

“Oh, maybe a couple of years now. That’s it; you got your money’s worth.”

“Not yet,” the Wall Street dick says. “Different women-or always the same woman?”

Max makes the same gesture, rubbing his thumb on a crooked forefinger.

“You’re going to wear out your thumb,” Timothy says. “How much?”

“I figure it’s worth a Jackson.”

“A double-sawbuck?” Cone says, outraged. “Are you sure your name’s not Jesse, as in Jesse James?”

“Listen, I know and you want to know. It’s supply and demand-get what I mean?”

Groaning, Cone gives him a twenty-dollar bill.

“Always the same woman,” Max says. “The guy calls the desk before he shows up so he’s got the room number-you capeesh? The Hitler on the desk is on the take. So the guy shows up, no luggage, and goes directly to his room. Then fifteen, twenty minutes later, the dame shows up. She’s got the room number from him, sails through the lobby, and goes straight upstairs. Nice people. Good tippers. They spread it around like they should.”

“Uh-huh,” Cone says. “And I guess she’s a short, dumpy broad with dark hair-right?”

The bellhop looks at him with disgust. “Whaddya think,” he says, “I was born yesterday?”

“All right,” Cone says, sighing. “How much?”

“A Grant. But I won’t testify in court if this is a divorce thing like I figure it is.”

“This better be good,” Cone says, handing over a fifty-dollar bill.

Max slips the folded bill into a waistcoat pocket. “She’s a beauty, a real sparkler. Tall as you. Young. Blond. Great jugs. Wears expensive clothes. Once I heard the guy call her Claire. Is that what you wanted?”

“It’ll do,” Cone says, nodding. “Now can you tell me where the public phone is-or are you going to hold me up for that, too?”

“Nah, that’s a freebie. It’s on the mezzanine.”

Cone finds the phone in an old-fashioned booth with a folding door. It’s even got a little wooden seat. He calls the corporate offices of White Lotus on Exchange Place.

“Is Mr. Chin Tung Lee in this morning?” he asks the operator.

“Yes, he is, sir. May I ask who’s calling?”

“I have a personal delivery to make to Mr. Lee and just wanted to make sure he’s there. Thank you.”

He hangs up, leaves the Hotel Bedlington, heads for the Lees’ apartment on Fifth Avenue.

There’s a monster standing in front of the Lees’ door with his arms folded. He looks like a young Genghis Khan, with slit eyes and mustachios bushy enough to sweep out a parrot’s cage. Cone decides to play it safe, not knowing if this muscle is FBI, NYPD, or a hired janissary.

“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.

“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?”

“Have you contacted an investment banker?”

“Yes, I have an appointment tomorrow with Mr. Twiggs of Pistol and Burns.”

“Good. He’s a smart man. Well, if this was a purely business decision, there are a lot of things you could do to fight off the greenmailers. Restructure your company. Take on heavy debt to buy up your stock on the open market. Look for a white knight to take over with your approval. Use the poison pill defense and put in golden parachutes to defend your personal position and your closest buddies.”

“I have the feeling you don’t support these methods wholeheartedly.”

“I would if it was purely a business decision. But it’s not. It’s Edward, your only son. We’re talking about family here, Mr. Lee, and I know how much that means to you.”

“Yes. So what do you suggest?”

“How about this: You call in your son and make him an offer. You’ll pay him whatever he wants, within reason, for his sixteen percent of all White Lotus shares. In addition, you’ll help finance his new business up to X dollars. The exact amount you’re willing to gamble on him is up to you. The important thing is that your offer will get him off the hook with Giant Panda. If he goes in business with them, he’ll be lucky to keep the fillings in his teeth. But if you promise him majority control of his new company, he’ll jump at it-unless he’s an idiot, which I don’t think he is. You follow?”

“I follow.”

“Now in addition to getting your son out from under Giant Panda, this plan will also give you such a heavy block of White Lotus stock that no takeover pirate will even think of making a run at your company.”

“You believe Giant Panda will accept defeat gracefully?”

“Of course not,” Cone says. “They’ll squeal like stuck pigs. You can tell them to go screw, but I think it would be wiser to make a deal with them. You know Henry Wu Yeh?”

“I’ve met the gentleman.”

“Is that what he is? Well, I hear he’s got the smarts. First, sew up your deal with Edward. Then go to Yeh and offer him the same share price you gave your son. He’ll go for it. What other choice has he got? Fronts for Giant Panda have been buying up White Lotus stock in lots of a thousand shares or more. They should be happy to unload at a premium over the market price. That’s why they got into this scam in the first place. The only thing they’ll be losing will be majority control of Edward’s new company-an iffy proposition.”

“This is going to cost me a lot of money, Mr. Cone.”

“You bet your sweet ass it will,” Timothy says cheerfully. “I don’t know what your personal net worth is, but I’d guess you may have to take on some heavy debt to finance the greenmail and investment in Edward’s venture. But what’s your alternative? Complete estrangement from your son. You don’t want that, do you?”

“No. In spite of what he’s done, he is still my flesh and blood. More sake, please.”

Cone fills their crystal glasses again. The vodka at the Lees’ apartment, beers at the Lexington Avenue saloon, and now two shots of rice wine. … He figures if he keeps this up, his liver will look like a cellulose sponge.

“So tell me, Mr. Lee-what do you think of my scenario?”

“It has much to recommend it. I will give it very careful consideration.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve got to level with you; I have a personal interest in your going for it. Mr. Henry Wu Yeh isn’t happy about my sticking my schnoz in his affairs, and he’s suggested his world would be a brighter place without me-permanently. So if you could speed up your decision and, if you decide to go for it, give Yeh a call today, I’d appreciate it. I don’t want to lean on you-the choice is yours-but I don’t want you to hear from someone else that I suggested this plan just to save my own cojones. I happen to think it would be best for you, your son, and just incidentally for me.”

“Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Cone. Now I hope you will be equally honest about another matter. Was my wife a party to this greenmail scheme?”

“I don’t know. All I can do is guess. And my guess is that she may have encouraged Edward to break with you. But that could have been just pillow talk-you should excuse the expression. I don’t think she made any commitment or actually pledged her stock. I think she decided to wait and see how the cards would fall-and then go with the winner.”

“Yes,” Chin Tung Lee says sadly, “she is capable of that. My wife has a certain peasant shrewdness.”

“That she has. Here’s a thought: If you decide to cut a deal with your son and help finance his new business, why don’t you stipulate that he relocates in California and starts the company out there.”

“Ah, you think that will effectively end their affair?”

Timothy shrugs. “There’s always the chance that she’ll follow Edward to the West Coast. But I’m betting she sticks in New York. You’ve got more money than your son.”

“Yes,” Lee says, “and I’m an old man with not too much time to go. Is that what you’re thinking? You are realistic.”

Then, emboldened by the second sake, Cone says, “Look, Mr. Lee, why don’t you say to your wife, ‘Hey, baby, straighten up and fly right. Stop playing around or you’re out on your ass.’ Have you got the gumption to talk to her like that?”

“I may speak to her,” the old man says cautiously, “but perhaps not in those exact words.”

“Whatever,” Timothy says. “You’re the chess whiz.” He rises, takes up cigarettes, matches, leather cap, and prepares to leave.

“Another sake?” the oldster suggests.

“No, thanks. I know a guy who drank a lot of that stuff and then threw up in his girlfriend’s aquarium.”

“You know some odd people, Mr. Cone.”

“Everyone’s odd-including me. You still love your wife, don’t you?”

“Yes,” says Chin Tung Lee.

They’re humping away as if the Bomb is en route and they’ve only got minutes to wring the last twinge of joy from sentient life.

“Oh,” Samantha Whatley says. “Oh oh oh.”

Maybe it’s because she’s been away so long or because he’s missed her so much. But they’re playing the brangle buttock game with brutal intensity, perhaps meaning to punish each other for their separation. They couple with the desperation of survivors.

In her bouncy bed, with the pink mattress flounce all around, French dolls tossed to the floor to stare at the ceiling with ceramic eyes, they joust with grunts and fervor, reclaiming their intimacy with groans and curses. No delicacy or gentle caring here, but naked warfare and the fury of combat.

“Ah,” Timothy Cone says. “Ah ah ah.”

These two demons never have figured out if they’re lovers or antagonists-and have no interest in finding out. All they seek is the resolution of their wants. And if the end doesn’t justify the means, what the hell does?

So they slide slickly over each other, prying ferociously, grappling, twisting, biting, and losing themselves in a quest they cannot define. There is anguish in their lovemaking as if they mean to perish when all is complete. But meanwhile they practice the age-old tricks and skills that came out of the cave, or might have been perfected by hairy primates swinging from trees.

Neither will surrender, but both must. They end with a duet of moans and yelps, singing a song of longing and need deferred. Then, slackening, they stare at each other wide-eyed, fearful of their release, wondering if the world still turns.

Cone lurches off the sheets, stands a moment until his knees solidify. Then he pads over to Samantha’s refrigerator and returns with the chilled California chablis he brought to celebrate her homecoming. He fills their glasses, then sets the jug down on the floor alongside the bed.

They sit up with their backs against the headboard, sipping their wine and content to laze away the late Saturday afternoon.

“Did you miss me?” Sam asks.

“Sure.”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t cut your eyes at another woman while I was gone.”

“I might have looked,” Cone admits, “but I didn’t touch.”

“Fair enough,” Sam says. “And what have you been up to at the office?”

“Nothing much. The usual bullshit.”

She turns her head to glare at him. “Come on, asshole, give me a break,” she says. “I’ll read your reports on Monday anyway.”

“Yeah, well, mostly I was working the White Lotus file.”

“Tell me about it.”

He gives her a condensed account of his adventures with Chin, Claire, and Edward Lee, with Johnnie Wong and Henry Wu Yeh, with the United Bamboo and Giant Panda gangs. By the time he finishes, they’ve polished off the wine. Cone refills their glasses. The light is muted now, the apartment mellow with dusk.

“Jesus,” Sam says, “you really get the crapolas, don’t you. Did the Giant Panda baddies ever come after you?”

“Nah. I got a call on Wednesday from Chin Tung Lee. He made a deal with Yeh-bought back Giant Panda’s shares of White Lotus stock at a premium. And Edward is moving to the coast to start his new business.”

“Was Chin happy at how it all turned out?”

“I guess so. He sent me a great big carton of White Lotus products. I’ve got enough Chinese food in the loft to give Cleo slanted eyes.”

“Tim,” she says thoughtfully, “that Claire Lee-was she the one you had the hots for?”

“She’s something. I thought at first she was gold, but she turned out to be tin.”

“But her husband loves her.”

“Everyone’s got problems,” Cone says.

“Yeah? What’s your problem, sonny boy?”

“I’m horny again.”

“Thank God!” Samantha cries.