“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 y
ou.”
“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.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1988 by Lawrence Sanders
cover design by Jason Gabbert
978-1-4532-9849-7
This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media
Timothy's Game Page 38