Timothy's Game (38 page)

A lesson to Cone in grace and civility.

He’s down in the lobby carrying the fat package when he realizes what was missing from that conversation. Chin Tung Lee never asked if Cone had spoken to his son. And he had said nothing of the murder of Chen Chang Wang, a good customer of White Lotus products.

Which meant—what? That he considered it of no importance, or that his son had not told him that he and Cone were in Ah Sing’s when Wang was sent to join his ancestors.

The Wall Street dick begins to appreciate what is meant by a “Chinese puzzle.”

He can go back to the office—but that’s not a cheery prospect. Haldering might come nosing around, demanding to know what progress Cone has made on the White Lotus case as well as those other two files, real yawners, he’s supposed to be investigating.

So he decides to hike all the way back to his loft, breathing deeply to get the cigarette smoke out of his alveoli. That lasts for six blocks; then he lights up, cursing himself for his weakness as he inhales deeply and wonders which will rot first: lungs, liver, or kidneys.

He doesn’t bother picking up lunch, figuring he can last till that buffet dinner. Then he’ll gorge and maybe slip something special in his pockets for Cleo. Meanwhile the cat can subsist on refrigerator grub: cheddar and bologna.

In the loft, he strips to T-shirt and baggy Jockey briefs and mixes himself a jelly jar of vodka and water, with plenty of the former, little of the latter, and lots of ice.

“Here’s looking at you, kid,” he toasts Cleo, who has come out from under the bathtub and is now lying in a patch of diffused sunshine coming through the dirt-encrusted skylight.

The first thing Cone does is phone Eve Bookerman at Dempster-Torrey, something he should have done a week ago.

“I’m so glad you called, Mr. Cone,” she says in her ballsy voice. “I wanted to thank you personally for the job you did on our sabotage problem. Marvelous!”

“Yeah,” he says, “it turned out okay, and for once the nice guys didn’t finish last. Listen, the reason I’m calling is this: When I was working your case, we rented a car for a month. It’s a Ford Escort and was charged to Dempster-Torrey. By rights the car should have been turned in when the file was closed. But there’s still about two weeks left on the rental, and I wanted to ask if it’s all right with you if I keep the car until the month runs out.”

She laughs. “Mr. Cone, you keep the car as long as you need it, and don’t worry about the billing. It’s the least we can do.”

“Thanks,” he says. “It’ll be a big help. Anything new on who’s going to be the CEO at Dempster-Torrey?”

“I didn’t make it,” she says.

“Tough,” Cone says. “But tomorrow’s another day.”

“Thank God for that,” she says. “Nice talking to you, Mr. Cone. Let’s have a drink sometime.”

“You name it,” he answers, knowing she never will.

He sits at the kitchen table with his drink and opens the White Lotus package. The first thing he goes through is the annual report, knowing full well that like most corporation reports, it should be submitted for the Pulitzer Prize in fiction.

White Lotus is a four-color, slick-paper job. It doesn’t tell him much more than he’s already learned except that the number of registered stockholders is slightly over 2,000—which seems high for a company as modest as this chop suey producer. On the opening page are photographs of Chin Tung Lee and Edward Tung Lee, facing the camera with frozen smiles.

The Board of Directors is interesting. Of the ten, three are outsiders, all with Caucasian names. Of the remaining seven, five are named Lee and the other two have Chinese monikers. All seven are officers of White Lotus. Sounds to Cone as if the Chairman and CEO is keeping a very tight rein indeed on his company.

The computer printout of shareholders’ names, addresses, and the number of shares held provides more provocative stuff. Cone flips through the list quickly, getting an instant impression that at least 90 percent of White Lotus shareholders are Chinese, or at least have Oriental names. Then he zeros in on the largest holdings, those of Chin Tung Lee, Claire Lee, and Edward Tung Lee.

He does some rough estimates because the battery of his handy-dandy pocket calculator went kaput a long time ago and he hasn’t gotten around to replacing it. He figures Chin Tung Lee owns about 26 percent of White Lotus, wife Claire 11 percent, and son Edward 16 percent.

Those numbers add up to some ripe conclusions. The three of them combined hold a majority interest in White Lotus. Chin and Claire can easily outvote Edward. Chin and Edward can easily outvote Claire.

And Claire and Edward can outvote Chin.

The other 47 percent of White Lotus is held by the 2,000 shareholders, mostly in odd lots. There are few investors with as many as 1,000 shares. And they, Cone notes, are all Chinese.

“I don’t know what it all means,” he says to Cleo. “Do you?”

The cat gives him the “I am famished” signal, which consists of ankle rubs and piteous mewls.

So Cone tosses the beast a slice of bologna and mixes himself a fresh drink. He opens a bag of Cheez Doodles and goes back to his arithmetic.

He thinks of it as getting “spiffed up,” but no one else would. The thready tweed jacket with greasy leather patches on the elbows isn’t quite the thing for a cocktail party in August. The gray flannel slacks, recently laundered, still bear the stains of long-forgotten sausage submarines. The button-down shirt is clean, even if one button is missing. He wears the collar open, of course, and the T-shirt shyly revealed is almost white.

Donning this finery puts him in an antic mood, and on the drive uptown in his red Escort he bangs his palm on the steering wheel and sings as much of the Marine Corps hymn as he can remember—which is not much. Finished with his caroling, he wonders if his frolicsome mood is due to the prospect of free booze and a generous buffet or the hope of seeing Claire Lee again, a woman he wouldn’t sully with his dreams.

The Lees live in a Fifth Avenue apartment house just north of 68th Street. It is an old building with heavy pediments and carved window casements. It is planted solidly on the Avenue, turning a stern and forthright stare at the frivolity of Central Park. The building is a dowager surrounded by teeny-boppers.

The Lees’ apartment is something else again. It occupies the entire ninth floor with two entrances and enough space to accommodate a convention of sex therapists. The crowd that has already assembled when Cone arrives is wandering through room after room, seemingly lost in this high-ceilinged, air-conditioned warren. There’s enough furniture to equip a small, slightly shoddy hotel.

Three bars have been set up, and two long buffet tables. Repressing his appetites, Cone first seeks out Chin, Edward, and Claire Lee to pay his respects. Duty done, he shuffles off to the nearest bar for a vodka (Finlandia), gulps that, orders a refill, and carries it to an adjoining buffet. There he piles a platter with rare roast beef, sliced turkey breast, cherry tomatoes, cukes, and radishes. He also ladles out a bowl of something that looks Chinese. It turns out to be shrimp in lobster sauce, Szechwan style. It makes his scalp sweat.

He does his scarfing in a corner where he can eyeball the parading guests. They’re mostly Orientals, but there’s a good representation of whiteys and blackies. All are thin, elegantly dressed and, Cone figures, perform no more arduous chores than clipping coupons from their tax-exempt bonds. But that’s okay. Life is unfair; everyone knows that.

He finishes his food but is not ready for seconds—yet. He hands the plate to a passing waiter and joins the wanderers, reflecting that occasionally his job does have its perks. He finds a large room, furniture pushed back against the wall, rug rolled up, where a three-piece combo is playing Gershwin, Cole Porter, and Irving Berlin. It’s the kind of toe-tapping music Cone enjoys—he hates any song he can’t whistle—and he dawdles there awhile watching a few couples dancing on the waxed parquet floor.

Then he repairs to the closest bar and, since no one is going to hand him a tab, asks for a cognac. He’s smacking his chops over that when Edward Tung Lee, wearing a dinner jacket, comes swaying up. It doesn’t take a sherlock to deduce that the guy is half in the bag.

“So glad you could make it,” he says with a crazed smile.

“I’m glad, too,” Cone says. “I wish your stepmother would have birthdays more often.”

“Did you see what she’s wearing?” Edward demands. “Disgusting!”

The Wall Street dick doesn’t think so. Claire is tightly enwrapped in a strapless wine-colored velvet gown with bountiful décolletage. There’s a star-shaped mouche stuck to her right clavicle, so adroitly placed that the most jaded observer must become a stargazer, an eager student of heavenly bodies. It happened to Cone.

“It’s her birthday,” he advises Edward. “Let her enjoy.”

But the son’s anger will not be mollified. “Let her enjoy,” he repeats darkly. “The day will come …”

With this dire prediction, he weaves away, and Cone is happy to see him go. His hostility toward his stepmother is understandable—but that doesn’t make it right. Timothy just doesn’t want to get involved.

He has one final sandwich of smoked sturgeon on Jewish rye (seedless), and a portion of ice cream he can’t identify. But it’s got cut-up cherries and chunks of dark chocolate mixed in. Cleo would love it.

One more brandy, he decides, and when the black bartender asks, “Sir?” Cone grins foolishly and says, “Double cognac, please.”

Working on his drink, he goes back to the buffet table and filches some slices of roast beef, baked ham, and sturgeon, which he wraps in a pink linen napkin and slips into his jacket pocket. And he’s not the only guest copping tidbits; a lot of the elegant ladies are loading up their handbags.

He’s about to search out Chin Tung Lee and make a polite farewell when he feels a soft hand on his arm. He turns to see that velvety star, the beauty patch adhering to skin as creamy as the ice cream he just scoffed.

“Mr. Cone,” Claire Lee says with a smile that buckles his knees, “I’m so glad you could make it.”

“Happy Birthday,” is all he can manage.

“You already wished me a Happy Birthday,” she says, laughing. “When you arrived—remember?”

“So?” he says. “Two Happy Birthdays. A dozen.”

“Thank you,” she says, suddenly grave. “I know that my husband was delighted that you could come. He likes you, Mr. Cone.”

“And I like him. A fine gentleman. I was just about to find him and say goodnight.”

“No,” she says sharply, “not yet. Have you seen our terrace?”

He shakes his head.

“Let me show you,” she says, taking his arm.

It turns out not to be a world-class terrace. First of all, it faces eastward with a dead view of the bricked backs of buildings on Madison Avenue. Also, it is narrow—hardly enough room to swing a cat—and the lawn chairs and tables look like castoffs from a summer place in the Hamptons. There are a few hapless geraniums in clay pots.

Still, it is outdoors, and a number of people have found their way there, carrying drinks and plates of food. They seem to enjoy dining alfresco, and the guy in the white dinner jacket snoring gently in one of the rusted chairs is feeling no pain.

Claire leads Cone down to one end, away from the other guests. They stand at the railing, looking down into a paved and poky courtyard. They’d have been wiser to look up at a cloudless sky made luminous by moonlight. It’s a soothing night with a blessed breeze and the warm promise of a glorious day to come.

“Did you see Edward?” she asks in a low voice. “The man is drunk.”

“Nah,” Cone says. “Just a little plotched. He’s navigating okay.”

“You don’t think he’ll make a scene, do you?”

“I doubt it.”

“My husband worked so hard to make this party a success. I’d hate to have it spoiled.”

“It is a success,” he assures her, “and nothing’s going to spoil it.”

She is silent, still gripping his arm. He is conscious of her softness, her warmth. And her scent. It is something tangy, and he has a terrible desire to sneeze.

She is a lofty woman; in her high heels she is as tall as he. She stands erectly, and he wonders if that’s her natural posture or if she’s just trying to keep her strapless bodice secure. The moonlight paints a pale, silvery sheen on her bare shoulders, and her long, slender arms are as smooth and rounded as if they had been squeezed from tubes. The wheaten hair is braided and up in a coil.

“He hates me,” she says quietly. “Edward. I know he does.”

Cone doesn’t like this. He’s a shamus and doesn’t do windows or give advice to the lovelorn.

“He’s an awful, awful man,” Claire Lee goes on, “but I can understand the way he feels. I’m so much younger than Chin. I’m even younger than Edward. Naturally he thinks I’m a gold digger. But I happen to love my husband, Mr. Cone; I swear I do.”

“Yeah,” he says, acutely uncomfortable.

She takes her arm from under his and turns suddenly to face him. He is proud that he can return her stare and not let his eyeballs drift downward into the valley of the damned.

“You’re a detective, aren’t you?” she asks, her voice still low but steady and determined.

“Well, my boss calls us investigators. Most of our work is financial stuff. Wall Street shenanigans. I mean, we don’t handle burglaries or homicides or crimes like that—”

“But you know
about
them, don’t you?”

“Some,” he says, totally confused now and waiting to hear what she’s getting at.

“Listen,” she says, “I need your advice.”

“Not me,” he says hastily. “If it’s something personal, I’m just not qualified. Sorry.”

She turns away to peer down into the concrete courtyard again.

“I’ve got no one else I can talk to,” she says.

“No one? What about your husband?”

“No.”

“A girlfriend? Family?”

“No one,” she repeats.

The wine-colored velvet gown has no back. He can see gently fleshed shoulders, the soft channel of her spine. His weakness makes him angry.

“Just what the hell are you talking about?” he says roughly, then finishes his drink and puts the empty snifter in his pocket.