Timothy's Game

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Now it’s your turn.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I got nothing better to do than listen,” Cone says.

  “All right then, listen to this: Since 1970 the number of Chinese immigrants in this country has almost doubled. I’m talking about people from Taiwan, mainland China, and Hong Kong. Add to those the immigrants from Macao, South Korea, Singapore, Vietnam, Cambodia, and Thailand, and you’ll see there’s a helluva lot of Asians here. Ninety-nine percent of the come-ins are law-abiding schnooks who just want to be left alone so they can hustle a buck. The other one percent are dyed-in-the-wool gonnifs.”

  “And that’s where you come in,” Cone says.

  “You got it. I’m a slant-eye, so the Bureau assigned me and a lot of other Oriental agents to keep tabs on the Yellow Peril. What’s happened is this: In the past few years the Italian Mafia has taken its lumps. The older guys, the dons and godfathers, are mostly dead or in the clink. The new recruits from Sicily are zips, and the guys running the Families today just don’t have the clout and know-how. There’s been a vacuum in organized crime. Or was until the Asian gangs moved in. The biggest is United Bamboo. They’re mostly from Taiwan but have links with the Yakusa, the Japanese thugs. Their main competitor, not as big but growing fast, is the Giant Panda mob, mostly from mainland China and Hong Kong.”

  “United Bamboo and Giant Panda,” Cone repeats. “Nicer names than La Cosa Nostra. What are these bad boys into?”

  “You name it,” Wong says. “United Bamboo is in the heroin trade because they’ve got good contacts in the Golden Triangle. Now they’re making deals with the Colombians and pushing cocaine. They also own a string of prostitution rings around the country, mostly staffed by Taiwanese women. Giant Panda does some dope dealing—a lot of marijuana—but most of their money comes from shakedowns: a classic protection racket aimed at Chinese restaurants, laundries, and groceries. Lately they’ve been trying to take over legitimate businesses.”

  “Any homicides?” Cone asks.

  “Hell, yes! Practically all United Bamboo or Giant Panda soldiers. But a lot of innocents, too. People who refused to pay baksheesh or just had the bad luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Anyway, the reason I’m telling you all this is because Chen Chang Wang, the guy who got chilled yesterday, was an officer in Giant Panda. Not the top general of the New York organization, but a colonel.”

  “So that’s it. You’ve had your eye on him?”

  “Not a tail—we don’t have the manpower for that. Just loose surveillance.”

  “And you think it was United Bamboo who knocked him off?”

  “It had all the earmarks of a United Bamboo kill. They use very young punks—guys in their teens—and give them stolen U.S. Army forty-five automatic pistols. They just squat, close their eyes, and blast away. They’ve got to hit something. Then they take off, sometimes on foot, sometimes in a car or on a motorcycle. Get this: Last month there was a murder in Seattle’s Chinatown, and the killers made their getaway on bicycles! How does that grab you?”

  “Beautiful,” Cone says. “So there’s no love lost between the two gangs?”

  “None whatsoever,” Johnnie Wong says with his glittery grin. “They’re competing for the same turf. Each wants to take over when the Mafia goes down. Listen, they’ve got more than a million Asian immigrants to diddle. That can mean a lot of loot.”

  “No difference between the two?”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Wong says cautiously. “First of all, United Bamboo speaks mostly the Cantonese dialect while Giant Panda is mostly Mandarin.”

  “Which do you speak?” Cone asks him.

  “Both,” the FBI man says, and the Wall Street dick decides his grin is the real thing. Here’s a guy who gets a laugh out of the world’s madness.

  “Also,” Wong goes on, “United Bamboo are the heavies. I mean they’re really vicious scuts. Burn a guy with a propane torch before they chop off his head. Or take out a victim’s family in front of his eyes before they off him. The old Mafia would never touch a target’s family—I’ll say that for them. But United Bamboo will.”

  “Like Colombian coke dealers?” Cone suggests.

  “Yeah, those guys are savages, too. But the Giant Panda mob is softer. Not saints, you understand. They kill, but it’s all business with them. They’re putting a lot of their young guys in banks and brokerage houses on Wall Street. Listen, all this bullshit is getting me nowhere. Isn’t there anything else you can tell me about your meeting with your client in Ah Sing’s?”

  “Not a thing,” Cone says. “He was talking with Chen Chang Wang when I got there. Then he left Wang in a booth, came over and joined me at the bar. In a little while, Wang walked by, smiled and waved at us, went out—and that’s when the fireworks started.”

  “And that’s all you can tell me?”

  “That’s all.”

  Johnnie Wong looks at him closely. “You wouldn’t be holding out on me, would you?”

  “Why would I do that?” Cone says. “I know from nothing about United Bamboo and Giant Panda and who blasted the late Mr. Wang.”

  “Uh-huh,” the FBI man says. “Well, I’ll take your word for it—for now. I checked you out before I came over. You add up: the tours in Vietnam, the medals, and all that. Where are the medals now?”

  “I hocked them,” Timothy says.

  Wong flashes his choppers again. “Keep in touch, old buddy,” he says. “We haven’t got all that many warm bodies assigned to Asian gangs in the New York area, and I have an antsy feeling that something is going down I should know about and don’t. So consider yourself a deputy. If you pick up anything, give me a call. You have my card.”

  “Sure,” Cone says, “I’ll be in touch. And you’ve got my number here.”

  “I do,” Johnnie Wong says, rising. “And I’ve also got your unlisted home phone number.”

  “You would,” Timothy says admiringly. “You don’t let any grass grow under your feet, do you? We can work together.”

  “Can we?” Wong says, staring at him. “You ever hear the ancient Chinese proverb: A freint darf men zich koifen; sonem krigt men umzist. A friend you have to buy; enemies you get for nothing.”

  “Yeah,” Cone says.

  After the FBI man leaves, Cone flips through the morning’s Wall Street Journal. Then he lights another cigarette, leans back, clasps his hands behind his head. He knows he should be thinking—but about what? All he’s got is odds and ends, and at the moment everything adds up to zilch. No use trying to create a scenario; he just doesn’t have enough poop to make a plot.

  So he calls Mr. Chin Tung Lee on that direct number at White Lotus. The Chairman and CEO picks up after one ring.

  “Yes?” he says.

  “Mr. Lee, this is Timothy Cone at Haldering.”

  “Ah, my young friend. And how is your health today?”

  “Fine, thanks,” Cone says, willing to go through the ceremony with this nice old man. “And yours, sir?”

  “I am surviving, thank you. Each day is a blessing.”

  “Uh-huh. Mr. Lee, the reason I’m calling is that I’d like to get hold of a list of your shareholders and also a copy of your most recent annual report. Is that all right with you?”

  “Of course. I’ll have a package prepared for you.”

  “If you could leave it at the receptionist’s desk, I could pick it up without bothering you.”

  “Oh, no,” Chin Tung Lee says. “I will be delighted to see you. And there is something I wish to ask you.”

  “Okay,” Cone says. “I’ll be there in an hour or so.”

  He wanders down the corridor to the office of Louis Kiernan, a paralegal in the attorneys’ section of Haldering & Co. Cone prefers bracing Kiernan because the full-fledged lawyers give him such a load of gobbledygook that he leaves them with his eyes glazed over.

  “Lou,” he says, lounging in the doorway of the cubby, “I need some hotshot legal skinny so gimme a min
ute, will you?”

  Kiernan looks up from his typewriter and peers at Cone over his wire-rimmed reading glasses. “A minute?” he says. “You sure?”

  “Maybe two. There’s this rich old geezer whose first wife has died. Now he’s married to a beautiful young knish. He’s also got a son by his first wife who’s older than his second wife—dig? Now my question: If the codger croaks, who inherits?”

  “The wife,” Lou says promptly. “At least half, even if the deceased leaves no will. The son would probably be entitled to a third. But listen, Tim, when you get into inheritance law you’re opening a can of worms. Anyone, with good cause, can sue to break a will.”

  “But all things being equal, you figure the second wife for at least fifty percent of the estate and the son for, say, thirty percent?”

  “Don’t quote me,” Kiernan says cautiously.

  “You guys kill me,” Cone says. “When a lawyer’s wife asks, ‘Was it as good for you as it was for me?’ he says, ‘I’d like to get a second opinion on that.’ Thanks, Lou. See you around.”

  He rambles down to Exchange Place, sucking on another cigarette and wondering how long it’ll take nonsmokers to have the streets declared off-limits. Then nicotine addicts will have to get their fixes in illicit dens, or maybe by paddling out into the Atlantic Ocean in a rubber dinghy.

  Twenty minutes later he’s closeted with Chin Tung Lee. The old man looks chipper, and since he’s puffing a scented cigarette in a long ivory holder, Cone figures it’s okay to light up another coffin nail.

  “I know it’s too early to ask if you have made any progress, Mr. Cone.”

  “Yeah, it is. I’m just collecting stuff at this stage. That’s why I wanted your shareholder list and annual report.”

  “Right here,” Lee says, tapping a fat package on his desk. “I hope you will guard this well. I would not care to have the list fall into the hands of an enemy.”

  “I’ll take good care of it,” Cone promises. “I notice White Lotus stock is up another half-point.”

  “It continues,” the little man says, nodding. “My son believes it is of no significance, but I do not agree.”

  “By the way,” Cone says, as casually as he can manage, “is your son married?”

  Chin Tung Lee sets his holder and cigarette down carefully in a brass ashtray made from the base of a five-inch shell. “No, he is not,” he says with a frazzled laugh. “It is a sadness for me. Men my age should have grandchildren. Perhaps great-grandchildren.”

  “He’s still a young man,” Cone says. “He may surprise you one of these days.”

  “A very pleasant surprise. Family is important to me. Are you married, Mr. Cone?”

  “No,” the Wall Street dick says, stirring uncomfortably in the leather club chair. “You said you had something to ask me.”

  “Ah, yes,” Lee says, and now his laugh is vigorous again. “Happy news, I am glad to say. Today is my dear wife’s birthday. To celebrate, we are having a cocktail party and buffet dinner in our apartment this evening, and I hope you will be able to join us.”

  “Hey,” Cone says, “that sounds great. What time?”

  “From five o’clock until the wee hours,” the gaffer says gleefully. “I must admit I am looking forward to it. I enjoy celebrations.”

  “Fireworks?” Timothy says, grinning.

  “Regretfully, no. The popping of champagne corks will have to do.”

  “Your son will be there?”

  “Naturally,” Chin says, astonished at the question. “He lives in the apartment. With his own private entrance, I might add. In any event, we are expecting almost a hundred guests, and I trust you will be one of them.”

  “Sure will,” Cone says. “You in the book?”

  “We are indeed. But to save you from searching through four pages of Lees in the Manhattan directory, I have written out our address and home telephone number. You will find it in the package. Then we may expect you?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Cone promises. “Should I bring a birthday present?”

  The old man waves a hand in protest. “Of course not. Your presence will be gift enough.”

  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.