Timothy's Game

by Lawrence Sanders

  “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 & 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 Uni
ted 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 say
s, “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.”