Timothy's Game (47 page)

“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?”