Friday night.”
“And who wins?”
“I do,” the old man says, grinning. “Always. But Simon keeps trying. That is why I admire him so much. Mr. Cone, I received a phone call from Mr. Jeffreys of Blains, Kibes and Thrush. He informed me that he has negotiated a satisfactory service contract with Haldering and Company, and that you have been assigned to our case. I was delighted to hear it.”
“Thanks,” Cone says. “So what’s your problem?”
“Before I get into that, I’d like to give you a little background on our company.”
“I got all the time in the world,” Cone says. “You’re paying for it.”
“So we are. Well, I’ll try to keep it mercifully brief. I emigrated from Taiwan-called Formosa in those days-in 1938, just before the beginning of the war. I had been waiting several years to get on the quota. At that time it was extremely difficult for Asians to enter the United States legally.”
“I can imagine.”
“However, eventually I did arrive. I came to New York and, with the aid of relatives already here, started a small business on Mott Street. It was really a pushcart operation; I couldn’t afford a store. I sold Chinese fruits and vegetables. Well, one thing led to another, and now I own White Lotus. A typical American success story.”
“You make it sound easy,” Cone says, “but I’ll bet you worked your ass off.”
“Eighteen hours a day,” Lee says, nodding. “In all kinds of weather. Which is probably why I’m now chained to this electric contraption. But the family members I eventually employed worked just as hard. The pushcart became a store, offering poultry and meats as well as vegetables. That one store became four, and we began selling prepared foods. And not only to local residents but to tourists and uptown visitors who came to Chinatown. They wanted mostly chop suey and chow mein in cardboard containers, so that’s what we sold. It was merely a small step from that to the canning process. We went public in 1948.”
“And the rest is history.”
Chin Tung Lee smiles with a faraway look, remembering.
“Do you know, Mr. Cone,” he says, “I miss those early days. The hours we worked were horrendous, but we were young, strong, and willing. And you know, I don’t think any of us doubted that we’d make it. This country offered so much. If you devoted your life to your business, you would succeed. It seemed that simple.”
“Things have changed,” Cone offers.
“Yes,” Lee says, looking down at the spotted backs of his hands. “I try not to be a boring ancient who talks constantly of the ‘good old days,’ but I must admit that things have changed-and not always for the better.”
He pauses, and Cone has a chance to take a close look. The man has got to be Simon Trale’s age or more- well over seventy. And he’s even smaller than Trale, though it’s hard to judge with him sitting in the wheelchair, propped on a telephone book, short legs dangling.
He’s got a polished ivory complexion and sports a faded and wispy Vandyke that makes his face appear truncated and incomplete. His eyes are dark and sparkling-nothing enfeebled about those eyes-but he’s wearing what is obviously a toupee, and a hellish one at that: a mustardy mixture of white, gray, black, with reddish strands. The guy who made that rug, Cone decides, should be shot.
“All those relatives,” Chin Tung Lee goes on, “who worked so hard with me-brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins-I’m afraid I’ve outlived them all. Their portions of the business have passed to the second and, in some cases, to the third generation. But I still think of White Lotus as a family business, Mr. Cone. Not as large as La Choy, certainly, but with a personality and distinctiveness all its own. I am sorry to bore you with all this; you must forgive the maunderings of an old man.”
“No, no,” Cone says. “I’m getting the picture. But how come you haven’t retired?”
“To what?” Lee says, flaring up. “To chess every Friday night with Simon Trale? No, thank you. White Lotus has been my life and will continue to be while life lasts.”
“You mentioned the second and third generations-you’ve brought them into the business?”
“Only my son, Edward Tung Lee. He is my child by my first wife, who died several years ago. The others- nephews, nieces-none showed any interest in White Lotus, other than cashing their dividend checks. Perhaps they all thought devoting their lives to the production of quality canned chop suey was beneath them. However, I must admit that most of them have done very well-doctors, lawyers, musicians. One nephew is doing computer research at M.I.T. I’m very proud of him.”
“And the son who works for the company-what is his position?”
“Edward? I suppose you might call him our Chief Operating Officer. He oversees production, labor relations, marketing, financial planning, advertising, and so on. I want him to be experienced in every department.”
“That means you expect him to take over someday.”
“Perhaps,” Chin Tung Lee says, looking at Cone queerly. “Perhaps not. But enough of these personal details. They really have nothing to do with why you are here.”
“Your financial problem?”
“More of a puzzle than a problem. Mr. Cone, have you any idea what price White Lotus common stock closed at on Friday?”
The Wall Street dick shrugs. “I don’t know exactly, but I’d guess it was somewhere between thirty-one and thirty-four dollars a share.”
Lee stares at him a second, then breaks into a jovial laugh again, tugging at his silky beard. “Ah,” he says, “I see you have been doing your homework. I like that. Well, if you had given me that answer six months ago, you would have been exactly right. But as a matter of fact, on last Friday White Lotus stock closed at forty-two and a half.”
“Oh-ho,” Cone says, “so that’s it. How long has this been going on-for six months?”
“Approximately.”
“Has the volume of trading increased?”
“Appreciably. And the price of the stock continues to rise.”
“Are you planning anything? Like a buyout? A merger? A big expansion? New products?”
“No to all your questions. We are a very well-structured corporation, Mr. Cone. Profitable certainly, but not wildly so. We keep a low profile. We don’t dabble in anything in which we have no expertise. As far as I’m concerned, our product line is complete. No increase in the dividend has been declared or even discussed. You may think we are ultraconservative, perhaps dull, but that has been my business philosophy all my life: Learn what you can do, do it as well as you possibly can, and don’t take risks trying to conquer new worlds. So I really can’t account for the run-up in our stock. As I say, it puzzles me-and it disturbs me. I’m at an age where I don’t enjoy surprises- especially unpleasant surprises. I want to know what’s going on.”
“Yeah,” Cone says, “can’t blame you for that. Okay, I’ll look into it and see if I can come up with something. I’d like to talk to your son if that’s all right.”
“Of course. Today he’s at our factory in Metuchen, New Jersey, but he should be back later this afternoon. I’ll tell him to expect a call from you and to cooperate fully.”
“Thanks. That should help. All of your stuff is produced in New Jersey?”
“Only the consumer products. The restaurant and institutional sizes are made up at a new facility in the industrial park at what used to be the Brooklyn Navy Yard. We also have several small buying offices around the country to ensure a steady and dependable supply of fresh ingredients.”
“That’s another thing,” Cone says. “Why don’t you put more chicken in your chicken chow mein? There’s no meat in there.”
Chin Tung Lee looks at him with an ironic smile. “Eat more noodles, Mr. Cone,” he advises.
“Yeah,” Cone says, “I guess that’s one solution. Well, thanks for the information. I’ll ask around and see what else I can pick up. And I’ll get back to you if there’s anything more I need.”
“Whenever you wish; I am at your disposal. You may think it odd that I should be concerned at this sudden and unexplained increase in our stock price and trading volume. Other companies would welcome such activity, I know. But it’s so unusual for White Lotus that I can’t help wondering what is going on. And I must admit to a fear that if you discover what it is, it will not be pleasing. I hope you will expedite your investigation, Mr. Cone.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Cone says. “If I come up with something, you’ll be the first to know.”
He rises, reaches across the desk to pump the little hand again. He’s still in that position when he hears the office door open behind him. He straightens, turns slowly.
