“I told you Haldering was hired to investigate the run-up in the price of White Lotus stock. I’ve got a list of the shareholders here. There’re more than two thousand names, so I don’t expect you to study the whole printout. But would you take a quick look and see if you recognize any of the names.”
“Oh, God,” Johnnie Wong says, sighing. “This I’ve got to do for a free beer? All right, let me see the damned thing.”
He flips through the pages swiftly, then goes back to the first and starts again, slower this time. Cone sits silently until Wong tosses the list aside.
“Interesting,” the FBI man says. “The second time I went through it, I looked for people with big holdings, a thousand shares or more.”
“You recognize any of the names?”
“About a half-dozen. They’re all members of the Giant Panda gang.”
The two men stare at each other a moment.
“What does that mean?” Cone asks.
“Beats the hell out of me,” Johnnie says. “I guess it means that Giant Panda is assembling a heavy position in White Lotus stock. But for what reason, the deponent knoweth not. Got any ideas?”
“Not a one,” Cone says fretfully. “They’re a long way from having control of the corporation. And the stock pays five percent. That’s a nice return for legitimate equity investors, but it’s bupkes for a criminal gang.”
“Well,” Wong says, “it’s your problem. Now do you figure I’ve paid for my brew, or have you got something for me?”
Cone admires the guy. He’s a no-horseshit operator, cards on the table, everything up front. Timothy figures he better give him something if he wants the agent on his side.
“I’ve got a weirdie for you,” he says. “It may be a bone or there may be some meat to it. Ever hear of a cathouse in San Francisco called the Pleasure Dome?”
Wong is about to take a swallow of his beer, but he stops and puts the can back on the table.
“The Pleasure Dome,” he repeats. “How in God’s name did you come up with that one? Have I ever heard of it? You bet your sweet patootie I have. I was stationed in Frisco when we busted the joint. What a palace that was! White girls, blacks, Chinese, Koreans, Hispanics, Japanese. It was a House of All Nations. Very exclusive. Very expensive. No sailors allowed. How do you know about the Pleasure Dome?”
“It just came up in conversation,” Cone says. “Who owned the joint?”
The FBI man shoves his beer away and stands up. “Okay,” he says, “you wanna play hard to get, so be it. Don’t call me again.”
“Wait a minute,” Cone says. “Let me think.”
“Yeah,” Wong says, sitting down again, “you do that.”
He is quiet then, sipping his suds slowly, his eyes on Cone.
The Wall Street dick knows that he needs this guy. He’s got a pipeline into the Asian underworld that Cone could never match. Secretiveness is Cone’s nature, but here’s a case where it could work against him, make his job twice as hard, if not impossible. He ponders a long time, trying to decide where his loyalties belong. How much does he owe the client? And the client’s wife?
“Who owned the Pleasure Dome?” he asks again, trying one last time.
Wong gives him a mocking grin. “Trade last,” he says. “Who told you about the place?”
Cone gives up, figuring he’s got no choice. “A woman named Claire,” he says. “Ring any bells?”
“Good God, this is like pulling teeth. What’s Claire’s last name?”
Cone hesitates a beat or two, then realizes he’s in for a penny, he might as well be in for a pound. “Lee,” he tells Wong. “Claire Lee. She claims she worked in the Pleasure Dome.”
“So? She might have; a lot of women worked there. What’s your interest?”
“She happens to be the wife of Chin Tung Lee, the CEO and largest shareholder of White Lotus.”
“Oh, boy,” the FBI man says with a grin. “The shit is beginning to hit the fan, old buddy.”
“How so?”
“Because the Pleasure Dome was owned by the United Bamboo mob. It was one of the string of whorehouses they operated up and down the West Coast. So now let’s recap … Giant Panda is buying into White Lotus. And the wife of the bossman at White Lotus once worked in a crib owned by United Bamboo. What do you make of that?”
“Nothing,” Cone says. “I can’t figure it.”
Johnnie Wong leans across the table, thrusting his face close to Cone’s. “You wouldn’t be holding out on me, would you?”
“Not me. I’m just as flummoxed as you are.”
The FBI man sits back, then slaps the tabletop with a smack of his palm that brings Cleo growling out from under the tub.
“Damn!” Wong says angrily. “I told you I felt in my stones that something is going down. I pick up rumors and get tips from my snitches. The big guns of United Bamboo and Giant Panda are in town. A lot of meetings. A lot of comings and goings. That murder of Chen Chang Wang. And now this business with White Lotus. Something’s cooking. Maybe a full-scale gang war. Maybe just a fight for the New York territory. Who the hell knows? Listen, if you get anything, give me a shout. Even if you think it’s not important. I’ll do the same with you. I’d like to stop these assholes before they start shooting up Manhattan. Keep in touch, and thanks for the beer.”
“Anytime,” Cone says.
After Wong leaves, Cone goes into the kitchenette and starts heating up a can of corned beef hash. He wonders if he spilled too much in revealing the identity of Claire Lee. He decides not. After all, he didn’t say a word about the blackmail letter.
Because the FBI agent has no need to know. Not yet.
Cone spends Thursday morning in the office making a series of desultory phone calls on those two tedious files he was assigned. It’s donkeywork, and while he’s talking to people and scribbling notes, he’s thinking about the White Lotus affair and remembering how great Claire Lee looked in her spinnaker hat. The life she’s led hasn’t raddled her beauty; she looks untouched by human hands.
Maybe, Cone imagines, she sold her soul to the Devil in exchange for eternal youth. He’d be willing to sign a contract like that, but the Devil has never asked him.
He finally gets all he needs to close out the two cases. The shlumpf who fell for the miniature horse scam ain’t going to get his money back. And the two plastic manufacturers can merge with confidence and live happily ever after.
He’s smoking his fourth cigarette of the day, scanning the stock tables in
“Yeah?” he says.
“Mr. Cone, this is Edward Tung Lee. How are you this morning?”
“Surviving.”
“I’m going to be in your neighborhood shortly and wondered if I could stop by your office for a few minutes. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”
“Sure,” Cone says, “come ahead. I’ll be here.”
Lee arrives in less than ten minutes, which makes Cone think the guy called from around the corner; there’s no way he could have made it from Exchange Place that quickly.
He’s dressed as dapperly as he was at Ah Sing’s Bar amp; Grill, this time in a gray silk suit that glints like a newly minted silver dollar. But the breezy self-confidence is dented; he’s got the jits. That high, broad brow is sheened with sweat, and he can’t stop twisting his gold bracelet around and around.
He slumps into the chair facing Cone’s desk with no digs about the claustrophobic office.
“First of all,” he starts off, “I want to thank you for not telling my father that you and I were at Ah Sing’s when Chen Chang Wang was killed.”
“Yeah, well, since you hadn’t told him, I figured you must have a good reason.”
“I didn’t want to upset the old man,” Lee says earnestly. “He and Chen were friends from way back.”
“Uh-huh,” Cone says. “But he must have read about it; all the papers carried it. And I suppose it was on local TV.”
