profit.”
“Yeah?” Cone says. “How much?”
“Five thousand dollars. In small, unmarked bills.”
“Forget it. I work for a salary. It’s not king-sized, but it’s enough.”
“Come, Mr. Cone,” the voice says softly, “it is never enough. We all want more, do we not?”
“I got enough,” Cone insists stubbornly.
“And there is nothing in this world you want?”
“Yeah, I’ve always wanted to screw a contortionist. It’s something I’ve dreamed about for a long time.”
The voice gives a chuff of laughter, then rips off some Chinese, and the two men standing behind Cone also laugh.
“That could be arranged, Mr. Cone,” the voice says dryly.
“Just kidding,” Cone says. “Listen, I don’t like standing here with this shmatteh over my eyes, so let’s get down to the nitty-gritty. If I refuse to stall on this White Lotus thing, what happens then?”
“Please do not ask me to say it.”
“Go ahead; say it.”
“Then I am afraid we shall have to kill you, Mr. Cone.”
“Okay,” the Wall Street dick says cheerfully. “As long as I know where I stand. Give me a chance to think about your cash offer-all right?”
“How long?”
“A week.”
“Three days,” the voice says sternly. “Then we must come looking for you. You can run, but you cannot hide.”
“Good line,” Cone says, “but it’s not yours. Joe Louis. Can I go home now?”
“We shall contact you on Monday, and expect your answer at that time. Yes, you may go now.”
“Can I take my stew?”
“Please do.”
“And how about my piece?”
“Your piece?”
“My gun. Revolver. Your guys lifted it.”
“Your weapon will be returned to you, Mr. Cone. Thank you for your kind cooperation.”
There’s a long chatter of Chinese. The brown paper bag is thrust into his hands, he is gripped, and the film starts running in reverse: Around the corner, across the shag rug, through the door, along the corridor, down in the elevator to the garage, into the car, and then the drive back. Cone, counting to himself, figures it takes about fifteen minutes.
The car stops, he’s helped out, still carrying his lamb stew. The blindfold is whisked away. He stands there, blinking.
There’s another rat-a-tat of Chinese between the two alpaca jackets. One turns and starts walking south on Broadway toward the corner. The speaker is now armed with a sleek 9mm Luger which he waves at Cone.
“Your revolver will be left on the sidewalk,” he explains. “Please do not attempt to reclaim it until we have left, or we will be forced to return.”
Through bleary eyes Cone watches the other guy place his magnum on the pavement near a fire alarm box. Then he returns, and the two young Chinese climb into the car.
“Good night, Mr. Cone,” the leader calls, and the Buick accelerates, turns the corner with a chirp of tires, and is gone.
Cone goes down to the corner and reclaims his iron. He inspects it quickly under a streetlight. It looks okay. Still loaded. He slips it into his jacket pocket. Then he walks slowly back to his building. But before going upstairs, he stands a moment on the deserted street.
It has been a scarifying experience, being blind. He doesn’t want to go through that again. Now he can see the haloed glimmer of the streetlight, see the gleaming gutters of his city and, looking upward, see the glittering stars whirling their ascending courses. A blessing. More than that: a physical delight. Almost a thrill.
Up in the loft, he pours some of the gelatinous stew into Cleo’s dish. The happy cat goes to work on it immediately. Cone goes to work on a stiff shot of brandy while he undresses, staring with new eyes at Cleo, the loft, furniture, everything.
He strips to his skivvies, turns out the lights, and rolls onto his floor mattress.
“Now for a lot of Z’s,” he calls to the cat, but all he gets in reply is the noisy slurping of lamb stew.
He’s still in his skivvies when he phones Johnnie Wong on Friday morning.
“Don’t tell me you’re in the office already,” the FBI man says.
“On my way,” Cone says. “Listen, you told me to contact you if anything happened, even if I didn’t think it was important. Okay, something happened; I got taken for a ride.”
“Well, you’re talking to me so it couldn’t have been a one-way trip.”
Timothy describes the events of the previous evening. Wong listens without interrupting. Then, when Cone is finished, he says, “Could you ID the two foot soldiers who picked you up?”
“I doubt it.”
“I know,” Johnnie says. “We all look alike to you blue-eyes.”
“Not me; my eyes are shit-brown.”
“What about the boss?”
“I’d make him for a Chinese. He speaks English like a professor or like it’s his second language. I mean he never uses contractions. Never ‘I’m’ or ‘You’re’ but always ‘I am’ or ‘You are.’”
“I know what contractions are. Anything else about him?”
“An iron fist in a velvet glove kind of guy. Very polite. He’d apologize before he had your head blown off. He talked about me stalling for two weeks, so you’re right; something’s going down soon.”
“And that’s all you can give me on him?”
“I told you I was blindfolded the whole time.”
“Any idea where you were?”
“I figure I was in an apartment house on West Fourteenth Street, somewhere around Tenth Avenue. It’s on the north side of the street. At least nine stories high. It’s got an underground garage and automatic elevators. The corridors are wide and carpeted. The apartment I was in had a wood door and a thick shag rug.”
“I thought you said you were blindfolded.”
“I was, but I could hear and smell, and feel things under my feet. Also, I counted seconds and minutes.”
“You’re something, you are,” Johnnie Wong says. “Well, you’ve given me enough to make an educated guess. You were in a twelve-story apartment house owned by the Giant Panda mob. It’s on West Fourteenth Street like you said, but it’s between Eighth and Ninth. It’s all rentals, but the entire tenth floor is the East Coast headquarters of the Pandas. The bossman you talked to was probably Henry Wu Yeh. He’s the warlord of the New York branch. From Hong Kong. Educated at UCLA. A very flinty customer. And a real tycoon type. He’s the guy who’s trying to muscle Giant Panda into legitimate businesses. You will turn General Motors over to us-or else! That kind of guy.”
“Yeah, that sounds like him,” Cone says. “One minute he’s Mr. Nice and the next he’s the Voice of Doom.”
“By the way,” Wong says, “you’ll find Henry Wu Yeh on that list of White Lotus shareholders you showed me.”
“No kidding?”
“No kidding. I forget how many shares he owns, but it’s more than a thousand. Listen, do you want protection?”
“What for?”
“Well, Yeh said they’re going to come looking for you on Monday, didn’t he?”
“So? That’s Monday. I got three days before they yank my chain.”
Johnnie Wong laughs. “As we Chinese say, ‘Rots of ruck, old buddy.’”
After he hangs up, Cone stands a moment, staring at the wall. It comes as no surprise to him to learn he was rustled by the Giant Panda gang. His reasoning goes like this:
