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
“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 amp; 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 United 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
