“Johnnie,” he says gently.
The FBI man turns slowly to stare, not recognizing him at first. Cone knows the symptoms: shock, flood of adrenaline, postaction shakes.
“You okay?” he asks Wong.
“What? Oh, yeah, I’m all right. One of my guys caught it.”
“Ah, Jesus,” Cone says. “Bad?”
“I think so. It looked bad. Chiang Ho. He’s been with the Bureau almost ten years. A sweet man. Oh, God, what am I going to tell his wife?”
“Maybe he’ll make it.”
“No,” Wong said, “he won’t.” Then, savagely: “But I got the fucker who chilled him. We grabbed Edward Lee out of there-did you see?”
“I saw. It was a beautiful job, Johnnie.”
“I guess. Yeah, it was. It went real good. We’re taking everyone in. You know, after Chiang went down, I wanted to dissipate all those guys. I never felt like that before in my life. Not a nice feeling.”
“I know. But what the hell, you’ll get an ‘I love you’ letter from the Director for all this.”
“Maybe,” Wong says. “Hey, I found your fucking list. It was right on top of the desk in the office.”
He reaches into his fatigue jacket, pulls out the White Lotus computer printout.
“Thanks,” Cone says. “I owe you a big one, payable on demand.”
“I’ll remember that, old buddy,” the FBI man says. “Keep in touch.”
By all rights, he should zonk out the moment he hits the loft and sleep until late Monday morning. But he is too wired. Granted he has been a sideliner, not an active player in that raid on United Bamboo headquarters. But the tension and suspense have clutched him. He can still hear the controller’s phlegmatic “Go” and then the eruption of gunfire.
It takes a stiff vodka to soothe the jits, and by that time he’s concentrating on the remainder of the puzzle- the reason he was dumped into this mishmash in the first place.
Why the run-up in the price of White Lotus stock? Obviously because the Giant Panda mob has been buying up shares through Yangtze International with the aim of taking over the company. That’s a perfectly legitimate ploy. So why did Henry Wu Yeh have Cone kidnapped and tell him to stall his investigation or be prepared to knock on the Pearly Gates? That doesn’t make sense.
And where do the blackmailing letter to Claire Lee and phone calls to Edward Lee fit into the jumble?
Groaning, he starts flipping through the White Lotus shareholder list. He pays particular attention to investors owning more than a thousand shares-the people Johnnie Wong said were associated with Giant Panda.
Revelation comes slowly, not in a sudden inspiration. No light bulb flicks on over his head as in a cartoon strip. The answer comes from dry numbers which, the Wall Street dick well knows, can relate a tale as gory as bloodstains, a wet knife, or brain-splattered hammer.
The first step is adding up the holdings of all those thousand-share investors and realizing that no way,
So how did they come up with that magic number of 16 percent? Timothy knows how. Edward Tung Lee personally owns 16 percent of White Lotus. What a beautiful coincidence. And if you believe that, try the Tooth Fairy on for size.
What it means, Cone realizes, is that Edward Lee is conniving with Giant Panda to make a run on his father’s company. But for what reason? Cone thinks he has the answer to that one, too.
He turns to the first page of the glossy White Lotus annual report. There is the photograph of Edward Tung Lee, Chief Operating Officer. Even with his frozen smile he’s a handsome devil: curved lips, cleft chin, high brow, blow-dried hair.
He could be a matinee idol. And Cone decides that’s exactly what he is.
“Cleo,” he calls, and the slumbering cat lifts its head.
“I’ve been snookered,” Cone says.
He wakes late on Monday morning, sits up on his mattress, yawns, roughs his scalp with his knuckles. He thinks of that punky saying: “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.” If he doesn’t get to work, he reflects sourly, it may be the last day-courtesy of Henry Wu Yeh.
It’s almost ten o’clock before he gets his act together; two Camels, two cups of black coffee, and a tot of brandy bring the roses to his cheeks.
He gives Cleo fresh water and a pickled pig’s foot to chew on. He checks the revolver in his shin holster, makes sure his wallet is stuffed with lettuce. Then he tears the photograph of Edward Lee from the annual report and sticks it in his jacket pocket. He sallies forth, feeling full of piss and vinegar, and not a little vindictive.
He drives directly to the Upper East Side and spends ten minutes wedging the Escort into a parking space that would be jammed with a moped. He walks back to the Hotel Bedlington on Madison Avenue, a few blocks away from the Lees’ apartment on Fifth.
He knows this joint; it’s figured in other cases he’s handled. It’s a staid, almost mousy establishment, with a lot of over-the-hill permanent residents, a cocktail bar that is proud of its Grasshoppers, and a lobby that smells faintly of must and has a magnificent framed lithograph of Grant’s Tomb over the desk.
Cone wanders around a few moments before he spots a bellhop. The guy is short, squat, and has a heavy blue jaw. He looks one year younger than God. Cone figures he belongs in an OTB with a cigar butt stuck in his kisser. He’s got that New York wisenheimer look, and Timothy knows it’s going to cost him.
“Can I talk to you a minute?” he asks.
The bellhop gives him the up-and-down, taking in the black leather cap, ratty corduroy suit, scuffed work shoes.
“Talk is cheap,” he says.
“I hope so,” Cone says. “Anyplace where we can have a little privacy?”
“What’s in it for me?” the guy says. He looks like a tall midget, and his gut is busting the brass buttons on his waistcoat.
“A couple of bucks?” Cone says hopefully.
“G’wan. I don’t even say hello for a deuce.”
“A fin,” Cone says.
The bellhop jerks a thumb toward the door of the men’s room. “In there,” he says. “And make it snappy. I got a job to do, you know.”
They lean on urinals in the empty loo. Cone hands over a fiver.
“You ain’t no cop,” the guy says. “That I guarantee. A private eye? Bill collector? Maybe a reporter for a scandal sheet?”
“Something like that,” Cone says. “What’s your name?”
“Max.”
“Listen, Max, I’m going to show you a photograph. I want to know if you’ve ever seen the guy before. Just a simple yes or no. That’s easy enough-right?”
“Let’s see it.”
Cone pulls out the photograph of Edward Tung Lee and holds it up. The bellhop stares at it.
“Never saw him before in my life,” he says, but meanwhile he’s rubbing a thick thumb against a bent forefinger.
The Wall Street dick sighs, pulls out his wallet. “You already got a Lincoln,” he says.
“It’ll cost you a Hamilton,” Max says. “Look, you’re making a nice couple of Washingtons on your job, aintcha? What am I-chopped liver?”
Cone fishes in his wallet, hands over a ten-dollar bill.
“Yeah, I make the guy,” Max says. “He checks in two, three times a week. Always in the afternoon. Stays maybe a couple of hours.”
“Since when has this been a hot-pillow joint?” Cone asks.
“Since day one,” the bellhop says. “Whaddya think, every hotel in the city don’t do it? It’s easy money-and fast turnover.”
