“Of course. It’s the last Saturday of the month, isn’t it?”
“My hero,” she says. She stands, ambles over to the mattress. She peels off bra and panties. Still standing, a pale wraith in the darkling, she begins unpinning her long, auburn hair.
“Maybe I should go get the ham first,” Timothy says.
“Screw the ham!” she says, then pauses, arms still raised, tresses half unbound. She looks at him thoughtfully. “You know who I feel sorry for in that whole Dempster mess?”
“Who?”
“Teresa. She sounds like such a nice, nutty lady. But she was married to a rakehell. And then he gets killed, and it turns out her brother-in-law, who’s been a real pal, was involved in the murder. My God, what that woman’s been through.”
“Yeah, well, she’s coping. I went up to see her this morning. She’s thinking of going to Japan for a while.”
“What for?”
“To study Zen. Says she wants to be closer to the cosmos-whatever that means. She told me she thinks everything happens for the best.”
Hair swinging free, Sam comes over to stand close in front of him. He bows his head to kiss her pipik.
“But not you,” she says, stroking his bristly hair. “You think everything happens for the worst.”
“Not everything,” Cone says.
BOOK III
One
It never occurs to Cone that Samantha Whatley doesn’t want to be seen with him in public because he dresses like a refugee from Lower Slobbovia. She says it’s because she doesn’t want to run the risk of being spotted by an employee of Haldering amp; Co., and then their rare liaison will be trivialized by office gossip.
So their trysts are limited to her gentrified apartment in the East Village or his scuzzy loft in a cast-iron commercial building on lower Broadway. That’s okay with Timothy; he’s a hermitlike creature by nature, and perfectly willing to play the game according to her rules.
So there they are in her flossy apartment on Sunday night, August 8th, gnawing on barbecued ribs and nattering of this and that.
“When are you going to take your two weeks?” she asks him.
“What two weeks?”
“Your vacation, you yuck. When do you want to take it?”
He shrugs. “Makes no nevermind to me. Anytime.”
“Well, I’m taking off on Friday. I’m going home.”
He ponders a moment. Then: “You’re flying on Friday the thirteenth?”
“Best time. The plane will be practically empty. I don’t want you tomcatting around while I’m gone.”
“Not me.”
“And try to cut down on the booze.”
“Yes, mother. Who’s going to fill in for you at work while you’re gone?”
“Hiram himself.”
“Oh, Jesus!” he says, dropping his rib bone. “Don’t tell me that while I’m eating.”
On Monday morning after Sam leaves, Cone wanders to work an hour late, as usual. He finds two file folders on his desk: assignments to new investigations. He flips through them listlessly; they look like dullsville to him. One concerns a client who’s invested a nice chunk of cash in a scheme to breed miniature horses. Now, with his money gone and the phones of the boiler shop operation disconnected, he wants Haldering amp; Co. to locate the con men and get his investment back. Lots of luck, Charlie.
The second case concerns a proposed merger between two companies that make plastic cocoons for scores of consumer products-the kind of packaging that breaks your fingernails and drives you to stabbing with a sharp paring knife to open the damned stuff. One of the principals wants a complete credit check on the other. Instant ennui.
Cone tosses the folders aside and finishes his breakfast: black coffee and a buttered bialy. He’s on his second cigarette when his phone rings. He picks it up expecting a calamity. That’s always safe because then a mere misfortune arrives as good news.
“Yeah?” he says.
“Cone? Hiram Haldering. Come here at once, please.”
He was right the first time. It’s usually a calamity when H.H. says, “Please.”
He slouches down the corridor to the boss’s office, the only one with two windows. The bright summer sunlight is bouncing off fatso’s balding pate, and he’s beaming and nodding like one of those bobbing dolls in the back windows of cars driven by morons. But at least his two air conditioners are wheezing away, so the room is comfortably cool.
Which is providential because the visitor, who rises when Cone enters, is wearing a black three-piece suit that looks heavy enough to be woven of yak hair. He’s a tall, cadaverous gink with a smile so pained it surely seems his drawers must be binding. The hand he gives to Cone when they’re introduced is a clump of very soft, very shriveled bananas.
“This is Timothy Cone,” intones Hiram Haldering. “He is one-and I repeat one-of our experienced investigators. Cone, this gentleman is Mr. Omar Jeffreys.”
“Of Blains, Kibes and Thrush,” Jeffreys adds. “Attorneys-at-law.”
Everyone gets seated, and H.H. turns to the lawyer.
“Mr. Jeffreys,” he says, “will you explain to Cone what it is you want.”
“It is not what we want,” the other man says. “Oh, dear me, no. Our desires are of no import. We merely wish to present, to the best of our abilities, the wishes of our client.”
“Yeah, well,” Cone says, “who’s the client?”
“For a number of years Blains, Kibes and Thrush, P.A., has provided legal counsel to an Oriental gentleman, Mr. Chin Tung Lee. He is the Chairman and Chief Executive Officer of a corporation that processes and markets a variety of Chinese foods under the White Lotus label. You are, perhaps, familiar with the products?”
“Oh, hell yes,” Cone says. “Lousy grub.”
“Cone!” Haldering shouts indignantly.
“Well, it is,” he insists. “Take their chicken chow mein, for instance. My God, you can hardly find the meat in it. They must be using the same chicken for ten years. So what I do is buy a small can of boned chicken and add it to the chow mein. That makes it okay. Even my cat loves it.”
He ends triumphantly, and the other two men stare at him glassily.
“Very interesting, I’m sure,” the attorney finally says. “But I do not believe the ingredients in White Lotus chicken chow mein are germane to this discussion. Mr. Chin Tung Lee is presently faced with a financial problem outside the expertise of Blains, Kibes and Thrush. He wishes to employ the services of Haldering and Company, and I am authorized to conclude an oral agreement, prior to the execution of a written contract that will finalize the terms of the aforementioned employment.”
“Why didn’t he just pick up the phone and call us?” Cone wants to know. “Or come over here himself?”
“Mr. Lee is an elderly gentleman who, unfortunately, has been confined to a wheelchair for several years and is not as physically active as he would like to be. He specifically asked for your services, Mr. Cone.”
“Yeah? How come? I never met the guy.”
“He is a close personal friend of Mr. Simon Trale of Dempster-Torrey, and I believe it was Mr. Trale’s recommendation that led to Mr. Lee’s decision to employ Haldering and Company, and you in particular.”
“And I’m sure he’ll be happy with our services,” Haldering booms. “We guarantee results-right, Cone?”
“Nah,” the Wall Street dick says. “No one can do that. Mr. Jeffreys, you said that Lee has a financial problem. What is it?”
“I’m afraid I am not at liberty to reveal that at this particular time. Our client wishes to discuss the matter with you personally.”
“Okay,” Cone says equably. “If he wants to play it cozy, that’s fine with me. How do I get hold of him?”
The attorney proffers a business card. “This is the address on Exchange Place. It is the corporate headquarters of White Lotus. On the back of the card you will find a handwritten telephone number. That is Mr. Chin Tung Lee’s private line. Calls to that number will not go through the company’s switchboard.”