When he’s conducted into Lee’s garish office, the old man appears chipper enough. He’s got his long ivory holder with a scented cigarette clamped between his plates at a jaunty FDR angle. The mustardy toupee is slightly askew, giving him a raffish look. Even the wispy Vandyke is alive and springy.
“So happy to see you, Mr. Cone,” he says in his boomy voice, offering his tiny hand across the desk. “I meant to call you, but this is the first day I’ve been out of bed. Please, sit down and tell me what you’ve been doing.”
The Wall Street dick slumps into the leather tub chair. He shakes a Camel from his pack and lights it. “Glad you’re up and about,” he says. “I went to see your son this morning.”
“I know,” Lee says. “He called right after you left. He said you knew about his rescue.”
“That’s right.”
“What a happy ending to an unfortunate affair. You had nothing to do with it, did you?”
“Not me.”
“In any event, all’s well that ends well, as your Shakespeare said.”
“He’s not my Shakespeare,” Cone says, “and a lot of other guys said it first.”
Then they sit in silence a moment. Lee seems to sober under Cone’s hard stare; the sprightliness leaks away, the smile fades. He sets holder and cigarette down carefully in the brass ashtray.
“Is something troubling you, Mr. Cone?”
“Yeah,” Timothy says, “something is. You suckered me good, didn’t you?”
“What? What are you saying?”
“I thought you were a cocker spaniel, and you turn out to be a pit bull. How long have you known about your wife and son?”
Chin Tung Lee doesn’t answer, but he seems to shrivel and slide down in his wheelchair.
“Any other man would have kicked their butts out the window,” Cone goes on. “But that’s not your style. You’re a chess player with a habit of winning. You prefer to think five plays ahead-at least. You like to move people around the way you maneuver chess pieces. So you got a friend or employee to type up a scary letter to your wife and make threatening phone calls to your son. For a man in your position that would be duck soup. You figure to spook them into ending those matinees at the Hotel Bedlington. Then you’d forgive and forget.”
“What my son did to me,” Chin says stonily, “I can never forgive or forget.”
“Come on,” Cone says. “If it wasn’t Edward, it would be someone else-and you know it. Would you prefer a stranger? Would that make it better?”
“You are a very cynical man, Mr. Cone.”
“Nah. Just realistic. How old are you-late seventies?”
“Eighty next year.”
“So you’re more than three times her age. What did you expect? You probably knew her history when you married her; you must have figured something like this would happen.”
“Yes, I anticipated it. But not my son!”
Cone shrugs. “The family that plays together stays together.”
That, at least, earns a wan smile. “Tell me, how did you find out I was responsible for the threats?”
“No great job of detecting. Just elimination. It couldn’t have been the United Bamboo mob, because they kidnapped your son, and you don’t kidnap a potential blackmail victim. And it couldn’t have been the Giant Panda gang, because Edward is practically in bed with them.”
Then the old man straightens up on the telephone directory he’s sitting on. He glares wrathfully at Cone.
“Are you certain of what you’re saying?”
“As sure as God made little green apples. Look, this thing between Claire and Edward is a sideshow. It’s none of my business. My job was to find out why the price of White Lotus stock has been galloping. All right, here’s the answer: Your son and Giant Panda, working through Yangtze International, have been shafting you by driving up the price. Edward has probably pledged his shares to the Pandas to give them more clout.”
“My own son? He wants to force me out?”
Cone sits back, lights another cigarette slowly. He sees Chin’s hands are trembling, and he gives the geezer a few moments to settle down.
“You got it wrong,” Cone tells him. “Your son couldn’t care less about taking over White Lotus. He thinks it’s got no pizzazz. He wants to start his own company, to market frozen gourmet Chinese dinners-the idea you turned down. The only way he can get enough capital to swing that is to force you to buy him out at an inflated price. And give Giant Panda a nice profit at the same time, of course. It’s greenmail, Mr. Lee. They know you’ll pay a premium over the market price of the stock to keep control of White Lotus.”
The old man tugs gently at his wispy beard. “So other people play business chess, too,” he says.
“On Wall Street? You better believe it.”
“Mr. Cone,” Lee says, “in that ugly commode across the room you will find a bottle of sake. A Japanese drink, but tasty. Rice. Also some crystal sake shot glasses from the Hoya Gallery. Very handsome. I suggest this might be the right time for a drink.”
“I’m game,” Cone says.
He brings bottle and glasses back to the driftwood desk. He pours the miniature tumblers half-full. Chin drains his in one gulp and holds it out for a refill. Cone pours again, filling both. He’s glad to see Lee’s hand is now steady.
They settle back, smiling at each other.
“Do you play chess, Mr. Cone?”
“Nope. I don’t play anything.”
“Ah. Too bad. I think you may have the gift. Tell me, how do you suggest I react to this extortion?”
“Have you contacted an investment banker?”
“Yes, I have an appointment tomorrow with Mr. Twiggs of Pistol and Burns.”
“Good. He’s a smart man. Well, if this was a purely business decision, there are a lot of things you could do to fight off the greenmailers. Restructure your company. Take on heavy debt to buy up your stock on the open market. Look for a white knight to take over with your approval. Use the poison pill defense and put in golden parachutes to defend your personal position and your closest buddies.”
“I have the feeling you don’t support these methods wholeheartedly.”
“I would if it was purely a business decision. But it’s not. It’s Edward, your only son. We’re talking about family here, Mr. Lee, and I know how much that means to you.”
“Yes. So what do you suggest?”
“How about this: You call in your son and make him an offer. You’ll pay him whatever he wants, within reason, for his sixteen percent of all White Lotus shares. In addition, you’ll help finance his new business up to X dollars. The exact amount you’re willing to gamble on him is up to you. The important thing is that your offer will get him off the hook with Giant Panda. If he goes in business with them, he’ll be lucky to keep the fillings in his teeth. But if you promise him majority control of his new company, he’ll jump at it-unless he’s an idiot, which I don’t think he is. You follow?”
“I follow.”
“Now in addition to getting your son out from under Giant Panda, this plan will also give you such a heavy block of White Lotus stock that no takeover pirate will even think of making a run at your company.”
“You believe Giant Panda will accept defeat gracefully?”
“Of course not,” Cone says. “They’ll squeal like stuck pigs. You can tell them to go screw, but I think it would be wiser to make a deal with them. You know Henry Wu Yeh?”
“I’ve met the gentleman.”
“Is that what he is? Well, I hear he’s got the smarts. First, sew up your deal with Edward. Then go to Yeh and offer him the same share price you gave your son. He’ll go for it. What other choice has he got? Fronts for Giant Panda have been buying up White Lotus stock in lots of a thousand shares or more. They should be happy to unload at a premium over the market price. That’s why they got into this scam in the first place. The only thing they’ll be losing will be majority control of Edward’s new company-an iffy proposition.”