Timothy's Game (37 page)

“Not at all.” Wong whips out his ID wallet and displays it.

“Uh-huh,” Cone says. “Looks legit. What’s with the Johnnie? Why not just plain John?”

“Take it up with my mom and pop,” the FBI man says. “I’ve been suffering from that all my life. The Wong I can live with, but please don’t tell me ‘Fifty million Chinese can’t be Wong.’”

“I wasn’t going to,” Timothy says—but he was. “You want to palaver, I suppose. This way.”

Johnnie Wong follows Cone back to his weeny office and looks around. “I like it,” he says. “It’s got that certain nothing.”

“Yeah,” Cone says, and holds up the brown paper bag he’s carrying. “My breakfast: coffee and bagel. You want something? I’ll call down for you.”

“No, thanks,” Wong says, “I’ve had mine. You go ahead.”

Cone lights a Camel, starts on the container of black coffee, the bagel with a schmear. “So?” he says to the other man. “How come the FBI is parked on my doorstep?”

“You were in Ah Sing’s Bar and Grill on Pell Street when the owner, Chen Chang Wang, was killed.”

“Oh-ho,” Cone says, “so that’s it. Yeah, I was there. But how come you guys are interested? I should think it was something for the locals to handle.”

“We’re working with the NYPD on this,” Wong says. “That’s how I got your name. Would you mind telling me what you were doing there?”

“Yeah, I’d mind. There’s such a thing as client confidentiality.”

“Sure,” the FBI man says. “And there’s such a thing as obstruction of justice.”

The two men stare at each other a moment. Johnnie Wong is a jaunty guy with eyebrows like mustaches. He’s a little chubby in the face, but there’s no fat on his frame; he looks hard and taut. He grins a lot, flashing all those Chiclets, but it’s tough to tell if it’s genuine merriment or a grimace of pain.

“Tell you what,” Cone says, “you tell me why the FBI is interested in Wang’s murder, and I’ll tell you what I was doing there.”

Wong considers that a moment. “Fair enough,” he says finally. “But I trade last.”

It’s Cone’s turn to ponder. “Okay,” he says, “I’ll deal. I was with Edward Tung Lee, the chief operating officer of White Lotus. You’ve heard of them?”

Wong nods.

“Haldering and Company was hired by White Lotus to find out why the price of their stock has shot up in the last six months. That’s what Edward Lee and I were talking about.”

“Interesting,” the FBI man says, “but not very.”

“Now it’s your turn.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I got nothing better to do than listen,” Cone says.

“All right then, listen to this: Since 1970 the number of Chinese immigrants in this country has almost doubled. I’m talking about people from Taiwan, mainland China, and Hong Kong. Add to those the immigrants from Macao, South Korea, Singapore, Vietnam, Cambodia, and Thailand, and you’ll see there’s a helluva lot of Asians here. Ninety-nine percent of the come-ins are law-abiding schnooks who just want to be left alone so they can hustle a buck. The other one percent are dyed-in-the-wool gonnifs.”

“And that’s where you come in,” Cone says.

“You got it. I’m a slant-eye, so the Bureau assigned me and a lot of other Oriental agents to keep tabs on the Yellow Peril. What’s happened is this: In the past few years the Italian Mafia has taken its lumps. The older guys, the dons and godfathers, are mostly dead or in the clink. The new recruits from Sicily are zips, and the guys running the Families today just don’t have the clout and know-how. There’s been a vacuum in organized crime. Or was until the Asian gangs moved in. The biggest is United Bamboo. They’re mostly from Taiwan but have links with the Yakusa, the Japanese thugs. Their main competitor, not as big but growing fast, is the Giant Panda mob, mostly from mainland China and Hong Kong.”

“United Bamboo and Giant Panda,” Cone repeats. “Nicer names than La Cosa Nostra. What are these bad boys into?”

“You name it,” Wong says. “United Bamboo is in the heroin trade because they’ve got good contacts in the Golden Triangle. Now they’re making deals with the Colombians and pushing cocaine. They also own a string of prostitution rings around the country, mostly staffed by Taiwanese women. Giant Panda does some dope dealing—a lot of marijuana—but most of their money comes from shakedowns: a classic protection racket aimed at Chinese restaurants, laundries, and groceries. Lately they’ve been trying to take over legitimate businesses.”

“Any homicides?” Cone asks.

“Hell, yes! Practically all United Bamboo or Giant Panda soldiers. But a lot of innocents, too. People who refused to pay baksheesh or just had the bad luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Anyway, the reason I’m telling you all this is because Chen Chang Wang, the guy who got chilled yesterday, was an officer in Giant Panda. Not the top general of the New York organization, but a colonel.”

“So that’s it. You’ve had your eye on him?”

“Not a tail—we don’t have the manpower for that. Just loose surveillance.”

“And you think it was United Bamboo who knocked him off?”

“It had all the earmarks of a United Bamboo kill. They use very young punks—guys in their teens—and give them stolen U.S. Army forty-five automatic pistols. They just squat, close their eyes, and blast away. They’ve got to hit
something.
Then they take off, sometimes on foot, sometimes in a car or on a motorcycle. Get this: Last month there was a murder in Seattle’s Chinatown, and the killers made their getaway on bicycles! How does that grab you?”

“Beautiful,” Cone says. “So there’s no love lost between the two gangs?”

“None whatsoever,” Johnnie Wong says with his glittery grin. “They’re competing for the same turf. Each wants to take over when the Mafia goes down. Listen, they’ve got more than a million Asian immigrants to diddle. That can mean a lot of loot.”

“No difference between the two?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Wong says cautiously. “First of all, United Bamboo speaks mostly the Cantonese dialect while Giant Panda is mostly Mandarin.”

“Which do you speak?” Cone asks him.

“Both,” the FBI man says, and the Wall Street dick decides his grin is the real thing. Here’s a guy who gets a laugh out of the world’s madness.

“Also,” Wong goes on, “United Bamboo are the heavies. I mean they’re really vicious scuts. Burn a guy with a propane torch before they chop off his head. Or take out a victim’s family in front of his eyes before they off him. The old Mafia would never touch a target’s family—I’ll say that for them. But United Bamboo will.”

“Like Colombian coke dealers?” Cone suggests.

“Yeah, those guys are savages, too. But the Giant Panda mob is softer. Not saints, you understand. They kill, but it’s all business with them. They’re putting a lot of their young guys in banks and brokerage houses on Wall Street. Listen, all this bullshit is getting me nowhere. Isn’t there anything else you can tell me about your meeting with your client in Ah Sing’s?”

“Not a thing,” Cone says. “He was talking with Chen Chang Wang when I got there. Then he left Wang in a booth, came over and joined me at the bar. In a little while, Wang walked by, smiled and waved at us, went out—and that’s when the fireworks started.”

“And that’s all you can tell me?”

“That’s all.”

Johnnie Wong looks at him closely. “You wouldn’t be holding out on me, would you?”

“Why would I do that?” Cone says. “I know from nothing about United Bamboo and Giant Panda and who blasted the late Mr. Wang.”

“Uh-huh,” the FBI man says. “Well, I’ll take your word for it—for now. I checked you out before I came over. You add up: the tours in Vietnam, the medals, and all that. Where are the medals now?”

“I hocked them,” Timothy says.

Wong flashes his choppers again. “Keep in touch, old buddy,” he says. “We haven’t got all that many warm bodies assigned to Asian gangs in the New York area, and I have an antsy feeling that something is going down I should know about and don’t. So consider yourself a deputy. If you pick up anything, give me a call. You have my card.”

“Sure,” Cone says, “I’ll be in touch. And you’ve got my number here.”

“I do,” Johnnie Wong says, rising. “And I’ve also got your unlisted home phone number.”

“You would,” Timothy says admiringly. “You don’t let any grass grow under your feet, do you? We can work together.”

“Can we?” Wong says, staring at him. “You ever hear the ancient Chinese proverb:
A freint darf men zich koifen; sonem krigt men umzist.
A friend you have to buy; enemies you get for nothing.”

“Yeah,” Cone says.

After the FBI man leaves, Cone flips through the morning’s
Wall Street Journal.
Then he lights another cigarette, leans back, clasps his hands behind his head. He knows he should be thinking—but about what? All he’s got is odds and ends, and at the moment everything adds up to zilch. No use trying to create a scenario; he just doesn’t have enough poop to make a plot.

So he calls Mr. Chin Tung Lee on that direct number at White Lotus. The Chairman and CEO picks up after one ring.

“Yes?” he says.

“Mr. Lee, this is Timothy Cone at Haldering.”

“Ah, my young friend. And how is your health today?”

“Fine, thanks,” Cone says, willing to go through the ceremony with this nice old man. “And yours, sir?”

“I am surviving, thank you. Each day is a blessing.”

“Uh-huh. Mr. Lee, the reason I’m calling is that I’d like to get hold of a list of your shareholders and also a copy of your most recent annual report. Is that all right with you?”

“Of course. I’ll have a package prepared for you.”

“If you could leave it at the receptionist’s desk, I could pick it up without bothering you.”

“Oh, no,” Chin Tung Lee says. “I will be delighted to see you. And there is something I wish to ask you.”

“Okay,” Cone says. “I’ll be there in an hour or so.”

He wanders down the corridor to the office of Louis Kiernan, a paralegal in the attorneys’ section of Haldering & Co. Cone prefers bracing Kiernan because the full-fledged lawyers give him such a load of gobbledygook that he leaves them with his eyes glazed over.

“Lou,” he says, lounging in the doorway of the cubby, “I need some hotshot legal skinny so gimme a minute, will you?”

Kiernan looks up from his typewriter and peers at Cone over his wire-rimmed reading glasses. “A minute?” he says. “You sure?”

“Maybe two. There’s this rich old geezer whose first wife has died. Now he’s married to a beautiful young knish. He’s also got a son by his first wife who’s older than his second wife—dig? Now my question: If the codger croaks, who inherits?”

“The wife,” Lou says promptly. “At least half, even if the deceased leaves no will. The son would probably be entitled to a third. But listen, Tim, when you get into inheritance law you’re opening a can of worms. Anyone, with good cause, can sue to break a will.”

“But all things being equal, you figure the second wife for at least fifty percent of the estate and the son for, say, thirty percent?”

“Don’t quote me,” Kiernan says cautiously.

“You guys kill me,” Cone says. “When a lawyer’s wife asks, ‘Was it as good for you as it was for me?’ he says, ‘I’d like to get a second opinion on that.’ Thanks, Lou. See you around.”

He rambles down to Exchange Place, sucking on another cigarette and wondering how long it’ll take nonsmokers to have the streets declared off-limits. Then nicotine addicts will have to get their fixes in illicit dens, or maybe by paddling out into the Atlantic Ocean in a rubber dinghy.

Twenty minutes later he’s closeted with Chin Tung Lee. The old man looks chipper, and since he’s puffing a scented cigarette in a long ivory holder, Cone figures it’s okay to light up another coffin nail.

“I know it’s too early to ask if you have made any progress, Mr. Cone.”

“Yeah, it is. I’m just collecting stuff at this stage. That’s why I wanted your shareholder list and annual report.”

“Right here,” Lee says, tapping a fat package on his desk. “I hope you will guard this well. I would not care to have the list fall into the hands of an enemy.”

“I’ll take good care of it,” Cone promises. “I notice White Lotus stock is up another half-point.”

“It continues,” the little man says, nodding. “My son believes it is of no significance, but I do not agree.”

“By the way,” Cone says, as casually as he can manage, “is your son married?”

Chin Tung Lee sets his holder and cigarette down carefully in a brass ashtray made from the base of a five-inch shell. “No, he is not,” he says with a frazzled laugh. “It is a sadness for me. Men my age should have grandchildren. Perhaps great-grandchildren.”

“He’s still a young man,” Cone says. “He may surprise you one of these days.”

“A very pleasant surprise. Family is important to me. Are you married, Mr. Cone?”

“No,” the Wall Street dick says, stirring uncomfortably in the leather club chair. “You said you had something to ask me.”

“Ah, yes,” Lee says, and now his laugh is vigorous again. “Happy news, I am glad to say. Today is my dear wife’s birthday. To celebrate, we are having a cocktail party and buffet dinner in our apartment this evening, and I hope you will be able to join us.”

“Hey,” Cone says, “that sounds great. What time?”

“From five o’clock until the wee hours,” the gaffer says gleefully. “I must admit I am looking forward to it. I enjoy celebrations.”

“Fireworks?” Timothy says, grinning.

“Regretfully, no. The popping of champagne corks will have to do.”

“Your son will be there?”

“Naturally,” Chin says, astonished at the question. “He lives in the apartment. With his own private entrance, I might add. In any event, we are expecting almost a hundred guests, and I trust you will be one of them.”

“Sure will,” Cone says. “You in the book?”

“We are indeed. But to save you from searching through four pages of Lees in the Manhattan directory, I have written out our address and home telephone number. You will find it in the package. Then we may expect you?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Cone promises. “Should I bring a birthday present?”

The old man waves a hand in protest. “Of course not. Your presence will be gift enough.”