Authors: Annette Meyers
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Women's Fiction, #Contemporary Women, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Crime, #Financial, #Contemporary Fiction, #Crime Fiction
Tender Death (6 page)
W
ETZON LOVED WALKING
in the snow, especially this soft, white powder that floated down, noncommittally dusting her face and clothing and floating elsewhere whenever she stopped to shake herself off.
The wind had quieted somewhat. Traffic was light, as if people had heard the weather report and thought better about coming into the city. Uptown on Park Avenue, the trees on the islands in the middle were already etched in white. Snowflakes stuck to Wetzon’s eyelashes, rested on her lips and cheeks, moisturizing, cleansing.
New York is truly beautiful in its first meeting with snow, almost on best behavior. But, as they get acquainted, the good manners of both wear off, and they become dirty, icy, lumpy, and dangerous. Ugly.
Just like people
, Wetzon thought. And then reprimanded herself.
Hey, hey, why so cynical all of a sudden, kiddo?
“Hi, Kate, hi, Steve,” she said aloud, saluting with her right hand, as she passed Hepburn’s house, and then Sondheim’s standing next to each other on Forty-ninth Street. The street was inordinately quiet. Snow muffled all sounds, and no one was out except the crazies. “Wow!” she said out loud again, luxuriating in the wonderful feeling of privacy that comes only with walking on a New York City street in the midst of a snowstorm. The stillness was positively lush. Spoken words emerged heavy and thick, not straying far from the speaker.
She looked around behind her. Some distance away was the lone figure of a man in a trench coat, carrying an umbrella. As she watched, he proceeded to fold and unfold it in a vain effort to shake off the accumulated snow.
On Second Avenue, traffic moved downtown at a snail’s pace as the blanket of snow thickened. Horns blew like foghorns, more in warning than anger, which was usually why New York drivers pressed horns.
She sighed. It would only get worse as the day progressed.
She stamped the snow from her boots and whirled around, careful not to lose her footing, to remove the rest of the snow before she opened the door to their office.
B.B. looked up, phone to his ear, and smiled. With his cropped hair and his athletic build, he looked more like a marine than a headhunter in training.
“I’d like to hold,” he said politely but firmly into the telephone. He put his hand over the mouth of the receiver. “Good morning, Wetzon.”
“Good morning, B.B.,” she said, hanging her coat in the closet, counting under her breath, “three, four—”
“Good morning, Wetzon!” Harold burst out of the little cubbyhole they had built for him in the reception area when B.B. had been hired.
“Five,” Wetzon said, turning to Harold. It had taken him less than five seconds to make points with her. He was so busy competing with B.B., he seemed to have forgotten that B.B. had been hired because Harold so wanted to become a full-time recruiter and take on his own candidates.
“Good morning, Harold,” she said. “How is it going? Didn’t you have someone interviewing with Bache this morning?”
“We had to cancel because of the weather. There’s a backup on the Long Island Expressway.”
“No reason for today to be any different.” There was always some kind of backup on the Long Island Expressway. “Too bad. Try to get that rescheduled as soon as possible. Anyone else? Are you doing any interviews here today?” She opened the door to the office she and Smith shared.
“No,” Harold said glumly, retreating to his cubbyhole. “The weather’s really killed me.”
“My name is Bailey Balaban,” B.B. said, “and I work for Smith and Wetzon ... we do executive search on Wall Street ...”
Wetzon closed the door behind her. She loved their office. Everything was black and white and red. Black vinyl tiles on the floor, white walls and shelves, white filing cabinets, and red countertops. Her section of the room was a little more cluttered than Smith’s, with mementos from her previous life as a Broadway dancer, antique odds and ends she had been collecting from flea markets over the years, two strange-looking aloe plants with long tentacles, and piles of newspapers and magazines and suspect sheets with interviews of potential candidates.
Smith’s area was more pristine. Client files, several pictures of her son, Mark, at different ages, and a celebrity map of Connecticut, where Smith had a weekend “retreat,” showing where all the special people lived.
“Oh Lord, there you are at last,” Smith cried. “What a day, and it’s not even ten o’clock! Everyone is canceling.” She stood up to give Wetzon a big hug. Smith looked gorgeous—tall, thin, wearing a Donna Karan outfit, a black wool jersey draped midcalf skirt, crimson turtleneck, and long black jacket, and high black leather boots.
“Stunning, as always,” Wetzon said, returning the hug. “How many appointments did we have?” She turned away to look over her messages. Hazel had called.
“Appointments? Not appointments. My
party!
”
“Oh now, Smith, tell me, who has canceled?” She didn’t much care about Smith’s party. She was thinking about Hazel.
“The Crowleys, that’s who, and Gordon Haworth.”
“Well, the Crowleys live in Wilton, so that was to be expected. Connecticut will be a disaster. And Gordon Haworth, if I remember right, has been in D.C. all week testifying again about cleaning up the industry. Anyone else?”
“Not yet, but I just know there’ll be more.”
“Really, Smith, that’s not too bad. Yesterday you were worried that you’d invited too many people.”
“You’re right. I won’t worry about it until later. How was the interview?”
“Weird. He wants to leave, but he can’t leave ... because—get this—he’s working for the FBI—”
“What? What did you say?” For a brief instant Smith forgot all about her party and gave Wetzon her full attention.
“You heard me. Can you believe it? He didn’t strike me as being overly bright, either.”
“He’s probably lying,” Smith said. “You know they all lie. I’m sure he has a problem, the usual, compliance, unauthorized trading, whatever.”
“Maybe, maybe not. There’s some kind of scam going on at L. L. Rosenkind that some brokers are involved in, or so he hinted. I think he was trying to find out if he could go somewhere after—”
“After what?”
“After the investigation is completed.”
“Well, if it should happen to be the truth, which I would seriously doubt, I hope you didn’t say anything that could get us into trouble,” Smith said grimly. “The tarot warned me—”
“Smith, what
are
you talking about?”
“Because if he is working for the FBI, he was probably wearing a wire.” She turned her back on Wetzon, disgusted, to answer her private phone. “Hi, sweetie pie,” she cooed into the telephone, “how’s my Leonola today?” She was talking to Leon Ostrow, their lawyer, and her “best beau,” as she sometimes called him.
Wetzon felt foolish. She tried to remember what she had said to Peter Tormenkov. Innocuous stuff, for sure. Smith was so paranoid, Wetzon had learned to discount a great deal of what she said. But sometimes, just sometimes, Smith was right.
She sat down at her desk and dialed the number Hazel had left.
What would Hazel think if Wetzon said “sweetie pie” or “Hazola” into the phone when Hazel answered? She smothered a laugh. Good work, Wetzon. Don’t let her get to you.
“Hello.” Hazel’s voice was hollow, but determinedly cheerful.
“Hi there, my friend,” Wetzon said brightly.
“Oh, Leslie dear. I’m so glad to hear your voice. I’m so sorry about yesterday ... involving you ...”
“I don’t want to hear any apologies from you, madam,” Wetzon said with mock severity. “I’m glad I was there with you.”
“It was terrible, Leslie. Poor Peepsie. I know she was frightened and confused by her illness, but to do something like that—”
“Hazel, remember, she was not herself. But right now I want to know about you. When are they letting you out?”
“It couldn’t be too soon, Leslie. I really hate hospitals. Your nice friend Sergeant Silvestri is coming back this afternoon to take me home. That was so dear of you.”
“Silvestri? Oh yes, of course.” What was Silvestri up to? “When did he call you?”
“He didn’t. He came over to see me first thing this morning.”
“God, Hazel, you must have thought he was a bum. He looked awful.”
“Now, Leslie, after all this time you should know that doesn’t faze me. I liked him. And I see why you like him,” she added.
Wetzon felt herself blush. “What time is he coming back?” she asked, flustered.
“Around three. Don’t worry about me, dear. I’m very sad, but I’m fine. I have to make some arrangements for Peepsie ... they still haven’t been able to locate Marion.”
“Oh, Hazel, do you have to? Isn’t there anyone else?”
“There’s only a lawyer, who really didn’t know her. Besides, I want to.”
“Okay, I have an interview around four, if it’s not canceled. The weather is horrendous, in case you haven’t noticed. I’m planning to come up and look in on you before I go home.”
Wetzon felt the angry glare of Smith’s eyes on her as she hung up the phone.
“Wetzon,” Smith said wrathfully, “if you are late for my party because of that old biddy, I’ll murder you.”
“I
THINK HE
listens at our door,” Smith said.
“Oh, Smith, you’re always so suspicious,” Wetzon said.
“I think he goes through our private business papers when we’re not here.”
“Well then, if you do, and you’re worried, let’s put everything under lock and key.”
“Fahnley went belly up,” Harold said, coming right into their inner sanctum. They had warned him repeatedly that he was to knock first because he had a habit of barging in boisterously and interrupting business calls or private discussions.
They were eating their lunch, leaning back in their chairs. Wetzon had her boots off and her stockinged, and socked, feet were up on her desk, as she alternately flexed and pointed her toes. Her fingers were yellow with egg salad, which she was in the process of licking off.
She had opened the blinds covering the French doors, and the great white expanse of their backyard and garden, clumpy with snow, made a postcard view. The snow fell without letup.
“Fahnley went belly up?” Harold loved to use Wall Street slang. “Are you sure they’re not merging with another firm? Weren’t they bought by that Canadian firm, Crossman Peck?”
“Well yes ... but they’re closing the office entirely in two weeks. Crossman is bringing in its own people.”
“Anyone there worth working on?” Smith asked. She bent to pull off her high boots. “If I remember correctly, the average age of their brokers is a hundred and five.”
Wetzon laughed. “Not far from wrong. I sort of recall talking to a sweet old man once. He said he didn’t think he was a likely candidate, but I could call him anytime.”
“I’ll get the list.” Harold spun around eagerly and left them.
“I wonder if I should order another case of wine,” Smith mused. “People drink much more in this kind of weather. Wetzon, what do you think?”
“I think I should be checking the list of Fahnley brokers.” She didn’t move her feet from her desk. “Is Hank Brownell still the manager?”
“Oh yes, Hank Brownell,” Smith intoned, doing her W. C. Fields imitation. “Fired from Merrill, hired by Hutton, fired by Hutton, hired by Witter, fired by Witter, hired by Fahnley.”
“Hot for Xenia Smith,” Wetzon added impishly.
“A little man,” Smith drawled. “In every sense of the word.”
“Smith, you didn’t,” Wetzon said, feet hitting the floor, shocked.
“Oh come on, Wetzon, grow up. This is the real world. Besides, sweetie pie, you know me better than that.”
“Whew. You really had me going for a minute.” Wetzon examined the beginning of a run in her hose. “He was such a pig. But since you know him better than I do, don’t you think you should call him?”
“Where would we place him? No, it’s a waste of time.” Smith crumpled up the paper from her roast beef sandwich and threw it away. “Want some of my cookies? They’re chocolate chip from Mrs. Fields.”
“No thanks. I’ll stick to my apple.” Wetzon closed her eyes and frowned. “I think his name was Maurice ... Maurice ... Sanderson.”
“Who?”
“The old broker from Fahnley. Maybe one of our clients would take him.” She opened the file drawer next to her desk and rifled through the S’s. “Here he is. Maurice Sanderson, age sixty-nine, as of last year.” She skimmed her notes. “Well, he does a small but steady business. Writes big tickets.”
“Wetzon, I’m telling you, it’s a waste of time.” Smith finished the last cookie and dusted the crumbs from her hands and lap.
“I’ll talk to Maurice and you start calling around.”
“Oh, Wetzon, honestly.” Smith threw up her hands. “You’ll be the death of me.”
“Hi, Maurice, this is Wetzon here, remember me, of Smith and Wetzon, your favorite headhunter.”
“Well, it’s certainly nice to hear from you right now, Ms. Wetzon.” Maurice Sanderson’s voice was formal and pleasant. He did not reveal concern in his tone, only in his words. “I think I may be in need of your services.”
After Wetzon quickly updated Maurice’s figures and background information, she passed it on to Smith, who groaned. “Wetzon, this is humiliating. I can’t do it. How will it look to our clients? Let the old geezer retire.”
“Consider it a good deed that’ll get you into heaven,” Wetzon said, “and us a small fee. Come on, Smith. Someone like Maurice can’t retire. This is his whole life. He loves it, and it’s all he knows after forty years in this business.”
“Too old to bother with.”
“Try.”
The reactions came quickly:
“ ...
We don’t want brokers that old.”
“ ...
How old? Seventy? You’ve got to be kidding .”
“
... Smith, have you lost your senses?”
“ ...
We don’t want these old guys. They take up space and cost us money. How much business does he have? Forget it.”
“ ...
I’ll see him if you want me to, but I won’t hire him
.’’
After five phone calls, Smith swung around in her chair and announced, “I’m giving it up. I agree with them.”
“Try Curtis Evans. They clear through the Bear. Tell them he writes big tickets. Please, Smith.”
“Does he?”
“What?”
“Write big tickets.”
“Of course. Would I lie to you?”
“Humpf.”
Twenty minutes later Wetzon called Maurice Sanderson with an appointment for the following day with Bob Curtis of Curtis Evans.
“There now, doesn’t that make you feel saintly, Smith?” Wetzon teased, standing, looking out at their snow-blanketed garden.
“No.”
“It’s still snowing. You can’t even see sky up there. It feels as if we’re in an igloo.” She shivered and closed the blinds.
“I’m going home to get everything ready,” Smith said. “Please try to come early. I need you. You know I count on you.”
“Come on, Smith, don’t do that. Won’t Leon be there? And Mark, of course.”
“Not good enough.” Smith hugged her again. “I need my little friend.”
“I have Kevin De Haven to see around four, and I want to look in on Hazel. Then I’ll go home and change and come to you.”
“You always put other people before me, even strangers come before me,” Smith said, sulking. “I am your dear and trusted friend.” She sat down to pull on her boots.
Sometimes you are
, Wetzon thought, watching her.
You are certainly my most demanding friend.
But she said, “Not fair, Smith. You know when you really need me, I’m there.”
“Humpf. And who are you bringing to my table tonight? Silvestri, perhaps?”
“No, he’s working,” Wetzon lied, not daring to look at Smith.
“Of course, I don’t have to tell you that disgusting pervert is not welcome in my house,” Smith said.
“Smith.” Wetzon’s voice held a warning. “I will not let you talk about Carlos like that, and if you continue to, you will not see me at your party either. And by the way, when he calls me, I expect you to give me the message. He’s my oldest friend.”
“It’s just a wee bit like having Typhoid Mary as your friend, don’t you think?” Smith stamped out and slammed the door, leaving Wetzon furious and unfulfilled. The war between Smith and Carlos had been initiated by Smith, although Carlos was a willing participant. They— Smith in particular—now lavished guerrilla attacks on each other and Wetzon was always caught in the cross fire.
She sat down at her desk again and wrote Maurice Sanderson’s appointment with Curtis Evans in her calendar.
It was dismaying that the firms did not want to hire senior brokers unless they had huge books and a very active business, which was not very likely. As a broker aged he usually stopped increasing his client base; he expended less energy. His client base aged with him. To the firms, it was all a matter of money. Real estate was costly, overhead was an expensive burden, space was at a premium. Management felt it was more efficient to give desks to younger brokers who were in the process of building a client base. By law, Smith and Wetzon were not permitted to ask a candidate’s age, but their clients wanted to know, so they did, circuitously. “What college did you go to, Joe? Oh really? What year did you graduate?” It wasn’t difficult, given that information, to guess the candidate’s age.
The older broker had become a dinosaur. He usually did a clean business, did not hustle his clients, pitched only stocks he was comfortable selling, like the Dow stocks, and generally acted like the family doctor, building close relationships with clients. But more and more, the larger firms gave lip service to service, pressuring younger brokers to build up gross production, sell, sell, sell. The young brokers swiftly saw the emphasis was on selling the firm’s product whether it was good for the client or not.
Wetzon had observed the brokerage business change radically over the last three years. The large firms pushed the broker to sell in-house products, and the young brokers generally did because the tickets for these products were bigger. The older brokers stuck to the stock and bond business, taking seriously the old name for stockbroker, “customer’s man.”
She respected these older brokers. They had dignity and class and longevity. They considered what they did a profession. They were not in it for the big killing.
Odd, how she kept coming back to aging. Hazel, Peepsie Cunningham, Maurice Sanderson, even the scam Peter Tormenkov had alluded to. Teddy Lanzman’s TV series on the elderly. Wait a minute. She looked at her watch. Three-thirty. The phones had gotten very quiet. She opened the door to the reception area.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Everyone’s leaving early because of the storm,” B.B. said.
“Tell you what—”
Harold came out of his cubbyhole and stood in the doorway.
“Tell you what,” Wetzon said, “we’ll wait till the Market closes at four and shut down ourselves. Just tell me when you’re leaving.” She went back into her office and closed the door.
In her address book she found Teddy Lanzman’s phone number.
The intercom buzzed.
“Howie Minton on 9-0,” B.B. said.
She punched the first extension. “Hi, Howie, you should be on your way home. I hear the Island is a mess.”
“I’m outa here. Just wanted to know what you thought of Pete Tormenkov.”
“Well, Howie ...” Wetzon paused. These situations were problematic from an ethical point of view. Howie had recommended Peter, but what Peter had told her was confidential. “I don’t know what to tell you. He doesn’t seem ready to move anywhere.”
“Wetzon, my friend, don’t tell me he told you that crap—excuse me—about the FBI?”
“What are you saying, Howie?” she asked cautiously.
“You’re a good lady, Wetzon, and I think of you as my good friend, so you can level with me. I can tell by what you’re not saying that the schmuck told you.” Howie had lost his usual unctuousness. “Pete’s working with a bunch of lowlifes. There’s no FBI, but there could be, and he’s got to get out of here before the shit hits the fan, excuse me again.”
“Howie, whatever the truth is, he may have a compliance problem—”
“Wetzon, believe me, would I lie to you? Peter’s okay. Let me talk to him and straighten him out. Then you can call him on Monday—and be persuasive—as I know you can. Say you’ll do it for me so I can get the hell out of here tonight.”
“Okay, Howie, I’ll try. Hope the trip home isn’t too bad.”
“Be well, Wetzon.”
She sat there thinking, playing with her pen, doodling geometrics. Howie was probably right. On the other hand, nothing that she had seen happen on Wall Street was too farfetched. Anything could be true.
She picked up the phone and dialed.
“This is Channel Eight, serving the Empire City in the Empire State.”
“Ted Lanzman, please.”
“Who’s calling?”
“Leslie Wetzon.”
“Hold on a moment, please.”
As she listened to canned Bach, Wetzon checked off the phone calls she had made from her daily list. Those she had not gotten to, she wrote on her list for Monday. After she spoke with Teddy, she’d call Kevin De Haven, who would probably want to cancel his four o’clock appointment, which was fine with her.
“Well, well,” Teddy Lanzman said. “This is a real treat, stranger. How are you?”
“Great, Teddy. I know how you are because I see you on the box all the time—”
“Better than that. I’m getting my own half hour, producing and writing features. And you just caught me. I’m on my way to Detroit in a few minutes, if they’re still flying out of Kennedy tonight. Picking up an award for feature broadcasting for my series on the kids in welfare hotels.”
“That’s wonderful, Teddy, congratulations. I saw most of it. It was heartrending.”
“You know, Wetzi, although we don’t see each other much, I count you as one of my real friends. Did you ever get my message when that broker was murdered?”
“Yes, I did, and I’m sorry I never got back to you. So many crazy things were happening—”
“It’s okay. I understand. I just wanted you to know if you needed me, I was there.”
“I knew that, Teddy, and I love you for it. But right now I’m calling you about something I’ve come across that might be of interest to you.”
“Oh yeah?” She could hear the change in his voice.
“The series you’re doing on the aged ... I’ve heard something about a scam against the elderly, using nurses’ aides ... I guess this doesn’t make much sense—”
“No, no, I’m hearing you. I want to hear more, but I’ve got to get out of here now, or I’ll miss my plane.”
“I don’t know much more than that—”
“Have an early dinner with me on Monday,” Teddy said. “Six-thirty, seven. You may be able to fill in the blanks on something I came across in my research.”
“But—”
“No ‘buts.’ Pick me up at the studio on Monday. I’ll leave your name downstairs with security.”
“We’re leaving now, Wetzon,” Harold said as she put down the phone slowly, brooding.
“Okay, good night. See you Monday. Have a safe ride home.”
She dialed Kevin De Haven’s number. It rang and rang and rang.
“Kevin De Haven’s office,” a very familiar male voice said at last.
“Kevin, please.”
“He’s gone for the day. Wetzon? Is that you?”
Damn. Tom Hasher, a broker she talked to from time to time, was in that office. “Tom? What are you doing still there in this blizzard?”