The Deadliest Option (20 page)

“Late lunch, Harold?”

“Gosh, I’m really sorry it took me so long, Wetzon.”

“Where the hell were you?”

“I was at the eye doctor and I had to wait forever.”

Anyone other than Harold, and she would have thought he was doing a matinee—hot sex on a hot afternoon—but
Harold
? She looked at him objectively. Nah.

“Okay, Harold. I’m sure you have a deskful of work. I know I do—” She turned back to the suspect sheets on her desk.

“Will Smith be back?”

“I don’t know. Don’t think so.” She waited until he closed the door and then picked up the phone and called Jeff Lewin.

“Jeffrey Lewin.”

“Hi, Jeff. Wetzon here. How did it go?”

“Well, I think. He offered me the job.”

“What? He offered you the New Haven office?”

“Yes. I said I would really have to think about it.”

“My word. You don’t even have your licenses. You’ll need the Series 8 and the R.O.P., the Registered Options Principal....” This was really crazy.

“I asked him when he would need an answer, and he said last week. Does that mean there’s no manager there now? I’d like to know what happened to the other manager.”

“I don’t know.” She’d have to do some dancing. “They’re probably moving him up in the system. Did you talk money?”

“Yes. He said about thirty-five as a base, plus my own production. An upfront package and a higher payout. But listen, Wetzon, I’d really like to know what happened to the other manager. I have to talk with Amy. We just moved into the new apartment ...”

“Okay, Jeff, you talk to Amy, and I’ll talk to Keith and find out about the old manager.”

She hung up the phone. Was Keith out of his fucking mind? Jeff was top quality, no question; Wetzon had known him for seven years. How could Keith spend a half hour with him on a first meeting and make an offer for him to run an office? No wonder the industry was in trouble. It was being run by lightweights.

She tried Carolyn, who had all the licenses and could sit down quickly and smoothly.

“Keith was very nice, but he said he didn’t have any management openings right now.”

“Oh? Did you limit him on area?”

“No. I said Connecticut, Massachusetts, or even New York would be fine.”

“Okay. Consider this a get-acquainted meeting. Now he knows you, and you can bet he’ll think of you next time there’s an opening.”
What a liar you are, Wetzon
, she thought, hanging up. This was just another case of we-don’t-want-a-woman-in-our-private-club. Imagine the professionalism of offering an important job to someone after half an hour, good as he might look, and Jeff looked terrific. He was one of the best-dressed brokers she’d ever known. He could model for
GQ
. Still, Carolyn was an attractive candidate on paper and more so in person. And she was licensed. It wouldn’t take months to get her through the exams.

“Ah, fuck,” she said out loud, throwing down her pen. She punched up Keith’s number.

“Gary just left,” Keith said. He talked so fast, his tongue got caught up in his breathing and made his words come out in spurts. “He’s a good, solid baloney-sandwich, meat-and-potatoes kind of guy. Our kind of guy, Wetzon. We want him for the Wellfleet office.”

“What about Jeff Lewin?”

“Want him, too. Offered him New Haven.”

“You have a manager in place now?”

“Yeah, but he’s not staying.”

“You’re replacing him?”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t know it yet. I shoulda told Lewin not to say anything ... you do it, Wetzon. It’s strictly confidential. It could be very embarrassing if it got out.”

“I would think so. What about Carolyn? She has all the licenses.”

“Yeah, Carolyn. She’s okay. I liked her. Good lady. I just don’t have anything for her right now. Tell Jeff and Gary I’ll talk to them next week. We want to get moving on this.”

“Sure, Keith.” So much for equal opportunity on Wall Street. She hissed. We’re just not one of the boys.

She sorted out the papers on her desk and made a list of the calls she had to make the next day. The air-conditioner was chugging with some difficulty, and the office was not as cool as it had been; perhaps Con Ed was cutting back on power.

Outside, their garden looked limp and seared, baking day after day in the sun. Still, there was little sun now, only the sulfuric haze of an air inversion. She stepped back from the window and sat down. What she wouldn’t give now to be pulling on white socks and her pink Reeboks, instead of pantyhose and pumps for her appointment with David Kim.

Sharon Murphy was meeting with Loeb Dawkins tomorrow. Wetzon hoped that went well. Sharon was high-strung and a little crazy, but she had a good business and her numbers were really super.

Wetzon opened the door to the front office. B.B. was on the phone. The other light was on and not blinking, so Harold was probably on that one. The phone rang. “I’ll get it,” she said, then thought maybe she shouldn’t. If it was a problem, she’d be late ... oh hell, “Smith and Wetzon.”

“Will Ms. Wetzon accept a collect call from a Ms. Smith?”

“Oh, for godsakes.” Smith was always doing this. If she had half a mind, she wouldn’t accept. But instead she said, “This is Ms. Wetzon. I’ll accept the charges.”

“Wetzon—”

“Smith, you’re impossible. Only you would call collect when you’re less than fifteen blocks away.”

“Be still and listen,” Smith said. There was street noise in the background and she sounded agitated.

“Where are you?”

“On Third Avenue, near Bloomie’s. Is anyone else on the line?”

“Who would be?” Wetzon looked down at the phone. Three lines were lit and not blinking. “Just you and me, sweetheart,” she said, doing Bogart.

“I don’t have time for your jokes, Wetzon. I’ve been running around trying to find a phone in this goddam city that works. You won’t believe what I saw. 1 don’t believe what I saw.”

“What did you see? Tell me please and put me out of my misery.”

“Everything is a joke to you, Wetzon, but you’re not going to find this funny, any more than I did.”

“Oh, God, Smith—
what
?”

“I was so upset I had to sit down in Yellow Finger and have a lemonade to calm myself.”

“Smith, I’m going to kill you personally if you don’t get on with it.”

“Who is the scumbag slimeball—our biggest competitor?”

“Tom Keegen.”

“Well, Wetzon, not one-half hour ago guess who I saw
tête-à-tête
with that dirtbag?”

“I give up. Who?”

“Your precious Harold.”

T
HE FRONT LOBBY
of the Berkshire was formal without being ostentatious. In the rear and a couple of steps down was an upholstered open, nicely carpeted area set with comfortable chairs and sofas and marble-topped coffee tables arranged in small conversation groups. Here, someone could order tea and tea cakes, coffee, or drinks. It was a gracious refuge from the persistent rush and frenzy of the City.

She saw David Kim immediately because he was pacing back and forth, wild-eyed, seemingly unaware that he looked a trifle mad to the arriving and departing guests of the hotel who gave him a wide berth. He did not fit the stereotype of the imperturbable Asian. A slim, somewhat prissy concierge in a medium-brown suit was just bearing down on him when David caught sight of Wetzon, stopped pacing and waited for her to come to him.

“David.” She touched his arm and led him to the rear of the lobby, where he flung himself on the loveseat and Wetzon took the Louis XVI chair next to the harp.

He was wearing a gray pinstripe, white shirt, and considering the heat, showed hardly a wrinkle, Wetzon thought, looking down at herself. His hair was a smidgen too long for the Street and fell across his forehead to his dark eyebrows. With an impatient, boyish gesture, he brushed it back. He looked a little like Rob Lowe, if Rob Lowe were Korean. All in all, a charmer, particularly when he smiled, which he did just then.

Wetzon found him engaging, as she had almost two years ago when he’d followed up his résumé with a phone call and persuaded her to see him, although she had assured him she could do nothing for him because he didn’t have a track record. He was in the Ph.D. program in mathematics at Columbia.

“I want to be the first Asian-American to run a brokerage firm,” he’d said.

“You’re too late, Gerald Tsi got there ahead of you.”

“He’s Chinese, and besides, he didn’t do so well with Smith Barney and ended up selling to Sandy Weill. I want to be Sandy Weill.” His black eyes were serious, but he was sharp as a tack and full of beans, and Wetzon had liked him immediately.

He was looking for a summer job, something he could build into a career once he’d finished his Ph.D., and Wetzon had reiterated that not only did Smith and Wetzon not do entry-level positions, but they certainly never touched summer employment. But David was beguiling and wrested a promise from her that she would keep him in mind if she heard of anything with one of her clients.

And she had. It was only two weeks later that she’d heard from Doug Culver that Luwisher Brothers was looking for a temporary sales assistant for Ellie Kaplan, and Wetzon had suggested David Kim. The temporary job had turned into a permanent job, and everyone had benefited from the introduction except Smith and Wetzon because no fee was paid.

Wetzon preferred to chalk it up to bread on the waters—good will and all that. It would eventually pay off with referrals, useful contacts. But Smith had been very displeased. “We can’t pay the rent on freebees,” she’d bitched.

Wetzon ordered iced decaf and David, a bourbon on the rocks. He had, she saw, adopted the drink of choice at Luwisher Brothers.

“Okay, David, spill it. What’s the matter?”

“I don’t even know how to tell you ...” He stopped and stared at her. “I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing.” He shook his head and his hair fell into his eyes. “Everything I’ve ever dreamed about can be wiped out. I—” He shrugged and held up his hands.

Their drinks were served on gold-embossed cocktail napkins. A woman with long blond hair sat down at the harp and began to play. Every conversation area in the room was now occupied, and just beyond them Wetzon could see two women talking animatedly, one taking notes all the while. An interview of some sort. She turned back to David.

“What’s going on down there, David?”

“Something bad, I think. A mess. It’ll get out and I’ll never be able to get another job.”

“But how does it involve you?”

He looked miserable, suddenly, and took a big swallow of the bourbon. “Ellie ...” He let it hang like that and Wetzon’s mouth dropped.

“Ellie? Ellie is involved in something illegal?”

At first, he didn’t respond, then with some reluctance, said, “I think so. I haven’t had a chance to make sure. They could be setting her up, too.”

“I can’t believe it. Make sure. Maybe talk to her.”

He shook his head. “I just can’t. I—we—” He looked down at his drink.

“Who else?”

“Chris Gorham would have to know ... and the others, too.”

“What about Goldie?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want to tell me what you think it is?”

He shook his head and took another swallow. “Not till I’m sure. A lot of money is involved.”

“Why are we talking, David?”

He smiled at her nervously. “Because I trust you, Wetzon. Because you’re my friend. Because you helped me get here. Because I know you’re not going to tell anyone what I’ve told you. Right?”

Wetzon sighed. “Right.”

Warily, he said, “If I’m right, I would have to notify the SEC of a violation if there was one—wouldn’t I?”

Was he asking her permission to become a whistle-blower? She couldn’t figure out what he wanted of her. “Are you telling me that Hoffritz, Bird, and Culver are all in on this scam, or whatever it is?”

“That’s just it, Wetzon, I don’t know. And if I tell the wrong person, I could be dead.” His hand shook when he raised his glass to take another drink. “It’s getting so I’m scared to go in every day.”

“Why not take a week off, then? Maybe it’ll all be out in the open sooner than you think.”

“It might be. The auditors are coming in this week. Chris told me.”

“What do you want me to tell you, David?”

“What would
you
do, Wetzon? I think you would do the right thing.”

“I would go to the police because my life was in danger, and what good is money and position or anything, if you’re dead? But David, I’m not you and this has to be your call.” She remembered the poker game in her dream and the house of cards David had been building in it.

“Will you help me get out?”

He was asking her to move him. That’s what this was all about. “You know I’ll do everything I can. Do you have your own business, separate from Ellie s?”

“Yes, some. And some of her clients may prefer to stay with me.”

“But suppose Ellie’s not involved?”

“They may still want to stay with me. They trust me. Ellie—well, she took this thing with Goldie very hard.” He rose and leaned over to shake her hand. “Thanks, Wetzon. I’ll keep you informed.”

“Xerox your books,” she said automatically, putting ten dollars in the leatherette folder where the bill lay.
Poor Ellie
, she thought. David had become a broker.

W
ETZON WALKED PAST
the Plaza Hotel, the long line of limousines parked and double-parked in front, crossed Central Park South, with its horses and carriages ready and waiting, and went into Central Park. The hush was almost instantaneous. She walked slowly; the air quality was terrible. A horse and carriage clopped by, carrying a family of tourists, the driver pointing out the Wohlman Rink, which New York’s own Donald Trump had repaired with a flourish three years ahead of schedule. Summers it was used for roller skating, winters for ice skating.

From the hill where Wetzon walked, she could see through the dry, sparse leaves of the massive oaks the miniature golf course, another Trump triumph, near the Rink. The carousel, which had been renovated, was working again. She loved the carousel. She loved to climb on one of the elevating horses and go around and around.