The Big Killing (13 page)

The office was a beehive of activity. It was Thursday morning, and the business of making money continued.

Smith was on the phone with Loeb, Dawkins. “Jerry Matthews. Yes. The first invoice is dated October twentieth. I sent a duplicate in December.” She was making a major effort to keep her voice pleasant. “It is now over five months ... I would like to send someone down for the check.” Exasperation was creeping into her voice. “All right, Kathy. I hope so.” She slammed the phone down.

“Standard procedure for them,” Wetzon said. “They’re not about to let us send for the check. They might lose some interest on the money.”

Smith’s eyes glinted dangerously. “If they want a fight, we’ll give ‘em one.” She was wearing a deep plum knit suit with black braided trim, gold chains, and pearls. Around her throat was a long, narrow wisp of a band, a silk print tie of deep mauve cabbage roses. Her olive skin glowed.

“You’re wearing a new suit,” Wetzon said, admiring. “Something special going on today?”

Smith didn’t respond. She pressed the intercom. “Harold? Send another duplicate invoice on Jerry Matthews to Loeb, Dawkins, attention Kathy Cramer. Mark it fourth notice on the bottom.” She paused. “Just do it, please. No editorial comments.” She looked at Wetzon, who smiled. Harold was getting out of hand.

“Seriously, Smith,” Wetzon said, “don’t you think we should drop Loeb, Dawkins as a client once they’ve paid us? Their slow payment is chronic. We’re a small business. If we were waiting for payment on a lot of placements from Loeb, Dawkins, we’d have no cash flow whatsoever, and we’d be out of business.”

“Let’s think it through carefully,” Smith said, “when things have quieted down a little.”

Wetzon nodded. Was that a dig? Maybe not. She’d give Smith the benefit of the doubt and try not to be sensitive. She looked at her watch. “Steve Switzer interviewed at Hallgarden this morning.”

Harold opened the door. “Steve Switzer for Wetzon, on nine-o.” He stood in the doorway.

“Come in and listen, if you want,” Wetzon said. She thought it was a good idea to give Harold as much exposure as they could before they moved him up to associate.

“Steve? How did it go?” She heard horns honking, street noises. He was calling from a pay phone.

Steve Switzer was the biggest producer at Murray, Allen, a disreputable penny-stock house that, rumor had it, was about to be closed down by the SEC. Switzer had been referred to Wetzon by a former Murray, Allen broker whom Wetzon had placed at Pru-Bache last year.

Normally, a move would take a month or more from the initial interview to the start date at the new firm. And Wetzon always suggested that a broker see more than one firm, as a basis of comparison. But with Switzer, there was an undercurrent of urgency, and Wetzon was worried.

“It went great,” Switzer said, shouting over the background noise. “I like this guy Garfeld. I want to go there. But I can’t talk now because I’m on my way to Bache.”

“Bache?” Wetzon groaned silently.

“Yeah. Warren set me up with his manager. Get me some feedback from Garfeld and I’ll call you later.”

“Shit!” Wetzon said, hanging up. “He’s on his way to Bache—Warren set him up there. That’s rotten. Wouldn’t you think Warren would have let me do it? They’ll love Switzer at Bache.”

Smith shook her head and pointed a well-manicured scarlet finger at Wetzon. “I told you, you can’t ever trust them.”

“But what about Hallgarden?” Harold interjected.

“Oh, right now he wants to go there, but let’s face it, Hallgarden is a small firm. Bache can make him a better offer. Let’s see what Andy Garfeld has to say.”

Wetzon dialed Hallgarden and asked for Andy Garfeld.

“I like him,” Garfeld told her. “He’s coming back tomorrow at nine o’clock to meet Gordon Kingston, our chairman.”

“Well, we’re going to have to move fast with him, Andy, because he’s talking to Bache right now. And not through me.”

“I’ll work something out. Have him call me when you hear from him again. Oh, and listen ... talk to him on how to dress.”

“What do you mean?” She cringed. “How was he dressed?”

“Sportjacket, striped shirt, red socks. It’ll never wash with Gordon.”

Wetzon hung up the phone. She shook her head. It was all perception, how you looked at it. If your appearance was right and you said the right words in a forthright and confident tone, no one would doubt you. Brokers didn’t, as a rule, wear polyester, but every once in a while a client would reject a broker as unfit, and it was often because he wasn’t dressed properly. She remembered one broker who had lost his license because of unauthorized trading in several accounts. He had worn cowboy boots with his three-piece pinstripe, and after he had left the business in disgrace, everyone said, “Well, there, you see. He really didn’t fit in.” You could be forgiven a little cutting of legal corners, but only if you dressed properly. So much for individuality in an industry that prided itself on entrepreneurship.

But for all the unwritten rules of dress, or the so-called dress code, if the broker’s numbers were big enough, if he made enough gross commissions for his firm, individualistic behavior was considered slight eccentricity, and the heads of firms looked the other way. One of the biggest producers at a major Wall Street firm wore jeans to the office.

She sighed and looked at Smith. “I see it’s going to be that kind of day.”

Smith turned. “Now what?”

“Would you believe that Switzer went to his interview at Hallgarden in a sportjacket and red socks?”

“Yes.” Smith’s attitude was so superior.

“Oh, Smith.”

“Wetzon, you are such a Hallmark card.” Smith smiled. “I’d really love to sit Switzer out with you, but I have a lunch appointment, and then after that—”

“Something special?” Smith had made no further mention of Carlos, or Silvestri, for that matter, and Wetzon was not about to bring up either of them.

“No,” Smith said, nose buried in her appointment book. “Obligatory lunch. Appointment afterward at Mark’s school.” She crossed to the bathroom and gave herself the once-over in the full-length mirror on the inside of the door. She added rouge to her cheeks and fluffed out her short, dark curls.

Wetzon watched her curiously. Something was up. She could sense it. It was the same feeling she’d had yesterday at the precinct when Smith surrendered her to Silvestri.

After Smith left, Wetzon sent Harold out for lunch and asked him to pick up an egg salad sandwich for her.

She was worn out, but her mind ricocheted from question to question. Who had murdered Barry Stark? And why? What was Barry holding for Georgie? Had Georgie killed his friend? What did Mildred Gleason have to do with Barry’s murder, and why did she want to see Wetzon? Georgie had said Barry was doing a business deal with her—could she have killed him? What did that key open? And what about Leon Ostrow? He had been at the Four Seasons that night. Had Jake Donahue been there, too? Why else would Silvestri have asked her if she’d seen Donahue there? And Leon represented Jake Donahue and Jake Donahue was Barry’s boss. They wanted the key.... Always back to the key. Circles within circles within circles.

And why was Smith behaving so strangely?

Wetzon had thought of Barry as just another broker, perhaps a little crazier, a little greedier, than most, but now, in his death, he seemed to be taking on new dimension. There was Buffie, the girl he was going to marry, and the other girl—the one from Connecticut Georgie had mentioned—who worked with him at Donahue’s. Did Silvestri know about them? Had Georgie told Silvestri anything? She doubted it. Was Georgie the one who had tried to break into her apartment? Was it even connected with Barry’s death? And, she had almost forgotten ... who had stolen Barry’s attaché case? What was Barry doing with all those drugs from York Hospital? She had a pretty good idea what that was about. She remembered now that several brokers had told her Barry was a connection for drugs on the Street. Was Barry’s murder drug-related?

It was too confusing.

The phone rang. “Smith and Wetzon,” she said, grateful for the interruption.

“I loved it,” Steve Switzer said, fresh from his meeting with Pru-Bache. “They took me to the trading floor. I think I could work there.” He was flying. “Cancel me at Hallgarden tomorrow.”

“You can’t do that, Steve,” Wetzon said firmly. “First, what if Bache doesn’t come through with the deal you want? You can’t put all your eggs in one basket.” She meant what she said, and she was speaking calmly, sure of her territory. “But more important, Steve, this is a career decision. Bache is a behemoth organization. Prudential owns it. You would just be another fish in a big pond over there. You want to be with a firm that might still be bought by another company. You want to accumulate stock and stock options in the firm before this happens. When Primerica bought Smith Barney, I saw some brokers and longtime employees become millionaires overnight.” She knew, based on experience, that Steve Switzer would have a tough time going from being the top producer at his small firm to being one of many at Pru-Bache. That and culture shock would zap him. He would be starting all over again as a rookie in a new environment.

“Can I get stock options at Hallgarden?”

“You can ask for them now and you can accumulate them when you’re there.”

Switzer paused. “I’ll keep the meeting tomorrow.”

“Andy wants to talk to you, so give him a call.” She paused. “And by the way, Kingston is very corporate. That means pinstripes, white shirt.”

“Wetzon, come on, you know who you’re talking to? I always look great. I just bought a new suit. Cost me a thou.”

She hung up and called Andy Garfeld, who listened to her report on Switzer’s reaction to Bache, taking audible, impatient drags on his cigarette. “Doesn’t he know that Bache is the wrong place for him?”

“Andy, brokers are suckers for other good salesmen.”

A long moment of silence, then: “Unfortunately, you’re right.”

Harold came back with her sandwich. “No calls.” She was emphatic. “I want to have my lunch in peace.”

She went out to the garden and ate her lunch sitting on their new garden furniture.

Her thoughts drifted magnetically back to Barry Stark. Barry the sleaze, to Smith. Hyper, money-crazy Barry, who characterized himself as a poor kid from the Bronx. Barry, who had sent her a list of brokers, with phone numbers and background notes, without asking for a kickback on a placement. Opportunistic Barry, looking for the big killing, going to marry a girl he grew up with, but having an affair with someone he worked with.

Warm and drowsy, she nestled into the hard seat of the chair, remembering that Georgie had made fun of Barry as an organ donor. Organ donor. Maybe that was why Wetzon had liked him. There was something about Barry ... something soft ... something boyish. Bad boyish sometimes, but definitely boyish. He’d had a kind of rough charm. And he had chosen to be an organ donor. An oddly humanitarian thing for him to do. She shook her head. Georgie, on the other hand, had little charm that she could see. She shuddered. Georgie frightened her.

“Wetzon?”

“Harold.”

“Steve Switzer.”

Wetzon sighed and reluctantly left the sweet solitude. When she picked up the phone to take Switzer’s call, she was back in the marketplace.

“I spoke with Andy,” Switzer said. “He offered me seventy percent payout for a year.”

“Incredible.” It was incredible.

“And they’ll make a market for me in any stock they can do diligence on.”

“Fantastic.” It was.

“Senior vice president title, private office, sales assistant, cold caller.”

“Good, good.”

“What else should I ask for at the meeting tomorrow, besides some upfront—”

“Steve, I don’t think you should ask for the world. They’re a small firm. You’ll put them off.”

“Wetzon, I know what I’m doing. If you don’t ask, you don’t get. Tell me what else I can ask for.”

Wetzon rubbed the itchy area around the scab on her forehead. What the hell, maybe he was right. Maybe that’s what her trouble was—she tended to accept, not demand. “You could ask for an expense account. At your production level, it could be one percent of your gross. And stock options.”

“That’s what I want. That’ll do it.”

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, after the meeting. Good luck.”

If Steve Switzer made a deal with Hallgarden, Smith and Wetzon would have to take a fee-forward deal, one weighted heavily on Switzer’s production for the coming months, two to thirteen, against a small down payment. It was like rolling dice. Sometimes it paid off dramatically, and sometimes it was what the traders called a dead cat bounce. Nothing.

The phone rang. She hoped it was for Smith because she’d had it for the day. She cleaned off her desk and with her fingertip rubbed a whitish spot from the rough surface of the marble peach paperweight.

“Wetzon, that was Howie Minton’s sales assistant confirming your appointment tomorrow at five o’clock at the Vista Bar.”

She nodded. Howie was getting carried away with himself, too. Trusting a sales assistant to confirm an appointment with a headhunter. Had he forgotten who paid the sales assistant’s salary? Not very smart. Unless, of course, he wanted his firm to know he was talking to Wetzon. Now that was diabolical, but knowing Howie, a definite possibility. She laughed out loud.

The sun had moved around to the south and was brightly beckoning her outdoors.

She pulled on cotton socks over her pantyhose and laced up her pink Reeboks. It was such a beautiful day, she would walk home, window shop, get some exercise, think about clothes, food ... Silvestri. Damn him. Damn Smith. Spend a nice quiet evening ... Oh lord, she had forgotten about her date with the good doctor, Rick Pulasky. What a brain.

She flipped through her old phone messages—reporters—nothing urgent, dropped them on her desk, and put her black pumps in her briefcase, along with the suspect sheets on Howie Minton and Steve Switzer.

“You’re leaving early.” Harold was accusing. He always took being left alone personally.

Wetzon ignored his displeasure. “I’m working from home tomorrow morning. I have appointments downtown in the afternoon. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”