The Deadliest Option (15 page)

“I had to be at Luwisher Brothers for a meeting this morning.”

“On a Saturday? Isn’t that carryin’ things too far?”

“One does what one must.”

They took the escalator to the second floor.

“The Max Maras are on sale,” Laura Lee said.

“I like Armani better.”

“Yes, but who can afford Armani, even on sale?” She stopped at the Calvin Klein area and rummaged through the rack of sales items. “I hate those guys.”

“What guys?” Wetzon looked at the price tag on a linen jacket. “Yipes.”

“You know. Hoffritz and Bird. Search and Destroy.”

“How do you know them?” She gave Laura Lee her undivided attention.

“Come on, Wetzon, everybody knows
everybody
on the Street. Now Goldie, he was somethin’ else. Look at this, Wetzon.” She had pulled a navy skirt from the rack. “Your size.”

“Laura Lee, the police say Goldie was murdered.”

“I know. I heard it on the news.”

Two women with too much curly hair and chunky gold jewelry on the other side of the rack stopped and listened.

Wetzon pulled Laura Lee to a less populated corner of the sportswear section. “This is just between you and me, not including the two ladies from Great Neck. While I was there this morning, a consultant for the company was murdered.”

“Ooooh?” Laura Lee’s mouth formed an O. “Well, it’s no wonder you’re off your feed. How could I be so dumb, goin’ on and on about last night? Why didn’t you stop me? Was it awful? Who was it?”

“Well, it wasn’t pretty. He was from Goodspeed Associates. Dr. Carlton Ash. Or at least, I thought he was from Goodspeed. He was doing some kind of secret study for Luwisher Brothers.”

“Secret study, eh? Come on now, Wetzon, nothin’ is truly secret either on the Street. That’s why they’ll never be able to really stop insider tradin’.”

“Well, I think this was so secret that someone killed him to keep him from telling me.”

Laura Lee clucked her tongue against her teeth. “Mmmm. I’ll see what I can dig up about this so-called secret, Wetzon. Now let’s hit these racks.”

It took them two hours to work over both the second and third floors. Wetzon bought two suits and some DKNY sportswear, and a black linen dress. “I’ll never wear it,” she moaned.

“Of course you will. Where will you ever again see a six-hundred- dollar Valentino dress reduced to two hundred dollars that fits you as if it were designed for you? Now, let’s see.” Laura Lee leaned against the counter and peered at the leather belts. “Two dresses, a Max Mara jacket, Calvin trousers and blazer, two Vittadini sweaters, and two Gloria Sachs suits.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Wetzon said. “I’m bleary-eyed. And we have to talk about the tea for Annie. Do you realize we have ten women coming to my apartment a week from tomorrow?”

“We’ll plan it all out this afternoon.” Laura Lee picked up her shopping bags. “I know exactly what we have to do. But first let’s see if the Ferragamos are on sale.”

Wetzon groaned. The Ferragamos
were
on sale, and it was after four when Wetzon and Laura Lee staggered out to Fifth Avenue.

“Let’s get a cab and go to my place,” Wetzon said. “That way we can decide what serving plates to put what on. “

“I just want to go across the street to Dunhill’s for one li’l ole minute.”

“What for?”

“I want to see if they have pajamas.”

“Is there a new man in your life, Laura Lee? One you haven’t told me about?”

“They’re for
me
.”

“Pajamas?”

“Wonderful, fine cotton. Feels like silk. What do you sleep in, smarty?”

“Oversized tee shirts. Fine cotton. Feels like cotton. Or just skin. I hate anything confining, like pajamas.”

“Why, Wetzon darlin’, you never cease to amaze me.”

Dunhill, thank God, was out of pajamas so they hailed a cab and loaded their packages on the front seat next to the driver, then collapsed into the backseat, exhausted.

“I’m starving,” Wetzon said. “Not to mention hot and sweaty.”

“So am I. Do you have somethin’ to munch at home?”

“Nada, nothing. Bagels, maybe.”

“No. I want a tequila sunrise and somethin’ really spicy to eat.”

“Why don’t we drop our stuff with my doorman and go over to Panarella’s? We can have a big salad and talk the party through there.”

Fifteen minutes later, that’s exactly what they were doing, sitting at a small table on the narrow upstairs balcony overlooking the bar. Wetzon had shocked Laura Lee one more time by surreptitiously rolling down her pantyhose, tucking the clammy nylon hose into her purse. She wriggled her toes. “Oh, my, that feels wonderful.” She had a cold Amstel in front of her, and they’d ordered Italian salads.

“Okay,” Laura Lee said. “What do you think? Scones, muffins, a couple of tea breads, and some open-faced sandwiches.”

“And a chocolate torte.”

“Of course.”

“Who makes what? I have a good scone recipe.”

“You do the scones, then, and I’ll do the muffins. We’ll each make a tea bread.” Laura Lee took a long sip of her tequila sunrise and sighed. “I can do the chocolate torte. We’ll need
pain de mie
for the sandwiches. We’ll have to order it from somewhere.”

“I’ll do it. We can make the sandwiches up in the morning and store them under a damp towel.”

“Good, now that that’s settled.” She reached for her drink and knocked her fork to the floor. Bending to pick it up, she exclaimed, “Oh, my, look who’s there.” Laura Lee, twisted like a pretzel, was looking down at the small bar below them.

Wetzon couldn’t see the bar from where she sat. “Who?”

“Chris Gorham. The one in the tennis whites and the thinning hair.” She laughed. “Boy, that must bother him a lot.”

“Chris?”

“Oh, I forgot. I heard he’s at Luwisher Brothers now. You must know him.” She came out of the pretzel.

“I do. I guess I shouldn’t ask how you know him.”

“Don’t.”

Wetzon frowned. Chris Gorham’s appearance had clearly thrown a damper on Laura Lee’s mood. “Are you sure it’s Chris?”

Laura Lee gave her a scornful look and became a pretzel again. “Oh, oh, he’s got company.”

“This I have to see.” Wetzon twisted herself around and squinted down over the railing. Below, a dark-haired man in gray pants and black tee shirt was shaking Chris Gorham’s hand. Chris seemed to be ordering drinks. The second man turned and leaned against the bar. “Jeeezus,” Wetzon said. She untwisted herself and sat back in her chair.

The delivery of their salads diverted them for a few minutes.

“What was that about, Wetzon?” Laura Lee asked when the waitress had left.

She didn’t answer Laura Lee. Her eyes were drawn below even though she knew she couldn’t see anything from this position. The man with Chris Gorham was David Kim.

I
N A QUILTED
blue satin vest, his small head perched between his hunched shoulders, John Hoffritz grinned demoniacally. “Ante up, everybody.” He punctuated his words by blowing smoke rings as big as inner tubes, which hung over the conference table.

“How about freshenin’ our drinks here, girlie?” Destry Bird snapped his fingers in Wetzon’s face.

“Deal me in, deal me in,” someone pleaded from the shadows.

“What?” Wetzon shook herself. Where was she?

“Drinks!” Destry shouted at her.

“Women,” Hoffritz said.

“They don’t belong in the game,” Dougie said. His fingers lingered on her bare arm.

Wetzon found herself dressed in an off-the-shoulder, almost off-the-bosom, gold moiré dress, trimmed in black lace. God, how tacky. She tugged at the bodice of the dress with her free left hand as she balanced the metal tray with a bottle of bourbon and six glasses in the palm of her right. Gee, she thought, just like one of those waitress jobs she’d had when she first came to New York to be a dancer.

She was wearing black fishnet stockings and high-heeled shoes with ankle straps. Gwen Verdon in
Sweet Charity. This is not reality
, she thought. Was it a rehearsal?

The men around the smoke-draped conference table were waiting for her to do something, so she did a Bunny tilt, set the tray on the table, and unloaded it.

“Deal me in, deal me in,” came again from the shadows at the back of the room.

The players looked up and exchanged sly smiles.

“There’s a king,” Hoffritz said, “and a trey. No help here.”

They were playing with huge cards with strange markings. Wetzon pressed in to get a closer look. A hand crept confidently up her leg, getting to her thigh before she swung around, halting the incursion. Chris Gorham, in a black SS uniform, a Heidelberg saber scar on his cheek, leered up at her and threw his chips into the game.

“Kings, pair of kings, over here.”

Wetzon looked around the table. Hoffritz was dealing. Bird, wearing a black patch over his eye, sat next to Hoffritz. Neil, Dougie, Chris—they were all playing. She peered through the smoke. She had brought six glasses to the table. The sixth man was David Kim. He was building a house with another deck of cards.

“High man on the board, he’s got the power.”

“Over here, Miss Ellie,” David Kim called suddenly. “Blow on my cards for luck. “ He had built an enormous house of cards, with terraces and turrets.

“No,” Wetzon cried. “Don’t do that. You’ll blow the house down.”

Ellie Kaplan, voluptuous in a green velvet dress made like a merry widow corselet, materialized out of the smoke and blew sexily into David Kim’s ear. The house of cards tottered but didn’t fall.

“Eights, see it, pair of eights.”

“Deal me in, deal me in.”

“Deuce of diamonds, nothing. Ace of spades. Ace bets.”

“Aces and eights,” Neil cried, jumping to his feet. “Dead man’s hand. Count me out.”

“Sit down, Neil, I’m dealing,” Hoffritz snarled. “Bring on the entertainment.” He clapped his hands, and a veiled dancing girl in a red taffeta harem costume, with a red bow on her ample breast, flitted into the room carrying a huge tray with a covered dish.

“Deal me in, deal me in.” The voice had become more threatening.

“Aces and eights high. Okay. Pot right.”

“I raise,” Dougie said quietly.

The woman in red taffeta wove around clod-footed in a semi-dance to some creepy New Age music and then, when the music stopped, dumped the tray peremptorily into the middle of the game. She snatched the cover off the dish. There, resting on a plate of arugula was the head of Goldie Barnes. His eyes were open and staring, his white blond hair shocking against the blue of his face.

“What are my options?” Ellie screamed.

“Get me out of here,” Wetzon cried.

Goldie’s head winked at her. “Over my dead body,” he said.

“I’ll take the pot because deuces are wild,” Dougie said, reaching for Goldie’s head.

Wetzon screamed. Hands clutched her. Arms pressed her down. “No, no, no!”

“Les—”

She struggled against the pressure.

“Les, let it
go.
”

She stopped struggling. Silvestri had his arms around her, holding her against the crinkly hair of his chest.

“Oh, God.” She opened her eyes and groaned, snuggling in his arms. The rough bristles of his chin scratched her cheek. He stroked her back, playing his fingers down the bumps of her spine. “Oh, God,” she said again, listening to her heart thump helter-skelter against his slow, even beat.

The air-conditioner droned; the blinds were drawn against the unrelenting sun.

He came up on one elbow and stroked her face. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Not yet.” She pulled him down beside her.

Sunday. Day of rest. Day to recoup.

“Love in the morning. Lieutenant take warning,” she sang in his ear. Her stomach made an anguished growl. “I’m starving,” she said, sitting up.

“Can’t you just lie here for a minute calmly,” Silvestri said, pulling her down again beside him. Her head found the crook of his arm and rested there. He smelled of sweat and smoke and spicy aftershave. “Now tell me what scared you.”

She rubbed her eyes. “Well, there was this poker game, like
Maverick—
”

His beeper went off.

“Shit,” she said.

Silvestri kissed her, sat up, and called in.

He’s gone,
she thought.
That’s it.
She got up and into the shower. He joined her a minute later.

“Gotta go downtown,” he said, soaping her back.

“Too bad. We could have spent the day together making love.”

“Liar. Knowing you, you’ve already made plans. I did want to talk to you about yesterday.”

She rubbed shampoo into her hair. “Uh-oh, I was wondering when that would come up.”

“Les, you’re a mule. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“You can’t protect me from life, Silvestri.”

“I’d like to.”

“I’m turning on the cold water,” she said.

“Thanks, I needed that,” he said, ducking, but not soon enough. The icy water shot out of the shower over both of them.

“Yeow!” she screamed.

He laughed and stepped out of the shower.

“I’m glad you’re not yelling at me,” she said.

“Would it do any good?”

“I really didn’t think I was interfering. I just wanted to know what was in the study so Smith and I could have a head start.” She rolled her long hair into a towel.

“Is that like having inside information?”

“Oh. God, Silvestri. No. This is different.”

“How is it different?”

“I wasn’t offering to buy it and I wasn’t going to use it to trade the stock market with.”

“Not the stock market, but what about the placement market?” He grinned at her.

“That’s enough. You have a really mean streak in you, Silvestri, you know that? Stop torturing me. I have to think about that.”

“Fine, Les. I think it bears thinking about.” He was suddenly deadly serious.

Wrapped in a towel, she followed him around the apartment as he dressed. He put on a suit. “Why a suit today?”

“It’s not just any meeting.”

“Oh? Is it something to do with Carlton Ash and Goldie Barnes?”

She stood behind him. In the mirror, his turquoise eyes flicked over her. He combed his dark hair back, past his receding hairline. “You have a nice scalp,” she said.