6.

“HAZEL WAS DISTRAUGHT,” Wetzon said. “Hell, I was distraught.” She was lying on her bed fully clothed except for her boots, which she’d pulled off the minute she walked into her apartment.

Smith clucked sympathetically on the other end of the phone line. “That poor woman. What did the body look like?”

“Smith, you are a ghoul, you know that?”

“No, come on, Wetzon, you’ll feel a lot better if you tell me,” Smith said. “You know how these things fester if you don’t get them out.”

“There isn’t that much to tell. By the time we left the building they had taken her away—”

She shuddered at the memory. She and Edward had pulled Hazel away from the door. “This is a mistake,” Hazel kept saying. “A mistake.”

Somehow they managed to get her to one of the lobby sofas. Wetzon shrugged out of her coat and tucked it around Hazel’s shoulders. Edward disappeared and returned with what looked like a painter’s drop cloth. Wetzon knew he had gone out to cover what was left of Peepsie Cunningham’s mortal remains. Then the police had arrived ...

“They came fast,” Smith said, interrupting.

“I guess it helps if you live on Fifth Avenue.”

“Oh ho, she was one of the superprivileged, then.”

“You might say that. I’ve never seen such an incredible apartment. It was like a museum—”

“Tell me—”

“Not now. It’s been an awful afternoon.” Wetzon closed her eyes and saw the shoe again. The small dark blue Gucci with the gold stirrups.

“What did you do with Hazel?” Smith’s voice was distorted by something she was eating. “I wish you would open up, sweetie. You know it’s going to give you nightmares if you don’t talk about it.”

“I just can’t,” Wetzon said. “At least not yet, not now.” And maybe not to you, she added silently. Why did Smith always want her to share her every thought and feeling? “I called Hazel’s doctor and brought her over to Lenox Hill. He wanted her admitted for observation.”

“Oh my, she must have been in bad shape.” The munching sound continued.

“Smith, she was in shock. Peepsie Cunningham was one of her oldest friends—whatever are you eating?”

“Potato chips. Peepsie, what kind of name is that? A turn-of-the-century version of Muffie?”

“Smith, you’re so callous. They could be us in thirty or forty years.” She pulled the afghan up around her, chilled.

“Oh hardly, Wetzon. I’m not about to take a walk out of my window, especially not on a cold night. And neither are you.” Wetzon heard the crackle of crumpled cellophane.

“But what if we were ill and alone, and we didn’t know what we were doing?” A funny little pulse fluttered her eyelid. She was depressed by what had happened to Peepsie.

“Wetzon,” Smith said impatiently, “you just got finished telling me there was a woman with her, looking after her.”

“Right. Ida. A very peculiar Russian lady, who acted as if she were a member of the family. She actually took off her shoes and had tea with us.” Wetzon had forgotten all about Ida. Wherever had Ida been when Peepsie Cunningham jumped? “I don’t know where she was, and in the confusion I didn’t see her again.”

“Didn’t you talk to the police?”

“No one talked to us, and Hazel was in such bad shape. A lot of the tenants came downstairs and were standing around trying to see what was going on. The lobby got very crowded. So after I talked to Hazel’s doctor, I called a cab service and we left.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Except for one thing, Wetzon thought. As she helped Hazel into the cab, she had seen the small dark blue Gucci walking shoe with the gold stirrups in the gutter. Without thinking, she had bent down and dropped it into her big Mark Cross leather carryall, a combination of purse and briefcase. What had possessed her to do so, she couldn’t imagine. It had been instinctive. And in her concern for Hazel, she had quite forgotten about it until just now.

“I can’t get over that no one stopped you,” Smith was saying.

“I think people could see that Hazel was sick—” She choked. “Oh, Smith, it’s more than that. Hazel’s cancer has come back. She’s having chemotherapy, and she can hardly walk.”

“I’m really sorry, Wetzon,” Smith said. “I know how you feel about her. But she is old—”

“Forget it, Smith. Don’t say another word.”

“Really, Wetzon, what did I say now?” Smith sounded wounded. “You are getting so sensitive.”

Wetzon didn’t know why she bothered. She and Smith would never see eye to eye about most things. “It’s all right, Smith, I guess I’m just upset about what happened. I’m going to lie here and try to catch up.”

“Wait, before you hang up, you had some calls—”

Wetzon looked at her watch. It was five o’clock. She groaned. “Okay, let’s hear.”

“Evan Cornell.”

“He’s looking for something in management. He calls every couple of months. It can wait till tomorrow.”

“Mary Ann Marusi. I hope she’s not in trouble again. Kidder hasn’t even paid us yet.”

“I don’t think so. She said she would call me for a drink or lunch after she got settled.”

“I hope so, but considering her record ...”

“What record, Smith? Really, I don’t know why you have it in for Mary Ann. She hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“No, just dummied up her runs from Sontheimer and Company.”

“That’s not true. You’re taking Don Schwartzman’s word for that, and you know damned well Don’s a liar. He’s lied about the end-of-year production of everyone we’ve placed there. He cheated us. That, if you remember, is why we’re not working with Sontheimer anymore.”

“How could it slip my mind. I must be losing my grip.” Smith laughed lightly.

“Any more calls?”

“Yes. Peter Tormenkov, confirming breakfast tomorrow at seven-thirty at the American Festival Cafe.”

“Oh shit. I’d forgotten all about that.”

“Who’s Peter Tormenkov?”

“Someone Howie Minton referred.”

“Jesus, Howie Minton, the great mover,” Smith said sarcastically, tweaking Wetzon for always believing Howie Minton when he called her and swore that this time he was really ready to change firms. Wetzon would set up interviews for him with various firms, they would all make him offers, and then he’d stay on with L. L. Rosenkind.

“Well, you’re right there. I admit it.” Wetzon laughed. “Anyway, this Tormenkov person works for L. L. Rosenkind and he’s unhappy—”

“Just like Howie, I suppose.”

“Maybe not. Howie says he really wants to leave and that he has a nice book for a rookie.”

“A rookie? God, I hate to work with rookies. You spend as much time with them, more, than with a big producer where we can really earn a fee,” Smith complained. “Couldn’t you have gotten him to come to the office? It’s a waste of time and money buying a rookie breakfast.”

“He was so paranoid about confidentiality, I thought what the hell.” Wetzon didn’t look forward to a seven-thirty breakfast either. She had never gotten used to the Wall Street clock, where the day often started at the crack of dawn and brokers were sitting at their desks at seven o’clock. The day officially began at nine-thirty when the Market opened, but a lot of brokers were on the phone with clients considerably earlier. And those who prospected for new clients knew that the corporate honchos were usually at their desks by seven, without a secretary around to run interference. But Wetzon, who’d spent all those years in the theater, still felt as if her heart didn’t even start beating until ten o’clock. “Anything else?”

“Yes, one more. Kevin De Haven. No message. Just a phone number. Looks like a Merrill number.”

“De Haven? Does that name sound familiar to you?”

“No. Don’t you know him?”

“No.” Her curiosity was piqued, despite her fatigue. “I wonder if it’s too late. Let me try him and I’ll call you back.”

She hung up the phone and dialed the number Kevin De Haven had left.

“De Haven.”

“Hi, this is Leslie Wetzon. You called me this afternoon.”

“Oh yeah. I was returning your call.”

“I didn’t call you.”

“But I found your name and phone number on my desk this morning when I got back from vacation.”

“Well, I didn’t call you, Kevin,” Wetzon said, baffled. “What do you do?”

“I’m a stockbroker.”

“You are?” She suppressed a chortle. “What a coincidence. I’m a headhunter.”

“Hey, pal, what field do you headhunt in?” De Haven asked, warming up. Brokers loved to talk. Salespeople loved to talk. So long as you kept the conversation going, you still had a shot at closing the sale.

“Your field. Stockbrokers. Maybe we should talk.”

“Maybe we should. I may be interested in using your services.”

“What kind of business do you do in numbers?” Wetzon asked casually.

“Oh three quarters of a mil or so.”

“No kidding. You’re not a stockbroker. You’re a gorilla. When can we sit down and talk?” With the average stockbroker doing somewhere between two hundred and fifty and three hundred thousand in gross production, De Haven was indeed a gorilla.

“How about tomorrow? After the close.”

“Great. Where are you located? My office is on Forty-ninth, off Second.”

“Well, I’m at 200 Park. Maybe I’ll come to see you. Why don’t you call me tomorrow at four?”

“Great, Kevin, I’ll do that.” She hung up the phone and shouted, “Wowee! Gold!” She dialed the office, and when Smith answered, she said, “Guess who lives right?”

“What? Tell me. Who is he?”

“Oh just a little old three-quarters-of-a-million-dollars producer.”

“Holy shit, how did we get so lucky?”

“I don’t know, but I’m sure going to find out. He says I called him and left my name and number, but I know I didn’t. Someone is watching out for me.”

“I’ll let you know after I check the cards tonight,” Smith said, referring to her tarot reading. “When are you meeting him?”

“Tomorrow, after the close. Maybe at the office sometime after four o’clock.”

“Damn it, Wetzon, my party is tomorrow night. You know I have to leave early.”

“You don’t have to meet him, Smith.”

“But I want to. It’s not right.” Smith was petulant.

“Would you rather I put him off and lose him?” Smith sometimes could get so ridiculous. Even though she was older than Wetzon, Wetzon frequently felt older, or less childish anyway.

Smith’s response was an emphatic, “Humpf!”

“Look, Smith, I’m beat. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Oh, Wetzon, wait a minute. I forgot to ask you. Did she own her apartment?”

“What? What apartment?”

“The one that belongs to the woman who killed herself, of course, who did you think? I want you to ask Hazel about it for me. Maybe I can get it at a good price. If Leon and I should get married ... we’re going to need a bigger place.”