26.

WETZON CALLED THE answering machine in the office and left a message that they would be late. “How do you know Leon and Arleen Grossman are having an affair?”

Smith had showered and was wearing her crimson-and-black dressing gown. She had miraculously repaired herself and was now glowing with a kind of supernatural radiance. “I know.” She sat down at her dressing table, sweeping a medley of lingerie to the floor, and stared at her face in the mirror approvingly; dislodging a lipstick and two tortoiseshell combs which fell on the carpet, she pulled her hair dryer out of the clutter on the table and turned it on.

Mark brought a bamboo tray of tea and fresh orange juice. “I strained the juice just the way you like it, Mom.” Wetzon smiled at him and took a glass of orange juice. He waited patiently for Smith to take hers, but when she didn’t, he set the tray down on the carpet near her.

“Give Mommy a big kiss, sweetheart,” Smith said over the whir of the hair dryer. “Be a good boy and get us a dozen mixed croissants and muffins ... you know where the money is.”

“Okay, Mom.” Mark kissed her cheek and the hot air from the dryer blew his dark curls against hers. Their hair was exactly the same deep brown.

“Such a sweet baby,” Smith murmured, fluffing her hair. She turned off the hair dryer and dropped it back on the dressing table.

“I think you’re imagining it—or did you read it in the cards?” Wetzon sat on the foot of the bed sipping the juice.

Smith shook her head stubbornly and put on a mauve silk blouse and her plum Donna Karan suit. “Is it cold out?” She picked up the glass of orange juice from the tray on the floor and took a swallow.

“Not like yesterday. Yesterday was a killer.” Damn. Wetzon wondered if her everyday language was always so chock-full of those bloody expressions or were they floating around in her subconscious, surfacing when she got involved in a murder.

Smith sat again at the dressing table and dusted her face lightly with powder, using a long sable brush. “So what do you have to tell me? I want to hear.”

“First tell me why you’re so sure about Leon and Arleen.” She watched the tiny grains of the face powder fly up in the air, float briefly, and settle on the plum suit. “He told me Friday night that he had asked you to marry him.”

“Humpf.” Smith put magenta eye shadow on her narrow eyelids and accented her almond-shaped eyes with a small upward dark line and finished with black mascara in three layers. Her sure hand with makeup always fascinated Wetzon. Her touch was more theatrical than Wetzon’s had ever been.

“Seriously, Smith. Why would he be having an affair with Arleen Grossman? She can’t hold a candle to you.”

“Oh, Wetzon, I love you dearly, but sometimes you are so dim. Don’t you see how manipulative she is? And men are such fools.” She took the glass of orange juice and went into the living room. “Bring the tray, would you, Wetzon, there’s a dear, and put it in the kitchen.”

“But I thought you liked Arleen.” She never seemed able to keep up with Smith’s rapidly changing emotions.

“Well, I did, but I wasn’t stupid enough to fall for that line of garbage she was handing out.”

Oh, weren’t you, Wetzon thought, leaving the tray on the counter in the kitchen and returning to the living room. “Well then, I certainly don’t intend to have dinner with her.”

Smith was stirring the tarot cards on the table, her palms barely touching them. They seemed to be moving of their own accord. Wetzon shivered. Smith turned and gave Wetzon a piercing look. “What a totally selfish thing for you to say, Wetzon. I’m really surprised at you.”

“What?”

“You have to have dinner with her to find out for me what is going on between her and Leon.” She gathered up the cards and began laying them out in some kind of order.

I give up, Wetzon thought. “Okay, I’ll have dinner with her, but only for you. And not tonight. I’m really beat.” She sat down on the sofa, watching Smith’s sure hands on the cards.

“Didn’t she want you to have dinner with her tonight?”

“Yes—but—”

“Wetzon, you really don’t care about me at all, do you?”

“Smith, you know that’s not true. All right, I’ll have dinner with her tonight. I have to see if I can meet Kevin De Haven after the close and get that going ...”

Smith gathered up the cards again and shuffled as if she were shuffling a regular deck of cards. Then she palmed them and held her palms out to Wetzon. “Cut” she ordered, narrowing her eyes, intent on the cards.

Wetzon touched the smooth oversized cards and pulled her hand back in surprise. The cards were hot, as if they had been heated. Smith glared at her until she cut the deck.

I hate this, she thought, watching Smith lay out the cards. She still makes me feel inadequate, even after all this time.

“It’s that dark man again,” Smith muttered. “So much danger.” She tapped a crimson fingernail to a card showing a man lying dead, his body pierced by many swords. “It’s Silvestri, sweetie pie, it has to be ... he’s your dark man and he’s surrounded by death.”

In spite of herself, Wetzon felt a chill of fear. She didn’t want anything to happen to him. Not Silvestri. “There are other dark men in my life, Smith, besides Silvestri.”

“If you mean that fag, he’s irrelevant. He doesn’t qualify—”

“No, I did not mean Carlos. I meant Teddy Lanzman.”

“Teddy Lanzman ... Teddy Lanzman. Who is that? Is he a broker? His name is so familiar.” She tapped the card again. “This is not Silvestri’s usual card. Teddy Lanzman ... wait a minute, not the newsman on Channel Eight? That Teddy Lanzman?” She put the cards down carefully.

“He’s pretty dark,” Wetzon said, smirking.

“He’s black.” Smith was scornful.

“So?”

“Black, Wetzon. If you ask me—”

“Don’t say it. I’m not asking you.”

“Are you going to tell me about it?”

“Not if you don’t keep your personal prejudices to yourself.”

“I don’t know, Wetzon, it’s getting harder and harder to have a conversation with you about anything, but I’ll accept your reservation.”

“Teddy is doing a feature on the life of the elderly in the City—”

“Hi, I’m back.” Mark burst through the front door, still wearing his boots.

“Boots! Boots!” Smith called reprovingly.

“Oh gee, I’m sorry, Mom.” He backed out of the apartment, still clutching the large paper bag.

“Why don’t you set up in the dining room, sweetie pie, while Wetzon and I finish talking.” Smith seemed transfixed by the cards on the coffee table. “He’s a very dangerous man. I don’t like him.”

“Smith, honestly, you don’t even know him.” But Smith’s firmness combined with that little seed of doubt Wetzon already felt after her trip to Little Odessa with Teddy. After all, Smith had been right about Rick Pulasky, the doctor Wetzon had gotten involved with last year.

“I don’t have to know him. The cards know him. I’ve seen him on television.” Suddenly the cards fell from her hand. Her eyes turned oblique. “Of course, I could be wrong. It could be Silvestri.” She gave Wetzon a radiant smile and stood up, yawning. “I’m really hungry,” she said.

“Do you want me to make an omelet for you and Wetzon, Mom?”

“Oh no, sweet baby, this is just perfect.” Mark had set up a large platter of assorted muffins and a separate platter of croissants. A fresh pot of tea sat on a Salton warmer. There were three little jelly bowls of jam and a crock of butter. And three place mats with matching napkins were set with glass mugs, silverware.

“What a love you are, Mark,” Wetzon said as he poured herb tea into the glass mugs.

“Isn’t he though?” Smith reached for a corn muffin. “Oh nice, still warm.” She broke it into sections and buttered each section deliberately. “So tell me what happened to you yesterday. You may sit and listen,” she said to Mark, “if it’s all right with Wetzon, but no interruptions.”

“It’s okay,” Wetzon said. She began with Peepsie Cunningham’s death, her disbelief that it was suicide, and Teddy’s feature on the elderly. “And how about that this Ida has the same last name as that broker I interviewed?” She ate a portion of a carrot muffin. “This is good.”

“Which broker?”

“The one who’s working for the FBI.”

“The FBI?” Mark said. “Gee.”

Smith frowned at Mark. “Spare me, Wetzon, the fantasy life of stockbrokers. Do you want more tea?”

“No.” She described the visit to the Tsminskys and the Cafe Baltic, leaving out Teddy’s peculiar behavior. “Then when I went to the ladies’ room—”

“What time is it?” Smith stood, dusting muffin crumbs from her lap. She looked at her wrist. No watch. She seemed suddenly distracted. “Mark, sweetie pie, clean up for Mom, that’s a good boy.”

“It’s almost nine,” Wetzon said. “I think we’d better get going.” She was talking to empty space. Smith had rushed out of the room and Mark had taken the teapot into the kitchen.

“Smith, why do I always end up talking to myself when I’m trying to have a conversation with you?” She found Smith in her bedroom touching up her lipstick.

“Oh, was there anything more to your story?” She fumbled under the debris on the dressing table, found her watch and large gold shell earrings, and put them on.

“Damn it, Smith, you didn’t give me a chance to finish.”

“I hate foreigners.” Smith fluffed her hair in the mirror. “They come here, abuse our generosity, and get rich. They hate us and they have no gratitude.”

“And you have no logic and no generosity,” Wetzon said, getting angry. “The Tsminskys weren’t rich. They came from a totalitarian country—” Why did Smith always seem to say outrageous things that aroused Wetzon’s ire? Were they supposed to do just that?

“They’re Communists.” Smith began to coat her lashes with another layer of mascara. “Probably all KGB spies.”

“Whatever they were, they’re dead now.”

“What?” Smith’s mascara wand froze in her hand. She stared at Wetzon’s reflection in her mirror.

“You heard me.”

“Well, why didn’t you tell me? God, Wetzon, it takes you so damn long to get a story out. How did it happen? When did it happen?”

“You cut me short, Smith, and you know it.” She precis’d the events leading to the murders and ended dramatically, “It happened after I was mugged.” She closed her eyes and waited for the explosion. It wasn’t long in coming.

“That does it, Wetzon!” Smith slammed the mascara tube on her dressing table. “I’m beginning to think you need a keeper.” Wetzon grinned at her in the mirror. Smith turned and glared at her. “You’ve made this all up to distract me from the truth about Leon and Arleen.”

“I have not.” Wetzon was indignant. She rolled down her turtleneck and showed the black-and-blue bruises.

Smith jumped to her feet and enveloped Wetzon in a bony embrace. “This is terrible. Just terrible. I told you that reporter was trouble. What did the police say?”

Wetzon extracted herself from Smith’s smothering embrace. “We didn’t call them. People were rushing out of the restaurant because they’d heard the Tsminskys were murdered.”

“How were they murdered?”

“They were Uzi’d right through their store window. It was horrible.”

“Uzi’d! I told you—KGB. I said it before and I’ll say it again, louder. Why you would want to get mixed up with those people, I don’t know. The old lady was an obvious suicide. You’re looking for trouble when you stick your nose into other people’s business—”

Wetzon’s eyes flicked over Smith. She was wishing Smith hadn’t used that turn of phrase when the buzzer from the lobby sounded. Wetzon jumped.

“I’ll get it,” Smith said, charging past Wetzon and pressing the intercom in the foyer. There was a garbled response. “Thank you, Tony. Send him up.”

“Were you expecting someone, Smith? I thought we were going to the office.”

Smith’s olive skin tones tinged a deep wine. “I have an appointment. I almost forgot,” she said. “Maybe you should go ahead.” She didn’t meet Wetzon’s eyes.

The doorbell rang. Mark came out of the kitchen. “Mark, be a sweetie and watch TV in your room till Mother finishes her meeting with Mr. Hodges.”

“Okay, that does it. I’m leaving,” Wetzon said. “Is my coat in here?” She put her hand on the brass knob of the closet door.

“No! No!” Smith pushed her away from the door. “Mark!”

The doorbell rang again.

Mark came running with Wetzon’s things. Smith took her coat, rushing her on with it. Wetzon, her scarf trailing, picked up her leather carryall and opened the outside door.

A tall man in rimless sunglasses, wearing an open tan trench coat, a brown suit, and a brown hat was waiting in the hall. He had just lit a cigarette and Wetzon saw a flash of gold lighter as his gloved hand went into his inside pocket.

Wetzon inhaled smoke and coughed.

“Sorry,” he said. His lips were a narrow line, almost not there, followed by a receding chin on a long neck with a pronounced Adam’s apple. He stepped back to let her out. Under his arm he carried a large manila envelope. He went into Smith’s apartment and closed the door behind him.

“Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry?” Wetzon grumbled, dropping her bag and leaning down to pull on her boots. Her scarf, wrapped loosely around her neck, pressed painfully against her bruises. She straightened to relieve the pressure. The edge of the scarf was caught in Smith’s door. She pulled at the scarf and the door opened a crack. The scarf came free.

“Did you bring it with you?” she heard Smith say.

Hodges had a gruff voice with a distinct Harvey Lacey Queens accent. “Hold your horses,” he said. The door clicked closed.