5.

“MURDER?” SHE REPEATED, staring at the closed elevator doors.

“Murder? Is that what you just said?” Wetzon had not even heard Smith come up behind her.

“Smith!” She spun around. Running through her mind was the musical refrain, he said murder he said, da da da dum, he said murder he said.

“Excuse me, Ms. Smith, Ms. Wetzon. Mr. Bird would like you to go up to the conference room now.” Maggie Gray, in her creamy beige silk, stood beside her desk motioning to them.

Who was murdered? Wetzon’s thoughts roiled. Who had died, except ... As they approached the staircase, the two workmen started down from the floor above. One carried the ladder, the other a large painting half covered by a dirty piece of canvas. Smith forged ahead, up the stairs, brushing between the men. The canvas was dislodged slightly, revealing an oil portrait of the late Goldie Barnes.

“The king is dead, long live the king,” Wetzon said.

Smith turned and looked down at her. “Whatever is the matter with you? Come on.”

The stairs led to a gallery that overlooked the floor below. On this floor were the penthouse, with the executive dining room, and the top executive offices. Only the same iron railing stood between the edge of the gallery and open space. Overhead was the skylight, through which the midday sun streamed, giving the area an inside-outside feeling. A Picasso from his Dada period—all angled, anxious edges—hung on the facing wall. Loud voices surged from the half-open door of the conference room.

Wetzon put her hand on Smith’s arm, slowing her.

Johnny Hoffritz’s voice, with its succulent Alabama rhythms, was unmistakable. “... couldn’t go quietly ... you’d know he’d try one more time to fuck us up.”

“Well, you could hardly expect him to go quietly.” Destry Bird’s accent was strictly upper-class Virginia, fine old family. Someone guffawed, then Destry continued, “Better this way—”

“For us.”

“Ladies ...”

Smith and Wetzon, caught eavesdropping, started. They were now confronted by a royal corpulence, a grossly fat man in an immaculate gray pinstripe and crisp white shirt, the costume of an investment banker or broker.

Wetzon recognized him immediately as the man who had been sitting to Goldie Barnes’s left at the banquet.

The fat man’s breath came in short puffy pants, as if he’d run up the staircase, which he probably had, and under his arm he carried a flat leather portfolio. Emitting a stale minty odor, he attached himself to Wetzon’s elbow, she being closer to his height than the formidable Smith, who was at least a head taller. Thus, he walked Wetzon right into the conference room, with an amused Smith bringing up the rear.

“Ah, there you are. Good. Let’s get going here. “ Hoffritz was seated, tilting back in the big leather chair at the head of the walnut conference table, his lanky body draped territorially—in Goldie’s chair. On the wall beyond his head was a big empty spot, a shade lighter than the rest of the room, where a large painting had once hung. With his small head and receding chin, there was something of the praying mantis about Johnny Hoffritz. His hazel eyes were wide apart and hooded by fine, almost transparent, lids. A cigarette lay disintegrating in the cup of black coffee, which he pushed rudely aside. “More coffee all around ... Chris?” His hand made a lazy flick in Chris Gorham’s direction.

Gorham’s high-cheekboned face flushed red up to his too-short, sand-colored hair. Jaw tightening, he rose, hardly acknowledging Smith or Wetzon, and left the room. He was obviously low man on this totem pole.

“Take a seat,” Destry drawled to Smith and Wetzon. He shook hands with the fat man without getting up. “Doctor—” Destry had straight brown hair neatly side-parted and round shiny cheeks, almost baby-smooth facial skin, and a small pink cupid’s-bow mouth. A crooked, bumped nose barely kept him from looking effeminate.

Smith plopped herself down next to Johnny Hoffritz, of course. It was easy to see who the new fuhrer was. With Goldie gone, she might be able to make some personal inroads.

The fat doctor, whoever he was, lowered his massive bulk into the chair next to Smith before Wetzon could, separating them. “I’m Dr. Ash, Carlton Ash.” He said it as if Wetzon should recognize his name. She smiled politely at him and he offered her a side of ham in the shape of a hand to shake. His breathing was laborious.

“Let’s get going.” Hoffritz thumped the table with the flat of his hand. “Neil, will you get the fuck off the goddam phone.” He pulled a cigarette from a pack and stuck it, unlit, into the corner of his mouth.

Neil Munchen, dark-haired, dark-eyed, sporting an early suntan and a bruised cheekbone, looked decidedly ethnic next to the others. He hung up the phone and sat next to Wetzon, giving her a nod. His heavy gold Rolex winked at her from under his crisp white shirt cuff.

Reaching into a vest pocket, Dr. Ash removed a small inhalator and, pressing one nostril at a time, inhaled a mint-scented spray.

Chris returned, followed by a white-haired black man in a black suit who carried a silver tray of cups and a large decanter of coffee.

Looking around the room, Wetzon saw a particularly white-bread group, except for Neil Munchen. Quite a difference from the way Goldie Barnes had run Luwisher Brothers in his heyday, she thought. Goldie believed ethnics had more hunger in their bellies.

“Get the door, Dougie.” Dougie was Douglas Culver, head of financial services, a thick-waisted good ole Georgia boy, with a slow smile and a quick mind.

The particular, and most attractive, essence of Luwisher Brothers was that everyone produced; that is, everyone had clients and did the business of stockbroker-financial advisor along with his other duties. That meant partners, managers, department heads, all carried their own weight.

“I’ll lay it out,” Hoffritz said after all the cups were filled except Wetzon’s, who passed on caffeine. “And y’all jump in where you will. Everyone here knows Smith and Wetzon. They’re supposed to be recruiting brokers for us, but we haven’t seen much from them lately.’’

How attractive, Wetzon thought. All right. Smith wanted to talk, she’d let Smith handle this hot potato. And she had no doubt that Smith could, too. No one messed with Smith more than once.

Smith looked around the table, flashing everyone a dazzling smile. “Gentlemen, I don’t have to tell you what the climate is like on the Street now. You want big producers? Pay them the upfront dollars that other firms are paying.”

“We don’t buy brokers. It’s a privilege to be invited to work here.” Destry was spouting the company line.

“There aren’t very many big producers anymore; they’ve become a rare and vanishing breed since the Crash in ’87, and they want to be rewarded for the fact that they’re doing so well in such an uncertain climate. Brokers are nervous, insecure. They are worried about making a move and not being able to transfer accounts.” She looked at Wetzon.

“That’s right,” Wetzon said, picking up the ball. “I interview hundreds of brokers every week, and we know the quality you want at Luwisher Brothers. We would never show you anyone who wasn’t top quality.” She let her eyes float around the table. “Of course if you want to see brokers with problems on their U4s, or who build production by churning—”

“That depends on the problem, doesn’t it? We can look at each case individually. I suppose, sooner or later, every broker is going to have a complaint of some sort.” Destry looked at Hoffritz, who nodded. It was rumored that Destry Bird had had his license suspended for two months when he was with Marcus, Jones in Richmond.

“Let’s talk about this so-called climate, if we may?” Dr. Ash put his question to Wetzon. He pursed his lips, puffing as he spoke. His belly pressed against the table edge.

“The climate is the erratic nature of the market,” Smith said.

“For the first time, brokers are looking for long-term security,” Wetzon added. “Money, stable firms, nonpressured environments.”

“Yes,” Dr. Ash puffed. “Good, good.” He nodded to Hoffritz.

Hoffritz smiled without parting his lips, exercising the unlit cigarette, which began to droop. “Shall we discuss the new profile of the Luwisher broker? We’d like to see as many of these people as you can show us.”

“Just get them over here and we’ll close them,” Destry said.

Neil Munchen stared into his coffee and looked glum.

“Okay, Carl?”

Dr. Ash took a sheet of paper out of his portfolio and slid it across Smith to Hoffritz, who squinted at the page.

Smith cleared her throat daintily and looked at Wetzon, who took a legal pad and a pen from her briefcase.

“We want to see brokers who are married, with children, with responsibilities like mortgages, private schools. Good producers grossing two-fifty or three hundred.”

Wetzon stopped writing. This was weird. While most brokers had heavy responsibilities, how could a firm eliminate from consideration the younger broker? It didn’t make any sense.

“And we’d like to see some women—don’t tell me you girls can’t come up with some.” He dropped the mangled cigarette into his cup.

Smith’s smile froze on her face. Wetzon could almost read her mind. “Girls” was a red flag, especially to Smith. Wetzon looked up but didn’t change her expression. Hoffritz didn’t even know when he was being insulting.

“And incidentally,” Hoffritz continued, “we’re putting Tom Keegen on this, too.”

“Tom Keegen!” Smith exploded, not even trying to keep her cool. Smith hated Tom Keegen, their major competitor. She had had a run-in with him years ago. “Everyone knows Keegen double-dips, and he’s doing it right here at Luwisher Brothers.”

“We’ve seen some good people through him lately,” Chris said.

Wetzon put her pen down. The smarmy bastard. Chris knew Tom Keegen was a dirtbag. Everyone knew. But on Wall Street now, if Muammar Kaddafi sent them brokers, they’d work with him. The times they were no longer changing—they had changed.

“We like his work,” Hoffritz said. “And we like your work, girls, so show us what you can do—”

The door to the conference was flung open with a tremendous burst of force and Ellie Kaplan stalked into the room. “What are you darling boys trying to get away with here?” She was a mess—wrinkled silk suit, her normally sleek gray hair disheveled, her face swollen and distorted—in no way like the chic woman in the glittery silver dress at the banquet. Ellie stopped in her tracks, staring at the spot on the wall beyond Hoffritz’s head and yowled, “What have you done with his portrait?”

“Now, Ellie darlin’—” Dougie jumped up and put his arm around her, stroking her back, and she burst into tears and threw her arms around him. Distaste overwhelmed his face.

Wetzon, instinctively rising to help Ellie Kaplan, caught the looks exchanged by the Gang of Four, because clearly, Neil Munchen was an outsider.

“Ah, Wetzon darlin’, maybe you can help poor old Ellie out to the ladies’ ...” Dougie’s voice drifted off. He peeled himself away from the devastated woman and thrust her bodily at Wetzon.

“Of course Wetzon will, won’t you, Wetzon?” Smith’s voice was filled with meaning.

The phone on the credenza began to ring, three short ones, a pause, and another three short rings. Neil picked it up. “Yeah?” He looked at Hoffritz and pointed the receiver at him. “For you.”

Hoffritz got up slowly and took the phone. “Yes. Well, you know what to say. No. Fuck it, just say we were shocked by Goldie Barnes’s untimely death and are finding it hard to believe that he was murdered.”

Ellie, shaking with emotion, leaned on Wetzon as they left the room. “Like hell,” she said.