The Big Killing

by Annette Meyers

  And she couldn’t, which is why she did some quick schedule juggling now in her head. “Hold on a minute, Barry, let me see what I can do. What time do you want to meet? Would five be all right?”

  “Five would be great. It’ll take me about a half-hour to get uptown. Where do you want to meet?”

  “The Four Seasons,” Wetzon said. “Go in on the Fifty-second Street entrance between Park and Lexington, go up the stairs on the left. Remember, when you get to the top of the stairs, on your right is the bar and on your left are some chairs. I’ll be there.”

  “Okay,” Barry said, “I remember. Where we met before.” His voice was still strange, almost a whisper.

  “Are you all right, Barry?”

  “Something’s happened,” he said. “They’re—I’ll tell you later—” He hung up.

  Wetzon sighed, replacing the receiver. Poor Barry must have run into a compliance problem. He just had to cut corners, couldn’t follow the rules. He’d made a lot of money very quickly, and he was probably still under thirty. He always seemed to live life on the brink, craving action all the time; it was like a drug, and he saw himself as a wheeler-dealer who could make his own deals. Even the Crash hadn’t toned him down.

  But Wetzon, from her vantage point, saw that Barry was on an ego trip. He’d make mistakes, and one day he’d make a bad one and blow himself and his clients out. He had self-destruct written all over him.

  Three years ago, when she’d first met him, he had bounded up the stairs of the Four Seasons like a jock, almost larger than life, late. Very tall, over six feet, dark brown curly hair in ringlets almost to his shoulders, cleft chin. He looked like a Greek god in a gray pinstriped suit.

  “So talk to me, Wetzon,” he’d boomed. “What’ve you got?”

  She smiled, remembering how people had stared.

  Smith banged down the phone.

  “More excuses?” Wetzon asked.

  “The check is in the mail,” Smith said, turning, smiling crookedly. “I think Frank has a problem. Booze or drugs. I don’t know which, but he has these deep depressions and then these highs. Sometimes he doesn’t even make sense.” She shook her head. It was a fact of life that drugs were rampant on the Street.

  “Listen,” Wetzon said. “Last time I talked with Roger, he said things were not going smoothly there, that Frank had promised him his own sales assistant, and a cold caller, and none of that has been forthcoming, plus they’re so disorganized about everything, he can’t seem to break through. He doesn’t even know whom he’s supposed to deal with on any level. What do we do if he doesn’t stay and they still haven’t paid us?”

  “We sue them,” Smith said, grinning.

  “Oh, not again,” Wetzon groaned.

  They had been fabulously lucky with their lawsuits, and the settlements always included legal fees, but Smith had this penchant for suing, which made Wetzon extremely uncomfortable. Smith was a superb negotiator, and they had always won. They had been so successful that their clients now paid them on time, and those who were sued for nonpayment were not kept on as clients. The only trouble was that lawsuits drag on forever, and Leon and Smith seemed to enjoy the legal skirmishes so much. But Leon, their lawyer, always got paid, one way or the other, so why wouldn’t he enjoy it? If they had to sue Boyd & Boyd and Frank Farnham for the money, it might take a year. Their fee was twenty thousand dollars, and they’d probably have to settle for less.

  “What time is our first interview tomorrow?” Smith asked Harold, who shuffled in, slurping a Chipwich.

  “Mmmph, nine o’clock,” he mumbled, “with a Bailey Balaban, who just graduated from Boston University.” Chipwich debris clung to his beard.

  “Any brokers this afternoon?” Smith asked Wetzon.

  “Yes, Barry Stark.”

  Smith grumbled loudly. “Not again.”

  “I couldn’t say no to him, Smith,” Wetzon said. “He really sounded terrible.”

  “Did he cheat a little old lady out of her life savings again, or maybe they finally got him for dealing drugs. Wetzon, why do you—”

  “I know, I know ... why do I let myself be used,” Wetzon finished. “I know. I can’t help it. I was going to take a dance class, so I’m not canceling something important, and what if he’s really in trouble this time?”

  “What if he is? What the hell can you do for him?”

  “And Barry didn’t cheat the old lady,” Wetzon added. “His friend, Georgie Travers, did.”

  “Humpf,” Smith said. “No difference. They’re all alike.”

  3

  Twenty minutes later, Wetzon pulled the heavy oak door to her office closed behind her, listening for the click of the lock. She walked up the four brick steps to the sidewalk, a small, slim woman with a graceful dancer’s walk. Her ash-blond hair was still up in a smooth knot on top of her head. All of which, with her sharp chin and nose and long, slim neck, might have made the overall impression she gave a cold one, but it wasn’t. She had sparkling gray eyes and a wide smile, full of good humor. With her dark gray double-breasted suit she wore a bright red silk blouse and a flowing cashmere scarf of a lighter gray. The effect was smart without being ostentatious. She carried a small black envelope handbag. She had left her briefcase in the office, deciding that this meeting with Barry was hardly a business one.

  It was one of those borderline late March days, not yet fully spring and no longer winter. She walked past the two brownstones on Forty-ninth Street between Second and Third, hoping to catch a glimpse of Hepburn, who lived in one, or, second best, Steve Sondheim, who lived in the other. She was always a fan, had never outgrown it. She had known Sondheim a long time ago when she had danced in a revival of West Side Story, but he probably would not remember her. Hepburn she had never met.

  She turned right on Third Avenue and walked up to Fifty-second Street, turned left, and crossed the street. It was hard to spot the Four Seasons, even when you knew it was there, because the only marking was a flat, unobtrusive brown awning. It always made her think of the story of the restaurant so “in” that it did not publish its phone number.

  Smith and Wetzon were regulars. They had put their company together over drinks at the Four Seasons, and now they met there for anniversary dinners, client lunches, and drinks with candidates.

  “Hi, Ms. Wetzon,” the young man at the coat check said when he saw her. “How are you today?”

  “Great, J.P.,” Wetzon said. “As you can see, no coat, and I’m always great when spring is here.”

  She looked at her watch and veered left for the ladies’ room. She had time to stop and check her makeup.

  A tiny middle-aged woman was perched on the sofa, feet barely touching the floor, going through what looked like an ancient address book; the only other occupant was in front of the row of dressing tables with their theatrical bulb mirrors, doing an extensive eye makeup. The blonde doing her eyes looked at Wetzon in the mirror, automatically sized her up, and then ignored her. The middle-aged woman wore a business suit and had the obligatory briefcase next to her on the sofa. She did not look up, and Wetzon sat down at one of the dressing tables and eyed herself in the mirror.

  She took a Kleenex from the box on the wall and blotted any imagined dust from her smooth skin. In the next room a toilet flushed, a door opened and closed, hands were washed, and probably some of the offered skin creams or lotions were accepted. Coins rang on the plate, and a tall, attractive woman appeared. The very high heels she wore added to her height, and her shoulder-length hair was burnished copper, distinctive and unusual. She wore a black hat with a wide, rolled brim and large dark glasses. Her clothing was loose and silky, and she had a dark mink coat over her shoulders. She quickly checked her full-length image in the mirror by the door and left in a flurry of lily-of-the-valley scent. Dior’s, perhaps. The woman on the sofa softly cleared her throat. Her eyes met Wetzon’s in Wetzon’s mirror. Sisters. They both thought: This gal does not work for a living, at least not our kind of work. They
smiled at each other.

  Wetzon touched up her lipstick lightly and stood. It was about five, and Barry Stark was either there already or would arrive any minute. She brushed the shoulders and arms of her suit jacket, pulled her hose up from her ankles, glanced at her image in the long mirror, and headed for the stairs to meet Barry.

  On the wall outside the ladies’ room was a large color photograph of trees in spring, and upstairs on her left, as she came to the top of the stairs, were the potted trees, also springlike, showing buds. The young men and women who worked in the restaurant were all in their spring uniforms: pale salmon jackets with brown pants. They looked fresh and bright. At her left, three chairs were arranged under the potted trees. Barry was not there.

  To her right, beyond the stairs, was the large bar, a square with rounded edges, jammed with people as it usually was at this time of day. And noisy. Everyone was trying to let everyone else know what a lot of fun he was having. She caught a fleeting glimpse of the woman with the dark glasses and the bright hair in animated conversation with a large man at one of the side tables near the bar.

  Turning back toward the chairs, she walked smack into Leon Ostrow, their attorney.

  “Well, for heaven’s sake, Wetzon,” Leon said, shading his eyes with his hand, looking down at her. His glasses were, as always, on the tip of his nose, giving him an absentminded, professorial air.

  “Leon, what a surprise,” Wetzon said. “How are you?”

  “Fine, fine,” Leon said heartily, pushing his glasses up higher on his nose.

  “What are you doing here?” He moved slightly to her left, standing between her and the bar area.

  “Meeting a broker, of course. And you?”

  “A client, of course. I would have you join us while you’re waiting, but ...” He glanced furtively over her shoulder at the bar.

  “No, thanks anyway,” she said. “My appointment will be here any minute. I was about to sit down over there.” She pointed to the chairs under the potted trees.

  Placing his hand on her shoulder a little more firmly than necessary, Leon steered her to the chairs.

  “We have to have dinner one of these days soon,” he said benignly and ambled away toward the bar, a very tall, awkwardly thin man with a slight stoop.

  Wetzon shrugged. Always a little weird, Leon was, but a good lawyer.

  Leon Ostrow had been Smith and Wetzon’s first step to their own business. He had drawn up their partnership agreement and arranged for their incorporation. They had each known him through another source and trusted him implicitly. Leon was primarily an attorney who handled small businesses, corporations and partnerships, and real estate cases, and when Wetzon and Smith had listed all the people they knew who were lawyers, his name had appeared on both lists. He donated legal services to artists and artistic causes, and Wetzon had met him when she was involved with a group trying to save two Broadway theaters from destruction. Smith had met him when she worked as head of personnel for the Gordonflow Corporation. She had consulted him when her building was going co-op.

  Wetzon looked across to the bar area hoping to catch sight of his client, or clients, but it had gotten very crowded.

  The heavily made-up blonde glided up the stairs, looking for someone. She turned toward the bar and was greeted by a great whoop from two of the conservatively suited habitants. She smiled, posed a moment, and then walked a slightly swaybacked walk toward them.

  Wetzon viewed the Grill Room in front of her: large comfortable chairs, fine leather, or perhaps top-quality Naugahyde, on metal bases. Spacious chairs for spacious bottoms, she thought. At this hour the tables were not accounted for, but at lunch, all the most successful men of New York had their appointed places here.

  Martin, the very English maître d’ of the Grill Room, had just come on, and he was bustling around, a dapper standout in his black bow tie. He spotted her, as he spotted everyone, and waved.

  Barry suddenly materialized, rapidly mounting the stairs on her left. He looked half-crazed, even frightened, she thought with dismay, and he was disheveled—for him. She perceived this only because she knew him. Anyone else who saw him would see a handsome young man in dark glasses, above average in height, wearing a beautifully cut dark blue pinstripe suit, white shirt with French cuffs, and a dark blue and red rep tie. A young man in a hurry. He was carrying a large attaché case. He did not take off his dark glasses, and as he neared her, Wetzon saw the reddish bruise on his jaw and the cut lip.

  “I know I’m late,” he said in an oddly normal voice, not his usual booming decibels, his head turning from side to side, not really looking at her, surveying the room, the bar area. “I left the office early, but I had to—they’re watching me.” He was breathing hard and his curly hair fell over his forehead. He shook her hand energetically and winced. She looked down at his hand. His knuckles were raw and red.

  “You look terrible,” Wetzon said.

  “I know,” he said unhappily. “All I wanted to do was to get my life together and now I’m in over my head.”

  With alacrity, Martin arrived at their side. “The balcony?” the maître d’ asked, knowing Wetzon preferred this area for its privacy.

  “Yes,” Barry said, before Wetzon had a chance to answer.

  The Grill Room was really three separate areas. The bar area itself was cut off from the main Grill Room by large smoky Lucite panels. These “shields” were not more than five feet high, just enough to cut off the bar and its noisy sportmakers from the more conservative crowd who preferred the main Grill Room.

  At the back of the Grill Room was a wall of rosewood paneling, and on either side, a staircase of a dozen or so steps leading up to an open balcony with two long rows of tables overlooking the main room. The balcony had the best view of the entire area. From this location you could see anyone coming or going.

  Barry put his hand on her elbow as they climbed the stairs, an odd, almost quaint thing for him to do. The last man who had done that was a very courtly, older Broadway producer who had taken Wetzon to dinner several times and had wanted to make an arrangement with her. She smiled at the memory.

  They sat at one of these tables, Martin pulling out the chairs for them.

  “The usual?” Martin asked Wetzon, smiling at her with his eyes.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “What can I get for you?” he asked Barry.

  “A Bloody Mary,” Barry said, with a short laugh.

  Martin left them and with dispatch, a salmon-jacketed young man brought a small plate of salted nuts.

  Barry was always hyper, but Wetzon had never seen him so agitated. His hands were shaking as he reached for the nuts. And he was continually scanning the floor below, checking everyone who came or left the Grill Room. He winced when the salt of the nuts touched his cut lip.

  “What’s with the shades?” she asked lightly.

  “I had to see you,” Barry said, ignoring her question. “I need a favor.” He lifted the dark glasses and then lowered them quickly, giving her a fast look at a very bruised eye. She flinched.

  “Okay, I’m here. What’s the problem?”

  “It’s a long story.” He sighed, brushing his hair back nervously. “Oh, God, look at my hands,” he said. “I worked it all out—I had it made.” He sounded almost boastful. He banged the table with his fist, his voice rising defiantly. “I don’t know how he got on to me—”

  “Barry,” Wetzon said, trying to soothe, “just tell me what—”

  “Oh, shit,” Barry said, losing his bravura, holding his head in his hands. “You know, Jake runs pretty much on I.P.O.s,” he said.

  “I know, but that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, I wanted to learn that end of the business, because I figured that’s where the big money was to be made over the next few years.”

  Barry always had a new theory about where and how to make the big money. First it was in the over-the-counter market, then takeover stocks, the success of which w
as often dependent on insider information. Now, it was I.P.O.s, Initial Public Offerings—new issues—which is what he had at Jake Donahue’s.

  “I really thought I had it made this time.” His laugh was bitter. “In this business you can never know too much, but for once, I think I do....”

  “Barry, will you tell me what this is all about?”

  “I’m dead,” he said. “I—”

  Their drinks arrived on a small brown tray with a salmon-colored napkin placed under each drink. Without waiting for the salmon jacket to leave, Barry took a great gulp of his drink.

  “Do you know what repos are?”

  “Something to do with government securities, but I’m not sure,” Wetzon replied. His agitation was making her uneasy.

  “Well, they’re repurchase agreements. We, and other houses like us, sell governments to banks, municipalities, and private customers and then we agree to buy them back later at a profit for the bank or city—it’s called repurchase— or, we reverse that and buy their government securities when they need to raise cash, and they can repurchase them from us at some designated time in the future. You get it?”

  “In other words, the firm sells government securities to someone and then buys them back at a higher price on a date both parties agree to in advance.”

  “Yeah, somewhere between thirty and two hundred seventy days after. The difference in the price is how the customer gets his piece of the profits. And a reverse repo is when we buy the security from the client and agree to sell it back to him later.” He scooped up a fistful of nuts from the small dish and pushed them compulsively into his mouth.

  “Okay.”

  “Look, you know me. I never hold it against a guy if he can make money,” Barry said. “It’s that I’m curious. I’d like a piece of it if I can get it.” He almost smiled. “I listen. I stay late. I poke around. I want to know what’s going on. That’s the way I learn.”