The Big Killing

by Annette Meyers

  “Was the market hot today? Everybody in the boardroom seems really energized.”

  “The truth is,” Barry replied, sitting up, feet back on the floor, rolling down his shirtsleeves, “we don’t give a shit, excuse me, about the Dow, and the Big Board, or the other exchanges. We only care about the OTC market and specifically our stocks. That’s what I like about this place. We concentrate. We specialize. It’s where the big bucks are. This is where you make the big killing.”

  A skinny kid with acne scars stuck his head in the open doorway. “Any more orders for me, champ?”

  “Yeah, hold on there, let me write up old lady Zimmerman’s order.” Barry scribbled something quickly and added the last sheet, thrusting the pile at the order clerk. “Here you are, my son,” he said grandly, waving the thick stack of orders. “And these are only from the last hour.”

  “Bless you, father,” the clerk said, grabbing the orders and departing.

  From the boardroom came a blast of rock music and singing. When Barry and Wetzon came out of Barry’s office, everyone was boogying in the narrow aisles.

  “Man, do I need that drink,” Barry said.

  Over the squawk box Jake Donahue’s voice, raspy and deep: “A record day, boys and girls, so everyone gets five hundred extra bonus just for today’s work, and for the sales assistants, fifty.” There was a great shout. “Keep it up.”

  Barry quirked an eyebrow at Wetzon. “Not bad, huh? A far cry from Mother Merrill, who never even gave me a pat on the head when I opened more accounts than any rookie except Georgie in the Metro area.”

  “Generous of Jake to share that way,” Wetzon agreed.

  “He can afford to be,” Barry said without gratitude. “We make a lot of money for that guy. Where would he be without us? At least he knows that.”

  As they worked their way through the frenzied boardroom, they passed the sexy little sales assistant in the tight jeans who had directed Wetzon earlier. She was jiggling to the music, her hair flying, bosom bouncing. Barry slid his hand down her compact backside, and she grinned at him.

  “She’s a cute kid,” Wetzon said, trailing after Barry. “I guess she’s got a fun job working for all of you crazy brokers—”

  “Who, Margie?” Barry said over his shoulder. “You gotta be kidding. Margie isn’t a sales assistant, she’s a broker.”

  In spite of herself, Wetzon had been taken by surprise. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Yeah, she’s one of the biggest producers in the office. Last week she grossed over fifty thou, which means she kept about twenty-five for herself.”

  “I think I’m in the wrong business,” Wetzon had said, stunned.

  8

  “Tell me about yourself,” Silvestri said gruffly.

  Wetzon, startled out of her reverie, shivered. He was back where he had been, opposite her, his notebook out again. She wondered how long he had been there, watching her.

  “What do you want to know, specifically?” she asked, confused. She was very tired.

  “Who are you?” He had a nice smile and nice white teeth. He doesn’t smoke, she thought. How nice, he doesn’t smoke.

  “I’m Leslie Wetzon, I’m thirty-five, I grew up in South Jersey on a farm and came to New York to be a dancer.” She was looking at turquoise eyes again.

  “And now?”

  “I do executive search,” she said.

  He looked puzzled. “What does that mean?”

  “I’m a headhunter.” She reached into her purse and handed him her card.

  “A headhunter,” he said, studying her card, then slipping it into his notebook.

  “A headhunter. I work in the financial community, with a partner. We talk to stockbrokers and managers and persuade them to look at better situations with other firms. You might call me a matchmaker....”

  “And who pays you? The stockbroker?” The eyes went flat again.

  “No, the firms that hire them, our clients, when we make the introduction.”

  “Quite a long way from dancing. Are you good at it?”

  “Dancing or headhunting?” she asked, feeling a small stir of attraction, a tiny swirl of excitement she hadn’t felt in a long time. How curious. He was such an unlikely prospect. Prospect. God, even her language at rest was the language of her business.

  “Both,” he said with a quirky smile. Flash of turquoise.

  “Yes ... to both,” she said seriously, feeling drained.

  “You were telling me that you had met Barry Stark only three times,” Silvestri said, making a note in his notebook.

  “Yes ... counting today. The first time was also here at the Four Seasons.”

  “Do you normally interview people at a place like this?”

  “It has a cachet about it. Wealth. Power. Brokers are attracted to that. Someone who might not want to meet in a business office will come to the Four Seasons, and a personal meeting is very important—” She stopped. She had been about to say that she “owned” the broker after a personal meeting, but it didn’t sound right, and it wasn’t necessarily true. “A personal meeting,” she said, “cements the relationship. I’d been talking to Barry on the phone for months—”

  “How did you get to him in the first place?”

  Wetzon pursed her lips, closing her eyes in thought. How had she gotten to Barry Stark in the first place? Ah, yes. “Georgie Travers gave me his name. His friend, Georgie, who worked with him at Merrill—”

  “Georgie Travers? T-R-A-V-E-R-S?” Silvestri made another note.

  “But Georgie is not at Merrill anymore. He owns the Caravanserie. You know, the disco with the health club attached.”

  Silvestri nodded. “What is Georgie Travers like?”

  “I don’t know him at all. Just a couple of conversations on the phone. He had a terrible reputation—unauthorized trading, churning, burning people out on options ... there were rumors about drugs. I think Merrill finally fired him, or he quit before charges could be filed. I don’t remember exactly, and I never met Georgie. But I think he and Barry were close friends.”

  “You’ve never been to the Caravanserie?” Silvestri asked, dubious, writing in his notebook.

  “No,” Wetzon said, feeling defensive, but unable to think why. “Have you?’

  The tall, baggy-eyed detective returned. “Excuse me—”

  “Metzger?” Silvestri stood up but didn’t leave the table. They spoke in low voices. The sounds came to her floating through that long tunnel again. Very far away, growing farther.

  9

  The Caravanserie.

  She had taken Barry to Harry’s after meeting him at Jake Donahue’s that day. Harry’s was one of the favored watering places for stockbrokers in the Wall Street area. Everyone was pitching something, mostly himself, and everyone was celebrating his successful day or someone else’s disaster. It was a time for self-aggrandizement. And the numbers that were spoken of often came out of the air or someone’s very fertile imagination.

  Wetzon had always been amazed by the frenzied, almost hysterical voices and actions of all of these men, because there was definitely an abundance of men. It was as if the lunatics had been released from the asylum. So different from actors and dancers after performances. Actors and dancers, her people, preferred to cool out. The performance was a catharsis of a sort. Dancers did what they loved after a performance—they went dancing.

  For the stockbrokers and traders who came to Harry’s, Harry’s was the catharsis.

  “Hey, Barry, how’s it going, man?”

  Coming from bright light into the dimness, Wetzon had to blink several times to focus.

  “Hey, buddy,” Barry had said, “long time no see. How’s it going at Witter? You’re still there, aren’t you?” This last was said deprecatingly. “Buddy” was a short, very well-dressed young man with a deep wave in his light brown hair. It looked to Wetzon like a wave that had been made by a perm or a hair clip, helped along with setting lotion. A dip of hair fell across an unlined f
orehead.

  “Great, great. I’m having my biggest month. And I like Witter. It’s a great firm, and they’ve been good to me.”

  “Sure. Sure. I bet.”

  “What’re you pushing?”

  “Who’s your friend?”

  “Sorry, this is Wetzon, of Smith and Wetzon.” Barry laughed loudly. “This animal is Scott Fineberg.”

  Wetzon shook hands with Fineberg, not letting on that they had been talking for the past six months. On the telephone—they had never met. They had, in fact, been talking more seriously lately because Scott was ready to leave Dean Witter. He had made some record sales, upped his gross production 100 percent, but the firm still saw fit to treat him as if he weren’t there. He had to share a sales assistant with eight other brokers, so if he stepped out to the men’s room or to lunch with a client, or, heaven help him, he had a doctor’s or dentist’s appointment, chances were better than good that his phone would go unanswered.

  They had finally given him his own office, but it was a converted storage room, a small space hole without a window, and the trip to Paris which he should have received for the record-breaking numbers he had done in the past year had not been forthcoming. Since only two brokers in the Atlantic Region had qualified for the trip, management decided to reconsider awarding the trip this year. They were actually hedging with him, having offered him San Francisco instead.

  It was always amazing to Wetzon how foolish the firms were and how cheap. They would rather risk losing a broker than give him sales help so he could make more money for them. And the much-deserved pat on the back—in Scott’s case, the trip to Paris—they were being niggardly about.

  “Nice to meet you, Wetzon,” Scott Fineberg said, without a flicker of recognition.

  He was talking seriously to Oppenheimer and Paine Webber, introductions having been set up by Wetzon.

  “So what’re you selling, baby?” Barry asked impatiently. “What’re you drinking, Wetzon?”

  “Heineken.”

  “Two Heinekens over here,” Barry shouted over the clamor. The bar crowd was now three deep, and people were still pushing into Harry’s behind them.

  “I did sixty thou last month in this new government security fund we have.”

  “Jesus, sixty thou, that’s great!” Barry clapped Scott Fineberg on the back, then took the beers, passed over heads to them. “See you.” He turned abruptly and moved away from Fineberg; Wetzon followed, making eye contact with Fineberg briefly, nodding.

  “What a lying fucker,” Barry said. “Excuse the language, but that’s what he is. He’s not doing anywhere near those numbers. I know him. He couldn’t possibly be doing it.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because he’s a dumb mother who’s connected, and they just feed him business.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure, hey, everyone knows it. Believe me, take my word for it.”

  “Hey, man, good to see you. Some day, huh?”

  “How do you like Jake’s, Stark?” a whiskey-thick voice asked. The dense cigarette smoke and the muted lighting of the bar area made it difficult to see people until you walked into them, which was easy to do anyway since there were so many people milling around. You had to shout to be heard by the person standing at your shoulder. Wetzon wondered how the waiters could keep track of who ordered what, and how they were paying. At that point a waiter in a white apron held out a bill to the narrow bit of space between her and Barry.

  Barry ignored the check and bent to talk to the short, unattractive woman who had asked the question about Jake’s. Wetzon looked at the waiter holding out the bill and took it. “Thank you very much,” she said.

  “Not at all,” he mouthed, bowing slightly and disappearing into the smoke.

  “It’s great, Mildred, you oughta try it someday.” Barry’s laugh was snide.

  “Is he still pulling that pyramid scam?” Mildred asked, equally snide. Her face was more than homely, it was downright ugly. Leathery skin, splotchy, a small mustache on her wrinkled upper lip, under a very large hook of a nose. Even in the faint light, her eyes glinted with malevolence. “You’d better watch your step, Mr. Smart Ass.” She reached up and poked Barry’s chest with a bony finger.

  “Now, Mildred,” Barry said smoothly, looking down at her, “you wouldn’t want my friend here to think you were threatening me, would you?” Menace tinged his formerly genial voice. “And get your fucking finger out of my chest.”

  “I’m not threatening you, you little shit, I’m warning you. Cover your ass or Jake will chop you up in little pieces and flush you down the toilet.” She blew cigarette smoke in his face and moved away.

  Wetzon saw Barry’s fist clench in the darkness. He made a move after Mildred, and then stopped and shrugged.

  “God, who is that horror?” Wetzon asked, a hand on his arm. She could feel the tension through his coat sleeve.

  “Mildred Gleason. Jake Donahue’s ex.”

  So that was Mildred Gleason. One of Wall Street’s famous first ladies, Wetzon thought, and wouldn’t you know she’d be a gross woman who looked and talked like a man.

  “Boy, does she hate him,” Wetzon noted.

  “She has a right to, I guess.” Barry scowled. “She got him started. He used her money, then dumped her. He started as a broker at her father’s firm, married the boss’s daughter, took over the firm when the old man died, and changed the name to his. She gets pissed off when she even hears he’s hiring good people and making big money, making any money.”

  “But she has her own firm now, doesn’t she?”

  “Yeah, but I hear she’s not making money hand over fist like Jake’s doing. Jake’s raking it in. And she doesn’t get quoted all the time.” He laughed. “She can’t help being so mean, but I understand her. So I can say we’re friends of a sort. She’s just a little hard to take sometimes.” He was calming down.

  “What pyramid scam is she talking about?”

  “When some clients are put in a stock when it opens and others are put in when it’s run up, so the clients who get in at the bottom make the money and those who go in at the top make less—”

  “Or nothing.”

  “Or lose. But it all works out, believe me, because you give everybody a chance at one point or another to come in at the bottom, all except the creeps.”

  “What constitutes a creep?”

  “Someone who complains all the time that you’re not making enough money for him. Stuff like that.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s fair,” Barry said. She looked at him doubtfully. “Well, it’s as fair a shot as you’re going to get in the new-issues market anywhere.”

  “Even at Jake Donahue’s?”

  “Yeah.” He was only half-listening now. Barry, the social animal, was checking everyone out, his eyes darting everywhere with a kind of nervous intensity. They’d finished their beers, and Barry had stopped to talk with another broker to give him a tip on a new issue. Wetzon found a waiter and paid for the drinks.

  “Come on,” Barry said, “I’ll give you a ride uptown. Where’re you going?” He hailed a cab right outside Harry’s with a piercing whistle.

  “West Eighty-sixth Street.”

  “Good, then you can drop me.” He held the door for her, his assumption being that she would have taken a cab to get uptown anyway. But she would not have. She would have gone down into the pit of the IRT and subwayed home. A cab ride cost upward of twenty dollars, and Wetzon worked too hard for her money to throw it away on a cab ride on a nice day.

  “Where to?” the driver asked, bored. A pair of dice dangled from his rear view mirror and a small statue of the Virgin Mary sat on top of the dashboard. The radio played hard rock.

  “Sixty-fifth and York.” Barry turned to Wetzon. “I’m going to the Caravanserie. Great place. You been there yet?”

  “Not yet. I know your friend, Georgie Travers, owns it.”

  “Yeah, I’m the charter member. Got the
first card ever issued.”

  “What exactly do you get for membership, besides a card?”

  “The health club, the racquet ball and squash courts, the pool, and let us not forget the disco. The disco is the best.”

  “You’re going to work out now?”

  “Not yet. Georgie uses the disco for networking sessions before disco hours. He has them once a month, from six to seven-thirty. I’m going to one right now. You want to come with me? It’s not your crowd tonight, it’s the entertainment industry, you know, show business.”

  She smiled at him. “You’re right, not my crowd. What does Georgie charge for this?”

  “Six bucks, with an invitation. I’ve made more contacts there than anywhere else, all business of course. You interested?”

  “I can’t tonight—”

  “I’ll get you on the list.” Barry spoke with a kind of self-important generosity. “A lot of brokers go there. I’ve opened a lot of big accounts through these sessions.”

  They were on First Avenue. Barry leaned forward. “You can drop me at Sixty-fifth Street and take the little lady ... where did you say?”

  “Eighty-sixth and Columbus.”

  “Yeah,” Barry said vaguely. He did not offer to pay the fare. “See ya.” He’d gotten out of the cab without looking back.

  And Wetzon had not seen him again until today.

  She put her hand over her eyes. She was having a hard time keeping them open. She could feel her head drooping. She put her head on her arms on the table. She felt a hand on her shoulder, a warm hand through her suit jacket.

  “I’m sorry,” Silvestri said gently. His breath brushed her ear. “Why don’t I get one of my men to take you home, and I’ll talk with you in the morning.”

  She forced her eyes open and tried to smile at him. “Yes. No,” she said. “I’m sorry. I can’t seem to get myself together.”

  “What’s your address?” He waved an arm and a young boy in a uniform came to the table. “This is Officer Lyons. Jimmy, I want you to take Ms. Wetzon home.” He took some keys from his inside pocket and handed them to Lyons. “You know which is mine?” Lyons nodded. “I’d like to talk with you first thing in the morning, Ms. Wetzon ... if you don’t mind. Can you come to the precinct about ten o’clock?”