The Big Killing

by Annette Meyers

  She remembered how closely Barry had held her elbow as they climbed the stairs to the balcony at the Four Seasons. He could have slipped it into her pocket then. Very easily, as a matter of fact.

  She put the matchbook on the bedside table. She’d think about it tomorrow. She couldn’t think of one more thing tonight. She picked up her handbag, considered taking one of those aspirins the doctor had given her, then decided against it and hung her bag on the doorknob.

  She turned out the light, crept back into bed, and slid down under the covers. She took two or three deep breaths, and then she slept.

  The next thing she knew, she was on the Floor of the New York Stock Exchange, thinking; What the hell am I doing here? But everyone was shouting, and no one seemed to be paying any attention to her.

  She was still wearing her gray pinstriped suit, and a man came toward her, a name tag on his lapel, carrying an extra large, dripping ice cream cone. As he came closer, she saw it was strawberry. Who eats strawberry ice cream anymore? she thought. And what’s he doing on the Floor with such a huge ice cream cone anyway? She was sure it wasn’t allowed. And as she thought that, he walked right into her, and the strawberry ice cream fell in a red glob on the left front of her suit jacket.

  “They’re searching your gym clothes,” he said, winking familiarly. He seemed genuinely upset, taking off his white coat. Why was he wearing a white coat? He began to smear the strawberry ice cream on her breast. She pushed him away, but they kept getting tossed about by the surging humanity around them, yelling stock quotes and waving arms in the air.

  She was usually very turned on by the activity on the Floor, but not today. Today she was very angry. She didn’t know what she was doing there, and now she’d gotten her clothing in a mess, which was something that never happened to her.

  “You got strawberry ice cream all over me,” she said peevishly.

  “It’s not strawberry,” he said, wiping her with the sleeve of his white coat. “It’s rocky road.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said, “who cares.”

  The man looked grieved. “Okay, okay,” he said, “you don’t have to get touchy with me.”

  She began dabbing at the mess with a Wash ’n Dri which she found in her hand. She looked down and saw that she was wearing a leotard under her suit.

  “My God,” she said, “what’s going on?” As if in response, Smith came through the crowd of screaming traders on the Floor as natural as could be, wearing her crimson-and-black flowing robe.

  “Smith,” she called, waving and jumping up and down. “I’m so glad to see you. Get me out of this!”

  “What are you doing here? This is very unfair of you,” Smith said, scolding. “You don’t belong here. This is my territory. And besides, the closing bell is about to go off.”

  And just that second, as she said it, it did. But it didn’t stop as it always did. It just kept on ringing, and ringing, and ringing.

  Wetzon woke to the sound of the telephone.

  Moaning, she inched one arm out from under the covers. The pain was unbelievable. No breaks, huh, Doctor? Little do you know. The blasted phone persisted. Her head ached. She grabbed the whole phone and pulled it under the covers with her. She picked up the receiver, squeezed her eyes shut, and waited.

  “Wetzon? Wetzon, are you there? Answer me!”

  “Hello, Smith.” Even talking hurt.

  “You sound ghastly, Wetzon.”

  “We were in an accident after we left you last night—in the Park. Someone stole Barry’s attaché case.”

  “Are you damaged?” The toughness in Smith’s voice disappeared.

  “Only slightly.”

  “Good. Where was the wonderful Silvestri?”

  “He was wounded in the arm.”

  “This is beginning to sound dangerous, Wetzon. I don’t like it.”

  “And I do? Jesus Christ, Smith, someone’s been murdered. Of course it’s dangerous.” Smith was incredibly irritating.

  “There’s a purpose to my call, Wetzon. I want you to listen carefully,” Smith said, ignoring her partner’s bad temper.

  Wetzon gritted her teeth. “What time is it?”

  “Nine,” Smith said. “Listen carefully to me. When we finish talking, put your answering machine on. Then go back to sleep. You sound terrible. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Wait. What’s going on?”

  “Your picture is on the front page of all three papers, and very enlarged in the Post and the News. You’re being called the mystery woman in the case.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, yes. And someone else is bound to recognize you.”

  “My phone is unlisted.”

  “Don’t be naive. Do you really think that will help?” Smith said impatiently. “We’ll talk later ... when you’re really awake.”

  Wetzon mentally played back someone else is bound to recognize you. “Wait, don’t hang up,” Wetzon groaned. “What do you mean, someone else?”

  “I mean,” Smith said, “you had a call about fifteen minutes ago from Mildred Gleason.”

  15

  Wetzon pulled on her white terry robe and limped down the hall to the dining room, where she kept her answering machine. The phone began to ring just as she turned it on to auto answer. Shivering, she waited to hear who it was. The apartment always had an early morning chill because she kept the radiators turned off, and it took a little time before the sun took over.

  It was a reporter from the News. Well, it hadn’t taken them long to find her. The reporter very crisply left his name, Calvin Sperling, and two phone numbers.

  She leaned against the arched doorway, eyeing her barre warily. In her condition, even with her strong will, she didn’t have the nerve.

  The phone rang again. It was Silvestri. He left his name and what he called his direct number. She didn’t feel like talking to him, either, so she let the tape run and he hung up.

  She went into the kitchen. The sun streamed through the dusty window, fine New York City dust here, mixed with a little black soot, and her chipper little basil plant was bending toward the light like an acquiescent woman.

  She took the apple juice out of the refrigerator and poured herself a small glass.

  The phone rang again. She listened to the voice of Teddy Lanzman, an old friend who worked at Channel 8 local news. She hadn’t seen him in a long time.

  “Wanna talk, old buddy?” he was saying. There was a long pause. She knew that he knew she was listening. “Okay.” He sounded disappointed. “Call me when you feel like.”

  She steered herself to the front door and waited, alert, then opened the peephole very quietly. Nothing. Just regular noise from the other apartments on the floor and the sound of the elevator on another floor.

  She unlocked both locks and the chain, opened the door a crack, reached down awkwardly, gritting her teeth through the pain, took the newspapers from the mat, and pulled them in. Shit, there was a picture on the front page of the Times of her coming out of the Four Seasons with Jimmy Lyons, with her hand up in front of her eyes, looking as if they were taking her in for the murder. And there was the beginning of the story, STOCKBROKER MURDERED, to be continued in the B Section, page 35. She sat down on one of the stools in the kitchen and began opening vitamin bottles: one 2,000-unit C, one 400-unit capsule dry E, two calcium pills, and two bee pollen for extra energy—her daily fix.

  “I really need you guys today/’ she said, popping them into her mouth one at a time and swallowing with the apple juice. Her forehead felt stiff and tender where the cut was healing.

  She opened the paper. The phone rang again.

  “Wetzon”—Smith again—”pick up if you can hear me.”

  Wetzon picked up and said, “Hold on, I’m here.” She waited until Smith responded, then turned off the answering machine. It made a small coo-coo noise, as it always did. And even today, it made her laugh. Even today. Well, why not? She needed the laugh more today than she usually did.


  “How are you feeling now?” Smith demanded.

  “I’m up and moving. Slowly.”

  “Silvestri called here,” Smith said. “He wants you to come to the precinct at four. Something about a statement.”

  “I guess I have to do that ...” she said wearily.

  “Why don’t I pick you up around three and go over with you?” Smith said it so casually that Wetzon’s ears tingled.

  “You don’t have to do that; I’m a big girl.”

  “Oh, I’d like to,” Smith said, “after what you’ve been through ... and besides, I’m having dinner with Silvestri tonight.” She giggled suggestively.

  Wetzon was silent for a moment, sad about this turn of events. “Aha,” she said. “I knew there was more to it. I was sure he had a thing about you. And you, you were turning on the charm. It was that thick.”

  “How did you know he was interested?” Smith asked sharply. “Tell me.” It was as if Wetzon had never confided in her that she—Wetzon—was attracted to Silvestri. Could Smith have possibly forgotten?

  “Oh, all the questions he was asking about you in the car, before the accident.”

  Smith’s voice came back tense: “What kind of questions? What did you tell him?”

  “What do you mean, what kind of questions? Whether you were married, that kind of question. What do you think I would tell him?” She was puzzled by Smith’s reaction. But then Smith was eccentric and reacted in peculiar ways to what appeared to Wetzon to be simple events.

  Smith laughed now, a hooting, triumphant laugh. “A lot of things are happening,” she said. “Guess who called us and wants to talk about a search?” She loved playing I’ve-got-a-secret, and usually Wetzon went along. At this moment, however, Wetzon was tired and irritated. Probably because of Silvestri. Smith liked conquests, but Silvestri was a detour for her. She usually went after men with a lot of money—money and power. What did Silvestri have? Easy.

  Power. And she, Wetzon, had found him attractive in spite of it. Wetzon was not attracted to men because of power, or money for that matter. So was Smith competing with Wetzon? And if so, why?

  “Well?” Smith said. “Did you fall asleep? Aren’t you going to guess?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Wetzon had tuned out. Now she was annoyed with herself for feeling resentful. It was petty of her. If Silvestri liked Smith, he liked Smith, and Wetzon wasn’t going to make any difference. “I don’t know. Tell me.”

  “Weinberger Brothers.” She was very excited. It was an account she’d been trying to land for two years.

  “Wow! Okay, I’m impressed. Why do you suppose—”

  “We’ve been summoned to lunch with them on Tuesday. Actually, they wanted to meet Monday, but I put them off till Tuesday because I didn’t know how you’d feel.”

  “You could have gone alone.”

  “But, my dear, they specifically asked that we both be there.” There was an odd coolness in the way Smith spoke that indicated she was not happy that they had asked for Wetzon to be there. Wetzon shrugged it off. Smith considered all clients her territory and didn’t like to be thwarted. Well, too bad. For once Wetzon felt a small thrill of pleasure that Smith didn’t always get to have everything her way.

  “That’s really very nice, Smith. I’m sure I’ll be fine by next week. Wait a minute ... what’s today ... I’ve lost track.”

  “Wednesday.”

  “Well, forget my staying home. Carlos comes today. In fact, he should be here any minute, and he’ll be nosy as hell if he’s seen the papers.”

  “Are you sure you feel strong enough?”

  “I’ll be just fine,” Wetzon said dryly. “I’ll be down in a little while, and we can go to see Silvestri from the office.” She stopped suddenly. “Smith?”

  “Yes, what’s wrong?”

  “I found a strange key in my jacket pocket.”

  “What kind of key?”

  “Small. Mailbox maybe. I think Barry must have slipped it to me when I was with him yesterday. I’ll bring it with me and give it to Silvestri.”

  She hung up the phone thoughtfully and went back to the kitchen. She filled the kettle with water, placed the paper filter in the Melitta holder, then measured out the coffee—enough for four cups because Carlos liked his coffee and a croissant before he started cleaning.

  Carlos Prince had been her housekeeper since they’d met years earlier in a dance class. They had danced together in quite a number of shows in those days. Housekeeping was his way, as he said, of “keeping the wolf from the door,” and he had done very well with it. He had done so well that now he could sit in his Greenwich Village apartment while legions of housekeepers worked for him all over the City.

  His very special people he kept for himself. Special people meant people from the old days, good for a gossip. Old friends leading interesting lives. And it was an all-cash business. “Besides, darling, I’m getting a little long in the tooth for the chorus line,” he’d say.

  She smiled as she took the chain off the front door. She was sure he’d come early today because he’d have seen her picture in the papers, and this was just the sort of thing Carlos loved to be in on. A murder. Intrigue. Money. The Four Seasons.

  The hot shower revived her, and when she came out of the steaming bathroom in her terry robe, she heard music.

  “Well, good morning glory,” Carlos said. He was sitting comfortably in the kitchen on one of the high stools, his legs crossed, all the newspapers spread out on the countertop. The Temptations were singing, “My Girl” in splendid voice. “You’ve been a very busy little beaver since I saw you last.” He shook his finger at her. “Naughty, naughty. And you don’t even look too bad.”

  “Carlos, come on now, it was terrible,” she said, drying her hair with the towel.

  “Oh, tell. Tell everything. Don’t leave anything out,” he said greedily. His dark eyes sparkled. Everything about Carlos sparkled. He was slim and dark and strikingly handsome. Today he was wearing a vivid Hawaiian shirt and tight Guess jeans. He had a large diamond stud in his left earlobe.

  “I don’t know much except a man I was interviewing left me to make a phone call and he was murdered in the phone booth.”

  “And you saw it—” Solicitously he jumped up and gave her the stool. He pulled over the other stool and sat, watching her. “I brought you a chocolate croissant,” he said, beseeching.

  A bribe. As if she didn’t know. The rich smell of chocolate and butter was overpowering. The little rat. “You’re bribing me, you little rat,” she said, kissing his smooth, dark cheek.

  “But of course, darling.”

  The phone rang. They both listened attentively.

  “Ms. Wetzon, my name is Carpenter, Walt Carpenter, Wall Street Journal. I’d like to talk with you at your convenience.” It was a very polite, nice voice, entirely in keeping with the professionalism of the Journal.

  “Mmmmm,” Carlos cried, licking his lips. “You’re an absolute celebrity. You lucky witch.”

  Carlos called her a witch because he felt she’d turned his life around since they’d met.

  “It’s a hell of a way to get celebrity,” she complained. “I’d rather have done it with Gower.” They both laughed. It was their bitter, black joke, because Gower Champion had been their choreographer, they’d always worked when he’d worked, and now Gower was dead. He had died during the production of Forty-Second Street, and a lot of people in the theater community felt that David Merrick had made it seem as if David Merrick himself had done the direction and the choreography. “I’ve got to get dressed and get to the office,” she said, giving Carlos a quick hug.

  “Oh no, darling, tell more.” He poured coffee into a cup and pushed it and the chocolate croissant toward her on the counter. She was starving, and the croissant looked delicious.

  “I don’t know more, but stay tuned. I have to give a statement to the detective on the case later this afternoon. This is good, Carlos, you devil.” She polished off the
croissant and coffee.

  “What a joy. Detectives, statements. I love it.” Carlos jumped off the stool, wriggling to the music. “Remember everything, and I mean everything, so you can fill me in.”

  She dressed carefully. Dark blue gabardine suit, to match her bruises, and a white silk blouse. She clipped her mother’s cameo pin to the blouse at her throat, and, a little defiantly perhaps, put large gold hoops in her ears. She had ruined the skirt to her gray suit by getting into the shower with it. Maybe the cleaner could salvage it.

  She could hear Carlos in the kitchen, singing, clattering, beginning his cleaning. The music was playing loudly, Aretha Franklin’s “You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman.” Ha! Right now she felt like an unnatural woman, with all her aches and pains, but her body, seduced by the music and finely tuned from years of dancing, began to move and turn with the beat.

  She ran a narrow-toothed comb through her hair and with a couple of twists had it up in its knot, without looking in the mirror. She’d been doing it for so many years, she could do it in the dark. She checked the mirror now as she quickly pinned it in place and applied gray eye shadow and mascara sparingly. She didn’t like the look of the bruise on her forehead, so she rolled a silk scarf into a narrow band and tied it around her head. She was ready to face the world.

  Wait. The key. Where had she put it? In the matchbook. She found the matchbook on the chest next to her bed, where she had left it last night—or rather, early this morning. She pulled the key out of the matchbook. Innocuous-looking thing. She dropped the gray matchbook, which had a palm tree silhouetted on it, back on the chest.

  The telephone rang again. She put the key into her jacket pocket and went to listen to the message. Carlos had turned down the music and was listening, too. She grinned at him. He was such a cutie. So obvious and open. She loved him.