The Big Killing

by Annette Meyers

  My knight in shining armor; she thought. Would that he were. She remembered Smith’s possessive smile.

  “Ms. Wetzon,” he said, coming forward, hands in his pockets, acknowledging her with a slight nod.

  And without a morsel of feeling, she thought.

  “I’m Silvestri,” he said briskly to the policewoman. “Seventeenth. Where’s Walters?”

  Bellman got to her feet respectfully. “Six-o-five.” She moved away slightly as if to give Silvestri a chance to talk with them.

  “Ms. Buffolino,” Silvestri said, his voice matter-of-fact. Buffie blubbered into her wet Kleenex. Silvestri looked at Wetzon with cold, slaty eyes, taking in her suit and Reeboks. “What’s the story here?”

  “Georgie Travers is dead,” Wetzon said. “He has a knife in his back. Buffie and I found him in Buffie’s apartment a little while ago.”

  “Well, Ms. Wetzon, for a little lady who says she hardly knew Barry Stark, you seem to be pretty thick with all of his friends.”

  “That’s not true,” Wetzon protested, bewildered. “I didn’t even know about Buffie until Georgie told me about her.”

  Silvestri raised a thick, dark eyebrow at her. Why did she always feel defensive with him, as if she had to prove something?

  “Things are not always what they seem, Sergeant,” she said, indignant. He had no right to treat her like a suspect.

  “I’m eager to hear about it.” He turned on his heel and went upstairs.

  Forty minutes later Georgie’s body was removed in a big blue bag, strapped to a rolling stretcher. Wetzon and Buffie watched, holding hands tightly.

  They went with Silvestri, Walters, and Conley to the Twentieth Precinct on Eighty-second Street, where Buffie asked tearfully for the ladies’ room. Wetzon went with her and watched, impressed, as she put herself back into a semblance of the contrived kookiness she’d had when Wetzon first saw her, and then dashed out of the room. Wetzon wetted a paper towel with cold water and stared at her drawn reflection in the mirror, then held the cold towel to her face and throat. She thought about changing back into her pumps, but rejected it as too much trouble. Besides, Silvestri had already seen her in the Reeboks.

  When Wetzon came out of the ladies’ room, Buffie was speaking intently to someone on the pay phone. She hung up as soon as she saw Wetzon.

  “Do you have anyone—a friend—you can stay with?” Wetzon felt an odd sense of obligation, knowing with a sinking realization that she would take Buffie home with her, if the girl had nowhere to turn.

  Buffie nodded. “I just spoke with him. I’m going over there after we’re finished.”

  So, Wetzon thought, Barry was not the only man in Buffie’s life either.

  It was after eight when a blue-and-white dropped Wetzon off outside her building. Dr. Rick would have come and gone. Too bad. She dragged herself to the elevator.

  “Was anyone here for me?” she asked the night doorman, who emerged from the back hall when he heard her footsteps.

  “No, Ms. Wetzon.”

  Once inside her apartment, she double-locked the door and played back her messages.

  “Leslie Wetzon, this is Rick Pulasky. There was a big pile-up on the FDR Drive tonight. Emergency is on O.T. Forgive me, please. Same time tomorrow night?” He left his service number. “Call me only if it’s not good. Ciao.”

  She went into her bedroom and closed the blinds. In the dark she stripped down to her underwear, dropping purse, briefcase, and clothing onto the floor. Then she crawled into bed.

  “Go away, world,” she said.

  30

  Rain clattered on the bedroom window in uneven gusts, waking Wetzon before her alarm. The bedroom was dark and cool.

  Friday.

  A blessed dreamless eight hours of sleep. And it was almost a relief to know it was raining, as if, with the change in the weather, all the bad things that had been happening would stop.

  She got out of bed slowly. Her suit lay where she had dropped it, limp and smelling of cigarettes and other things—vomit and death. Damn. It would go to the cleaners. But she would never be able to put it on again without remembering Georgie.

  Hands on the barre, head bent, she meditated, breathing deeply. Think good thoughts. Bad thoughts out, good thoughts in. She worked through her standing exercises and felt better.

  Was she getting tougher, more inured to murder? Or was it Georgie? She had been afraid of Georgie. She’d felt threatened by him. Had he been the one searching Buffie’s apartment, or had he surprised someone there and died because of it?

  She made coffee, showered, brought in the papers. Georgie was news, as the owner of the Caravanserie, only it turned out he wasn’t the real owner. According to the article in the Times, he had sold it to a British company at the end of 1986, to take advantage of the old tax law, and had been under an agreement to manage it for five years.

  Wetzon put aside the papers to blow-dry her hair. For an instant, in the bathroom mirror, she saw once more Georgie’s small, cold eyes and cruel mouth. Who had killed him, and why? And why was everybody trying to find out what Barry had said to her?

  She sat down suddenly on the edge of the tub and turned off the hair dryer. She was avoiding something. The silk tie that was identical to the one Smith had been wearing. Smith’s appointment with G.T., her obvious secrecy. Leon outside Buffie’s apartment building. Had Smith arranged to meet Georgie behind Wetzon’s back? Georgie’s back ... Coolly detached, Wetzon watched her hands begin to tremble and then shake violently

  She dropped the hair dryer on the bright raspberry bathmat. Oh, shit. She felt as if she were drowning. Two people she knew had been murdered. It was apparent that Silvestri thought she knew more than she did, and he liked Smith, and Smith was being weird. Carlos was too busy resuscitating his old career to be around. Wetzon felt lonely and frightened. And there was no one in her life whom she could turn to for physical comfort. No man for protection. Unless she could count on Rick Pulasky, M.D.

  Yesterday, for the first time in her life, she had sized up a situation quickly and had taken charge when she saw she had to. So, Wetzon, old girl, we will not have any self-pity here. She threw her hair forward over her face and turned the dryer back on, running the warm air through her hair, shaking out the dampness.

  Come to think of it, what did she even know about Rick Pulasky? He’d entered her life abruptly, and she’d made the date with him to spite Smith. But hadn’t he been in the emergency room that night?

  She stood, determined, went into her bedroom, and dialed information for the number of York Hospital, then dialed that number.

  “Can you tell me if you have a Dr. Rick Pulasky on staff?”

  “Dr. Pulasky? Hold on a moment, please.”

  “No, wait—” Damn, they were transferring her to him.

  “Emergency.” A woman’s voice.

  “Dr. Rick Pulasky, please.” She would hang up if he came on the line.

  “He’s with a patient. Who’s calling, please?”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful,” Wetzon blurted, her fears assuaged. “Never mind. Thank you. It’s not important.”

  But it was important. He was who he had said he was. Now that she had settled that in her mind, she would deal with Smith.

  She dialed Smith’s home number. It rang and rang. No answer. Smith didn’t own an answering machine. She didn’t like them.

  Wetzon hung up and dialed the office. Harold answered after the second ring. “Smith and Wetzon. Good morning.” And to Wetzon’s question: “She said she’d be in after ten. She had to stop at Bloomingdale’s to return something she bought for Mark that didn’t fit.”

  “Okay, tell her to call me. It’s important. I’ll be home till one. And let me know if anyone calls. Switzer, in particular.”

  It would be nice to have Switzer a wrapped-up, done deal this morning.

  She took her dark gray suit out of the closet and looked at it critically. Three years old, very severe, but okay for a rainy da
y. She’d put on the pale blue silk shirt with the white collar and cuffs. It was very feminine but still professional. She made the bed neatly with tight hospital corners and laid out her clothes.

  Smith called while Wetzon was popping vitamins with her apple juice.

  “Did you see what happened to that scuz, Georgie Travers?” Smith asked without preamble.

  “Smith, I found him.”

  “You what?”

  “I was with Buffie—”

  “Who?”

  “Oh, hell, it’s too long a story—”

  “Tell!”

  Wetzon ran through the bare events. She decided to leave out the silk tie because she did not want to deal with it over the telephone. She’d rather see Smith’s face when she told her. She did, however, casually mention seeing Leon outside Buffie’s apartment.

  “Oh, you couldn’t have seen Leon,” Smith said, a little too quickly.

  “How do you know? Maybe he was talking to a client in the neighborhood.” Smith was always so positive she was right about everything. “Or maybe he’s having an affair with someone who lives there,” she added mischievously.

  Smith was outraged. “Wetzon, how can you say a thing like that? You don’t know Leon the way I do.”

  What an interesting remark, Wetzon thought. “Well, I know I saw him.”

  “I’ll find out.”

  “Smith, do me a favor. Forget it.”

  “No. Leave it to me. I’ll find out if he was there.” Smith’s voice was breathy. “Did you tell the police?”

  “No, but—”

  “Don’t.” She hung up.

  Wetzon hadn’t told the police about Leon because she had forgotten to, and no one had bothered to ask her if she’d seen anyone suspicious. But then, Leon wasn’t suspicious ... or was he?

  At eleven o’clock Harold phoned to tell her that Switzer had just called. “How did he sound? Excited?”

  “Angry.”

  “Uh-oh.” With trepidation, she dialed Switzer.

  “There was no offer.” Switzer was in a rage. He was at his office and it was hard to catch every word. People shouted and phones shrilled in the background.

  “I can’t believe it. I thought this was a hi-there-how’re-you-seal-the-deal meeting.”

  “So did I. That Garfeld is a schmuck. He just stood there like some fucking asshole.”

  “I don’t get it. What did you talk about if there was no offer?”

  “Me. What I did before. I told him how I made a mil in the moving and storage business.”

  Switzer had skipped college, built a profitable moving business, and sold it to one of the conglomerates. He’d come away with a huge profit. In his mid-thirties he’d looked around for a new career and had fallen into the netherworld of selling penny stocks.

  Wetzon had heard that Gordon Kingston, chairman of Hallgarden, was a snob about background, and Switzer had at least two strikes against him: he was not a college graduate, and he came from a blue-collar business.

  “Steve—”

  “Stay with me, Wetzon, I want to put this order in. I’m having a wild day. I should be sitting here making money instead of wasting my time at all these meetings with assholes.”

  “Steve, let me talk to Andy and get the whole story. Maybe they’re going to let him make you the offer after they talk.”

  “This really pisses me off, Wetzon. My time is money. I’m out of the office, I’m not making money. No more meetings. I know it’s not your fault, but I don’t have to go anywhere. I get respect here. And I have a new opinion of Garfeld. He’s a wimp.”

  She hung up and groaned loudly, smacking her quilt with both hands. How could it have gone wrong? What a question. At any time, in the process of any deal, anything could go wrong. But they should have made Switzer an offer, then and there, this morning, and had a done deal.

  She phoned Andy Garfeld. “Andy, I just spoke with Steve. What’s going on?”

  “Well, truthfully, Wetzon, Gordon didn’t think he was quality enough for us. And Switzer has a client complaint on his U-Four.”

  “Quality. Jesus, Andy. You knew his background. He didn’t try to hide anything. He told you about the complaint. And he won that arbitration.”

  “Wetzon, I think Steve should call Gordon this afternoon and tell him how much he’d like to work here.”

  “Do you really think he’d do that?” Wetzon didn’t think Switzer would, but he might. “I think it’s insulting. Do you honestly think Kingston will change his mind?”

  “No.” Garfeld was copping out. “But it doesn’t hurt to try.”

  “In that case, Andy, I think I’ll tell him to forget it.”

  “I’m sorry, Wetzon. Send me some other people. And tell Steve I’m sorry.”

  Switzer was right. Garfeld was really a spineless wonder. She made careful notes on her conversations with Garfeld and Switzer on the back of Switzer’s suspect sheet and returned it to her briefcase. She would let it cool for the weekend and go back to work on Switzer on Monday. If she lived that long. She smiled ruefully. Nice, Wetzon. Good day for black humor.

  Her detachment unsettled her. Here she was doing business as usual. Had she gotten hard? Was her bottom line money now and not people? Was it, oh, okay, Barry died, Georgie died. Too bad. Next broker, please.

  No, no, it wasn’t like that at all. She never treated a broker as if he were a piece of meat the way other headhunters did. Each was an individual with problems unique to him. She always listened carefully, and she had always prided herself on the fact that she never knowingly sent a broker to a firm that was wrong for him in personality and style of business.

  Wimp. Speaking of wimps, will the wimp in this room stand, please. You know who you are.

  She took the crumpled silk strip of mauve cabbage roses from her purse and stretched it out on the bed, staring at it. It surely looked like the same one. She turned it over. In spite of all her doubts, the Bloomingdale’s label caught her unprepared.

  31

  Wetzon usually hated the subway ride to Wall Street. The IRT was a garbage bin. The floors of the old train were worn and pieces of the linoleum were pulled up, and filth was everywhere you looked, pieces of newspaper, candy wrappers, discarded food. Graffiti covered the windows, seats, and doors, as well as the subway route maps. Pity the poor tourists, who thought graffiti was so quaint. There was usually at least one can of soda rolling back and forth with the jerky motion of the train, its probable partial contents spilling out on the dirty floor of the car, making contact between floor and shoe sticky. The subway noise was even worse. The screech and shriek from the wheels on the tracks were deafening.

  At the far end of the car a bum lay on his back, sleeping fetidly on several seats, having the whole side of the car to himself, isolated from and ignored by the rest of his fellow passengers. No one appeared outraged by his scent or his behavior. New Yorkers seemed able to blank out what they didn’t want to see and deal with. It was like holding your breath around a putrid odor. Or seeing a real war on television. Perhaps.

  The train stopped at Fourteenth Street, and only one of the doors opened. Someone clumped on and sat across the car from her. On first view, the new rider was a man, tall and broad-shouldered. What made her—forced her—to look was the shock of hair which stood straight up and ran down the middle of the head, to the nape. The sides were shaved clean. The remaining hair was about three inches in width, if that. Like an Iroquois brave. Only purple. The eyes were heavily made up with black liner and mascara, and the skin was ashen. The ear that was visible to Wetzon had four safety pins piercing it, starting at the lobe and moving upward. Attached to the safety pins were pieces of scrap metal that appeared sculpted, or at least planned. The eyes did not focus but looked downward.

  The legs were encased in wide fishnet stockings, full of additional holes and tears and held together, up the side of the one leg that could be seen, by more large safety pins, all the way up into the short, cut-off pants. The feet
wore bulky, brown army boots, halfway laced, very polished, and with what appeared to be the tongue of the boot extended.

  The body wore a white T-shirt with a faint, faded pattern and a worn work shirt over that, unbuttoned, with the sleeves rolled up. There was no evidence of breasts, but, under close scrutiny, something about the enigma began to give off female vibes. The nails had bright red paint, but that didn’t mean anything these days in regard to sex.

  In a city where everyone had a statement to make, this one was a thunderbolt. She was somebody’s daughter, God help whoever it was. The defiance that emanated from the stiff figure was palpable.

  Wetzon shuddered. Her life was in turmoil. She was filled with doubts about herself, her work, Smith, Leon. She was glad Rick Pulasky was coming over tonight. It would be diverting and she wouldn’t be alone. For the first time she felt an unease about living alone that she’d never felt before. But this was foolish. It was impossible to live in New York City and not feel vulnerable at times.

  The car emptied out at Chambers Street, including the defiant one, and three black teenagers got on and sprawled across from her. They wore high white athletic socks and gym shorts and New Balance running shoes with the big pink N on the side. Expensive shoes for teenagers. She didn’t know if they were just ordinary teenagers or if they would jump her and grab her purse. Her usually good instincts were askew. She stood up when the train pulled into Park Place, but the sharp stop threw her back into her seat. Two Guardian Angels got on when the door opened, looking efficient in their dark red berets, and Wetzon relaxed visibly. The teenagers continued talking, paying no attention to either Wetzon or the Guardian Angels.

  Boy, her imagination was on overtime. She got off the train at Wall Street. The rain had stopped, but the air was damp and chilly. She buttoned her Burberry. Mildred Gleason’s office was at 61 Broadway, not far. It was just short of two o’clock.