“Ah, here we are.” Laura Lee began sifting energetically through a table of silk lingerie. “Aren’t these gorgeous?” She held up a pink teddy, Christian Dior tag still on. “Wetzon, this has your name on it. It’s your size. Treat yourself.”
Wetzon laughed. “Okay, but I’ll never have the nerve to wear it.” She moved on to the next table, to slips and camisoles, dodging the elbow of a sleek black woman, who murmured, “Sorry.”
“Wetzon,” Laura Lee said, at her side, arms full of lustrous silk. “My friend—you know the one I mentioned I want you to help? She’s going to meet us here.”
Wetzon groaned and shook her head at Laura Lee. “You’d better tell me about her.”
“Her name is Amanda, Amanda Guilford, and she’s really good.”
“I know her name. I may have talked with her. Where is she now?”
“She was at Shearson until last summer.” Laura Lee held up a white camisole with pale blue embroidery across the breast. “Isn’t this precious?”
“That’s why I know her name.”
“It’s not my size,” Laura Lee said, disappointed.
“I’ll take it.” Wetzon reached for the camisole as Laura Lee shook a mocking finger at her. “Where is she now?”
“Donahue’s.”
“Oh, shit, Laura Lee—”
“Wetzon, what difference does it make, honestly? Amanda needs help and I know you can help her.”
They were reaching under piles of lingerie, scooping, holding up to each other what they found. The feel of the silk, the humidity, and the hum of other women around them struck Wetzon with a strange intensity. She remembered the moment in Moby Dick when Ishmael is working the ambergris with another sailor. It was hypnotic and sensual, as now.
“Wetzon? Hello, darlin’, are you there?” Laura Lee was waving a pair of violet silk panties at her. “This is my friend, Amanda Guilford.”
A beautiful young woman with long, sun-streaked blonde hair and a peaches-and-cream complexion, a golden look that Wetzon envied, stood at Laura Lee’s side. She was a full head taller than Laura Lee.
“Hi. I’m really grateful to you for talking to me,” Amanda said, smiling with pink lips over perfect teeth. She had a flat, New England accent.
“It’s going to crowd up as soon as the market closes, girls,” Laura Lee said briskly. “So I’ll pay for everything, Wetzon, and we can settle up later.” She grabbed the items in Wetzon’s arms and rushed off to the checkout counter, leaving Wetzon with Amanda Guilford.
Amanda flipped aimlessly through the silk panties on the table. She had the athletic build of a swimmer or tennis player, enviably broad shoulders, a narrow waist, under her belted Burberry, china-blue eyes, a square chin, and a throaty voice. Clean good looks. Very little makeup.
“I suggest we sit down over a cup of coffee, if that’s okay with you,” Wetzon said. Laura Lee thrust a small bag at her, which Wetzon put into her briefcase.
“I’ve got to get back, girls, so have a good talk,” Laura Lee bubbled, full of bonhomie. “I’ll check up on y’all later.” Smiling like the Cheshire cat, she left them with a fading remembrance of darkly outlined eyes and bright red lip gloss.
“Why did you leave Shearson, Amanda?” Wetzon asked, when they were settled in a booth of a nearby coffeeshop.
Amanda shrugged her glorious shoulders. “Bored, I guess. I like selling stock. My manager at Shearson wanted me to sell mutual funds, unit trusts, product ... you know, Shearson product.” She deftly squeezed the Lipton teabag around her spoon and dropped it on the saucer.
“But why Donahue’s? There are a lot of firms that don’t push you to sell product. Oppenheimer, for one.” Wetzon sipped the decaf brew that tasted like caramel-flavored water.
Amanda nodded. “I know. I made a terrible mistake. I met Jake Donahue at a party.” She looked at Wetzon. “He’s an exciting man. He made it sound like a lot of fun. He promised he’d feed me with a lot of his stocks and I’d make a ton of money. He was very convincing.”
“If he kept his promise, you probably made a ton of money.”
“I did in the beginning.” She unbuttoned her raincoat and slipped out of it. She was wearing a simple camel wool jersey dress and a string of pearls. Very Connecticut and not very much like the other brokers Wetzon had seen at Donahue’s. “Then Jake asked me to do him a favor.”
For the first time Wetzon noticed the faint, dark smudges under her eyes. She wondered suddenly if Amanda knew Barry. She had to. But what if she was the girl from Connecticut Georgie had mentioned, the one Buffie had seen Barry with at the zoo?
“What kind of favor?” Was it sexual, or was it something that would compromise Amanda and make it difficult to place her at another firm?
“Not that.” Amanda’s reaction was immediate, getting Wetzon’s drift. “Well, not exactly.” She smiled a self-deprecating smile. Pale golden freckles trailed across her small nose and fine cheekbones, looking almost painted on. She was exquisite. “He wanted me to come on to a broker there, get close to him and tell Jake what he was doing.”
“Spy?”
“Spy, I guess.”
“What did you say?”
“I said no, of course, what do you think?” She reddened, a touch offended.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She cut the air between them horizontally, with her hand. “I had to in the end because that bastard Jake began to starve me out on his stocks.”
“Who was the broker he wanted you to spy on?”
Amanda shook her head.
“Let me guess,” Wetzon said. “Barry Stark.”
Amanda looked startled. She nodded. “He was a great-looking guy,” Amanda said. “I liked him. It was easy. We had some good times.” Her blue eyes filled. “But I had to make a choice, and I know if Barry had to make the same choice, he would have done what I did.” She took a handkerchief from a brown leather clutch bag and blew her nose meticulously.
“Did you find out what Jake wanted to know?”
She played with her pearls, rolling them through her fingers. “Barry was taping Jake’s calls. He and his partner were trying to get something on Jake.”
“His partner?” Mildred Gleason, of course.
“He would never tell me. God, it’s been awful these last few weeks. Barry said Jake threatened to kill him. And the day he was murdered, he and Jake had a terrible fight—”
“Did he know how Jake found out?”
She shook her head. “No. Oh, maybe he suspected. He told me he had a diary. He called it his insurance policy. I heard him tell Jake, too, that last day.”
“Have you talked to the police, Amanda?”
“Yes, two detectives came to the office this morning, but I didn’t tell them anything except that we spent a lot of time together.”
“But why not?” Wetzon found everyone’s reticence exasperating. “You should have told them the whole thing.”
“I couldn’t—I can’t—” Now the china-blue eyes spilled over. “Jake said he’d ruin me. He’d see to it that I’d never get clearance to work anywhere on the Street again. I’d lose my license.”
So it wasn’t simple after all. She was right. Jake could do what he had threatened. Amanda could tell all and, as with every whistle-blower, find herself on the outside. Blackballed by gentlemen’s agreement, banished from the Street.
Wetzon pulled a small yellow pad and a pen out of her briefcase.
“Okay, Amanda, tell me this. What was your gross production at Shearson for the twelve months before you moved to Donahue’s?”
“One hundred seventy-five thousand. My second year in the business.”
“That’s good. How about since you came to Donahue’s—nine months, is it?”
“Around three hundred thousand, but most of it is on Jake’s stocks.”
“Get your runs together, and we’ll have you out on interviews first thing Monday.”
“I’ve already Xeroxed my books,” Amanda
offered eagerly, perking up.
“I’ll call you on Monday, but I want you to be prepared to interview immediately. Do you have any preference about firms?”
“No wire houses. What about Alex Brown? I’ve heard nice things about them.” She fixed her eyes on Wetzon and smiled.
“We’ll start there.” Wetzon’s watch said four-thirty. “Have a calm, restful weekend, and don’t worry. It’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.”
“Oh, Wetzon, I don’t know how to thank you.” Amanda wrung Wetzon’s hand. “Laura Lee said you’re wonderful, and you are.”
Wetzon picked up the check. Amanda waited for her at the door.
“Amanda, did you ever meet Barry early in the morning at the zoo?”
“Me?” She looked confused. “No. I never go near zoos. I blow up like a balloon. I’m horribly allergic to animals.”
35
Wetzon was waiting for Howie Minton in the lobby bar of the Hotel Vista, thinking what a big waste of time it was to meet him again. Howie Minton had a brainstorm every year, during which he thought he wanted to leave L. L. Rosenkind. Last year it had been because of a new manager. How strange men were about change. If something was displaced in their environment, they felt threatened instead of challenged to make it right again. It happened all the time. The new manager had a different approach, or perhaps the chemistry between him and Howie was wrong.
She had come across only one broker who moved every few years because he felt it was good for him to have a change. Saul Mossberger claimed it made him work harder and kept him interested and on his toes. She could see his point. It was an easy business to plateau in. Many brokers reached a certain point of growth and then stayed there. Saul had been in the business twenty-five years and had moved four or five times and now was getting ready for another move. But he was decidedly different from anyone she’d met in the brokerage business. He’d spent his developing years in a Nazi concentration camp. Now over sixty, he didn’t take Wall Street machinations very seriously. He had a big trading business, mostly immigrant refugee clients who had come here with nothing and made good. They were gamblers at heart, loved to play the market.... “Do you want to order something while you’re waiting?” the waiter asked.
“Yes, Perrier with lime.” She wondered how the Mildred Gleason-Jake Donahue confrontation had been resolved. If they’d been let loose on each other, there surely would have been a double murder. She was sick of the whole business. And then there was the beauteous Amanda Guilford. It never ceased to amaze Wetzon what a small world the brokerage community was. Everyone seemed to know everyone else.
She looked at her watch. Ten after five. Brokers were rarely on time for appointments. Most of them were drowning in details—paper, information. There was so much to do before they shut down at the end of the day. So much they were responsible for. She took a sip of her Perrier and thought about Mildred Gleason again. If Mildred had been Barry’s partner, and if Barry had been taping Jake’s phone conversations, it was to use in some way against Donahue. But not officially. Wetzon didn’t think unauthorized tapes of phone calls could be used in court. Even more curious was the fact that Barry had not told Mildred about any tapes until almost his last words. For some reason, he wasn’t feeding her the tapes all along.
Well, eliminate Mildred as Barry’s murderer. Mildred hadn’t killed Barry because she had been on the phone with him when he died, so maybe Roberta was right—Jake Donahue had done it. Donahue certainly had the best motive. The last thing he would have wanted was to let his embittered ex-wife get her hands on something she could use against him. And hadn’t Silvestri asked her if she had seen Jake that night at the Four Seasons?
Until today, Wetzon had only seen photographs of Donahue in newspapers and magazines. He was always good copy. But it was nothing like meeting him in person, especially when he was in a rage. He had a tough, jowly face with the jaw of a street fighter. Not someone you’d ever want to be angry with you. He had been incredibly successful, all the while leaving bodies behind him. What a thought—leaving bodies behind him. Astonishing what the subconscious could come up with.
And what about Roberta what’s-her-name, Mildred’s assistant? Her bizarre behavior must have had to do with their personal relationship, not business. Still, why did Wetzon feel they had met before?
“So, Wetzon, it’s really been nice seeing you again. Bye-bye. Keep well.”
She looked up to see Howie Minton standing over her, laughing at her.
“My God, Howie, how long have you been standing there?” Feeling like an idiot, she slid over on the banquette. “Here, sit down. I’m really sorry. I was thinking about something and lost track of where I was.”
“It’s all right. I’m easy. So tell me,” Howie said, sitting down, adjusting his white French cuffs, flashing gold cuff links, “why did you murder Barry Stark?”
“Oh, Jesus, Howie, that’s awful.”
“Oh, come on now, I’m joking … see ... it’s a joke. Ha, ha. You know it’s a joke,” Howie said sincerely. “Besides, everyone who ever knew Barry Stark wanted to murder him at one time or another.”
“What are you saying, Howie? I didn’t even know you knew him.” There it was again. The Street was a family, for better and for worse.
“Sure I knew him. He was a slug, a real lowlife. He turned a lot of nice people into veggies. Listen, this is my philosophy, there’s so much money to be made legally, who needs to—”
“You should talk to the police, Howie. You could give them some leads, maybe,” she responded, equally serious.
“Yeah, I could tell them about Mildred Gleason.” Howie flicked some lint from his sleeve.
“Mildred Gleason?” Wetzon sat up. “What about Mildred Gleason?”
“Promise you won’t say anything, Wetzon, and I’ll tell you.”
“Oh, Howie, you know I don’t talk. If I told what people tell me, I’d be out of business.” She slipped her hands under the table and crossed her fingers on both hands. “Okay, I promise.” God, what had she come to?
“Vodka tonic,” Howie told the waiter. “All right. Remember at the end of September last year, right around the Jewish Holidays, we had this record-breaking heat wave? Every day for a week the temperature was around a hundred?”
Wetzon nodded. The waiter returned with Howie’s drink and a bowl of popcorn.
“So I have a good client—a Greek—and he has a chain of coffeeshops. He likes to trade, big, but it’s all—let’s put it this way—I have to go pick up the money.”
“Oh, Howie,” Wetzon said, knowing he meant it was cash money. “That’s so damned dangerous.”
“Don’t worry, Wetzon. It’s under control. My manager and I have it all worked out.” He stirred his drink with the yellow plastic stirrer. “Anyway, at this point the market is laying there like a beached whale, so dead that I’d go all the way to Greece for the money, if I had to.” He laughed a little too heartily.
A group of bronze-skinned men in expensive suits came into the bar and sat at a table across from Wetzon and Howie Minton. They were talking passionately, rapidly, in Spanish.
Howie lowered his voice; Wetzon bent toward him to hear. “I come in the back way, as always, through a private entrance, and Kostos’s brother has it all ready for me. So I sit down in the back office and start counting. Nickie—that’s the brother—brings me a Turkish coffee, and when I go to put the money in my briefcase, I knock the damn cup over and get a spot on my tie.” He looked at his tie as if it had just happened. “I’m telling you I’m really bugged—it’s a new Paul Stuart tie. I take my case and come out of the office to look for the men’s room. You know these coffeeshops—they have two rows of booths with a common partition. Well, on the upper half of Kostos’s booths, there’s a mirror, so I lean into a booth to check out my tie, and damned if I don’t hear—” He licked the popcorn salt on his fingers. “Do you want to hear the rest?” He was teasing her.
“Howie, come on,” Wetzon pro
tested. “Give.”
“Okay, okay, I’m as nosy as you are. The first thing I hear is that foghorn voice of Mildred Gleason, and she’s doing a number on someone about what a bad move he made. And I’m dying to know who it is and pretty soon she calls him Stark so I know damn well who she’s crapping on.”
“What do you mean ‘a number’?”
“Oh, you know, about the new-issues market being dead and Jake going back on his deal. Then she tells Stark how good her business is, and he gets more depressed by the minute. Says his life is falling apart and his air-conditioner conked out, and you can tell she’s loving every minute of it. She says to him he can work for her and he lightens up right away and then she gives him the old one-two. Not as a broker, she says, you have no book—like he’s not good enough to shine her shoes. You’ve got all your clients in Jake’s crummy stock, she says, and I don’t give freebies to brokers to rebuild their books. Jesus, what a bitch. I’m almost feeling sorry for the poor bugger. By this time, Wetzon, old buddy, I gotta tell you, I have my nose to the goddam partition.”
Wetzon was so engrossed in Howie’s story that she did not see the waiter until he said a rather loud, “Ahem.”
“I’ll have another vodka,” Howie said, checking his solid gold Rolex.
“Perrier,” Wetzon said. “What happened next?”
“Well, she says she’ll pay him big bucks for information about Jake that she can use to get back her father’s firm. You know, of course, that Donahue’s was her father’s company and Jake took it over and changed the name?”
“I know.”
“Anyway, she gets him interested. Papers, tapes, wiretaps, whatever, she says, but she wants enough inside dirt to bury Jake. Ha! Knowing Jake, he’s probably doing the same thing with her.”
The waiter brought their drinks and took away the empty glasses.
“So,” Howie continued, “Stark picks up on it right away and gets her up to a hundred and fifty thou and a limited partnership before he’s finished. She agrees to give him ten thou on account and then she tells him it’s all going to be handled by her assistant. Boy oh boy, Stark made some deal,” Howie said enviously.
The Big Killing Page 21