The Big Killing

by Annette Meyers

  “Oh, please, give me a break,” Smith said. “And it’s only Monday.”

  “Al Catella for you, Wetzon.”

  They retreated to their corners and picked up their weapons. So the day began.

  49

  Somewhere near midmorning, Carlos phoned. “We’ve got a problem about tonight, darling,” he said. “My main man with the entry card is out of town until tomorrow, and I haven’t been able to round up someone with another.”

  “Shit,” Wetzon said.

  “And Marshall called a creative session for tonight. I’m really sorry, birdie.”

  “That queers everything,” Wetzon bitched.

  “I resent that implication.”

  “If the foo shits,” she said, laughing. She sat back in her chair and caught a glimpse of Smith looking at her inquiringly. She shook her head, indicating it wasn’t business.

  “Very funny, very funny,” Carlos replied. “Listen, we can do it tomorrow night.”

  She lowered her voice. “But the networking thing is tonight. I wanted to do it tonight.”

  “Well, we can’t, Miss Compulsive.”

  “I know, I know.” She thought for a second. Hadn’t Rick mentioned he had a membership at the Caravanserie through the hospital? She’d have to ask him. Maybe he would do it for her.

  “Hello ... hello, have I lost you entirely?”

  “Carlos,” she whispered, “I think I just remembered someone telling me he was a member of the club.”

  “And I wanted to play cops and robbers with you, spoil sport.”

  “But you ‘wanna dance’ a lot more, right?”

  “True! ‘’tis true, ’tis pity and pity ’tis, ’tis true.’ Well, go ahead, but you have to tell me all about it.”

  “Goodbye, Carlos, you idiot.”

  “But that doesn’t make me a bad person,” he said. “Be careful,” he added, becoming serious. “Do you trust this guy?”

  “Of course.” Why shouldn’t she trust Rick? She hung up; her hand remained resting on the receiver.

  “What was all that about?” For some reason it always seemed to make Smith paranoid when she couldn’t hear Wetzon’s conversations with her friends. Even when she eavesdropped, Smith rarely understood what she heard. One thing always amazed Wetzon: Smith had no sense of humor, unless she made the joke.

  “Just Carlos being silly.”

  “Who did you go to the Caravanserie with—the Good Humor man?”

  A little bell went off in Wetzon’s head. Smith meant Rick, of course. The Good Humor man, all in white. “No. Carlos. We were celebrating. He’s going to be assistant choreographer on Marshall Bart’s new musical.”

  “Humpf,” Smith said. “And are you seeing the Good Humor man tonight?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Oh, I thought we could have dinner together, just the two of us, the way we used to.”

  “Maybe later in the week,” Wetzon said, suddenly feeling sorry for Smith. She’d been left out of things since Barry’s murder. Smith liked to be the star, and here was plain little Wetzon getting all the attention, and not even wanting it, either. “Later in the week, okay?”

  She didn’t want to tell Smith about the Caravanserie and Barry’s locker, or the networking night, because she knew that Smith would try to take it over, as she had done with the key. This was Wetzon’s idea and she felt proprietary about it.

  “Wetzon, dear, one more thing,” Smith said with a big, sweet smile.

  “What?”

  “Jake Donahue would love to meet you. He saw your picture in the papers and—”

  Wetzon felt herself getting angry all over again. “Oh, yes, he saw my picture in the paper and he was overwhelmed with my beauty. Right? And just in passing, he’d like to know what Barry told me before he died.”

  “Wetzon, why are you being so difficult? It’s just that he’s heard a lot about you—”

  “How?”

  “Well, from Leon, from me ... and he’d like to meet you.” She was positively glowing with sincerity. “Leon can arrange it. Come on now, Wetzon, Jake’s a very attractive man, and he knows a lot of important people.”

  “Smith, are you crazy? Donahue’s a crook, and he’s probably going to jail. And he could be a murderer. He figures I know what Barry had on him. Just as Mildred did.”

  “Honestly,” Smith said, with a light laugh, throwing up her arms. “You are such a hardhead. I was only trying to do something nice for you. Forget it—it was just an idea.”

  Surprised by Smith’s easy capitulation, Wetzon smiled warily. Smith was so unpredictable.

  Harold opened the door. “They’re closing the Dean Witter office on Sixth Avenue and giving the brokers two weeks to choose another office in the system.”

  “Do we know anyone there?” Smith asked.

  “Everyone. Wetzon’s talked to at least ten brokers there. I’ve pulled the names.”

  “Yes,” Wetzon said, taking her update folder from the drawer of her desk. “And one of them is Joe Stotner. I’ll go after him and the rest after I take care of Amanda Guilford.” She pulled her yellow pad with the notes she had made on Amanda’s history and business out of her briefcase.

  “Oh, I forgot,” Harold said, “there’s a woman on the phone for you who doesn’t want to give her name. She’s holding on line three. Jesus, I’m sorry.”

  “One of Wetzon’s waifs, no doubt,” Smith said sweetly.

  Wetzon smiled back sweetly and picked up the phone. “Wetzon.” She heard clamor in the background, but no one responded. “Hello? Wetzon speaking.”

  “Hello.” Wetzon could barely hear the woman’s voice over the noise. Subway noise? “Can we speak confidentially?” the woman asked.

  “Yes, of course.” Another paranoid broker, probably from Donahue’s, she thought.

  “This is Roberta Bancroft. I must see you tonight.”

  The sudden intrusion of Mildred’s assistant triggered an anxious pulse in Wetzon’s throat. “I’m very sorry about your loss, but—”

  “Please, I’m begging you. My life is at stake.” Her voice faded. The connection seemed bad. Wetzon strained to hear. Her voice came back, very low. “... something crucial ... you’re the only one ...” The sound of a jackhammer obliterated her words. “... who can verify—”

  Wetzon’s heart began to race. “No, please. Call Sergeant Silvestri at the Seventeenth Precinct. Here,” she fumbled in her handbag, “I’ll give you the number.”

  Now Roberta’s voice crackled. “I tried. He wasn’t there. Please. My life is in danger. I can’t go home. Please help me. You must help me—”

  Wetzon closed her eyes, listening to the muffled sobs, agonizing. She’d be crazy to get involved. “Okay,” she heard herself say. She looked at her schedule. “Can you come to my office later today? Around five-thirty?” At least that would give her plenty of time to get to the Caravanserie.

  “Oh, yes, anytime, whatever you say.” Roberta’s voice grew stronger, eager. “I’ll call Sergeant Silvestri again. I’ll tell him to meet me at your office. But please, please, do not tell anyone else. If you do, it may be the wrong person—” The connection was cut off, leaving Wetzon speechless. Roberta must know who had killed Mildred and Barry. It had to be Jake, or maybe someone Jake had hired to do it. Who else could it possibly be? She looked up and saw Smith watching her suspiciously.

  “What’s up now?” Smith asked, an odd tightness in her voice.

  “Amanda Guilford ... she’s so nervous,” Wetzon fabricated. “I told her I’d meet her late in the afternoon.”

  “At the Four Seasons?” Smith asked, tongue in cheek.

  “God, Smith, I don’t know if I have the guts to go back there this soon. Just the thought makes me shiver.”

  “Switzer for you, line one,” Harold interrupted.

  “Switzer? Now what?” She picked up the phone. “Steve? What’s happening?”

  “I’m starting at Hallgarden in two weeks.”

  “You
’re what?” Wetzon mouthed, He’s going to Hallgarden, to Smith and held up two fingers for weeks. Smith jumped up and crossed over to Wetzon’s desk, clapping her hands together soundlessly. “How did it happen?”

  Switzer’s voice was bursting with contained excitement. “About an hour ago it came over the tape that that asshole Gordon Kingston resigned. I called Garfeld and he said, ‘When are you coming on board?’ ”

  “You firmed up the deal already?” Wetzon was flabbergasted. All the terrible things Switzer had said about Andy Garfeld seemed to have been forgotten, at least for now.

  “Wetzon, you know you gotta move fast in this business.” Switzer laughed. “We’re doing a kiss contact.”

  That was a new one on her. “Kiss contract?”

  “Yeah, ‘keep it simple, stupid.’”

  “Well, okay then! Congratulations.”

  The phone rang and Harold came running back. “Andy Garfeld!” he whispered.

  Wetzon put her hand on the mouthpiece. “Hold him.”

  “Listen, Wetzon,” Switzer said, “Andy explained it all to me. I know he was under the gun. I don’t hold it against him. He’s a terrific guy. Later, huh?” The phone clicked.

  Wetzon shook her head and punched the button releasing Garfeld from hold. “Congratulations,” she said.

  “You know already?” He sounded disappointed.

  “Just spoke with Steve. You got yourself a great producer.”

  “I hope so. My ass is in a sling if he’s not a winner. I gave him the best deal I had. I want him over here this week.”

  “He said two weeks.”

  “Wetzon, I leave it to you. Get him here by Friday.”

  “Yes, sir,” Wetzon said, saluting, putting down the phone.

  “It’s not over till it’s over,” Wetzon and Smith said simultaneously.

  Smiling, Wetzon slipped her fingers into the outside pocket of her suit jacket. They touched the smooth cardboard of the matchbook.

  And even when it’s over; it’s not over.

  50

  She talked to six brokers from Dean Witter and set up appointments for two of them; the others wanted to stay within the firm and had made arrangements to move to other branch offices. She arranged for Howie Minton to see three firms during the week, and for Amanda Guilford to talk with Alex Brown that afternoon after the close. Her stomach was telling her it was just about ready for lunch when Rick phoned again.

  “I’m so glad you called back. Hold on a sec.” Wetzon turned, looking for Smith, but Smith was already sitting in the garden with a foil sun reflector under her chin, working on her tan. “Rick, didn’t you tell me you had a membership at the Caravanserie?”

  “Yeah,” he said, “... through the hospital.”

  “Well, I need your help....Can you—would you—check out a locker there for me tonight?” She was talking so fast into the mouthpiece of the phone that her tongue kept tripping on her teeth.

  “Hey, hold on, whose locker? Tell me slowly, babe.”

  “Rick—I think I figured it out. I mean—last night—Barry told me—”

  “Barry’s dead, babe.”

  “I know, I know. But he left me a message ... in a matchbook. The key was caught in the matchbook—”

  “The key? You have the key?”

  “No, don’t you see?” she said, impatient. “The key was never important. What was important all along was the matchbook. It had a locker number and combination written in it. I think Barry may have had another locker.... Oh, it’s too complicated to explain. Georgie cleaned out Barry’s regular locker and didn’t find anything—”

  “But what about the key?” he persisted.

  “I told you, the police have the key. Don’t you see, it has nothing to do with the case. The key is a hospital key of some sort. Maybe it got in my pocket after the accident when I was with the paramedics or at York Emergency.”

  “Okay, babe, fine. I get it. What can I do? I want to see you tonight anyway. That’s why I called.”

  The phone rang, rang again, and again. Harold had gone out for lunch and Smith was still toasting herself in the garden. “Hold on a minute, Rick, I’m sorry to do this to you.” She hit the hold button and answered, “Smith and Wetzon.”

  “Wetzon, m’dear, this is Leon. I must talk to you—”

  “Leon, I’m sorry, I’m on the other line and I’m the only one here. I’ll call right back.”

  “But—”

  She broke the connection and went back to Rick, as Harold entered carrying their lunch, and she motioned him out to the garden. “Rick, I’ve been invited to a networking session at the Caravanserie tonight.” She saw Harold say something to Smith, and they both looked back toward the office.

  “What time?”

  “Six. Can you meet me?”

  “Not till seven, but if you have the number of the locker and the combination, why don’t you give me the numbers now over the phone, and I’ll get everything and meet you there.”

  “Wetzon, come on, you’re missing the best sun.” Smith stood in the doorway, arms folded, reproving.

  “One more sec, Smith,” Wetzon said. “I’m talking to Rick.”

  Smith didn’t move.

  “Okay, I’ll meet you at seven, in the downstairs lounge. Can you get there? You can get in through the club.”

  “I know. And I know you can’t talk,” Rick said. “Just tell me, do the cops know about this locker?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Later, babe.”

  She hung up the phone and smiled. He sounded like such a thug when he called her babe. A little like Barry, come to think of it. Barry had also called her babe.

  “You’re too much,” Smith said. “Come on, I’m starving.”

  Funny, Wetzon thought. Normally she would have shared the matchbook with Smith, and they would have worked out the strategy together, but she had not yet figured out how she felt about Smith and the key. Silvestri could have set a trap for them.

  The sun was mildly tranquilizing. Wetzon tilted her face toward it gratefully. She needed soothing. She felt as if she’d been beaten up, physically and emotionally. But it would be better tonight. Tonight she would get the tapes and turn them over to Silvestri. And he would realize that she was straight and honest, and maybe even smart and terrific. She took off her jacket and put it on the back of the chair.

  “Where are you?” Smith demanded. “I’ve called to you twice. You look like you’re a million miles away. That Dr. what’s-his-face has really gotten to you.”

  “No, I’m just beginning to unwind, and Dr. what’s-his-face is about to disappear from my life as suddenly as he appeared.”

  “Oh? What’s up?” Smith’s voice was guilefully uninterested.

  “He’s got a job in San Diego heading up emergency medicine at one of the hospitals there.”

  “Too bad,” Smith said, but she didn’t sound very sympathetic. “Your cards keep coming up with danger, you know. I’m worried about you.” She leaned over and patted Wetzon’s hand. “You must take better care of yourself.” She was very sincere now. “What are you eating?”

  “Egg salad.”

  Smith grimaced. “Yuk, bird food,” she said. “You should be eating red meat. Look how thin you’ve gotten.”

  “Oh, please, Smith, I’m the same weight I always am, maybe a couple of pounds off.”

  “Humpf,” Smith said. “Did you set up Howie Minton?”

  “Yes, with Shearson, D. L. J., and the Bear.”

  “He won’t move.”

  “I think he will this time.”

  “I think he’s just jerking us around again, but if he does move, I’ll buy you dinner at the Four Seasons. You’ve certainly put the time into him over these years.”

  “What do you have in the works today?”

  “There’s an offer out to Bill Davis, from Pru-Bache, but Oppie wants him.”

  “Davis’ll get a better deal from Bache. What did you tell him?”
/>   “That he has to choose the type of firm he wants to work in, a big impersonal wire house like Bache or an elite boutique, like Oppenheimer. Macy’s or Martha’s.” They both laughed at her analogy.

  “We’ll do better if he goes to Oppie.” There, Smith and Wetzon were paid on the broker’s future production, so if the broker did well, they did well. Wetzon never minded doing that because it was betting on the broker. She was rarely surprised when she bet on the broker at OpCo or Lehman or Bear. It was usually a good bet. At firms like those, a well-paid sales assistant relieved the broker from all paperwork, leaving him free to sell and sell and sell.

  “Only if he has a good year.”

  “Right. Which depends on the market. So the hell with it. It’s his choice, anyway. Where do you think he’ll go? And will he go?”

  “Who knows? He’s unhappy at Merrill, so he may do it.” She turned to Wetzon. “I’m sorry about the doctor.”

  “It’s okay. You were right about him. He’s not for me.” She paused. “Honest.”

  Wetzon backed her chair out of the sun. Too much, too soon. She’d get salmony pink. Not her best shade. And the last thing she needed right now was a sunburn. “You’re seeing a lot of Leon lately.” She didn’t know why it had surprised her, but it had. She made a mental note to call Leon back after lunch.

  “He wants to get married.”

  “Are you kidding?” Wetzon sat up, shading her eyes with her hand, and looked at Smith. “He’s really serious? But you—”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  “Well, that’s new.” Wetzon was surprised all over again. Smith looked away. “Do you want to talk?”

  “No. I’m just thinking about it. He would take good care of me—us. He’s very successful. Sometimes a woman wants to be taken care of....” She seemed a little defensive.

  “How does Mark feel about it?”

  “Mark will be happy if I’m happy.”

  Wetzon didn’t think it was that simple. Mark and Xenia had a special relationship, almost husband and wife, in a sense. The boy might resent the intrusion.

  “Smith,” Harold called, “Bill Davis, line two.”

  “Oh, great,” Smith said, jumping up. “Maybe this is it. Back in a flash with the cash. Cross your fingers.”