Tender Death Read online

  “Ms. Meyers has smartened up her style in her second novel without losing the waspish wit that made her first one (The Big Killing) such nasty fun.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “Spanning the distance from Wall Street to Coney Island, this is a fast-paced, exciting read with plenty of action to add more spice to the wheeling and dealing on the Street.”

  —The Dallas Morning News

  “... one feels treated to an inside view of the little wheels that keep Wall Street turning. This is really a fun series with its glimpses of city living at its best and worst.”

  —St. Louis Post Dispatch

  “This book is written in a very smart, very glossy manner. It’s very readable and it really does move along nicely ... one scene–a visit to the Russian émigré section of Brooklyn known as Little Odessa-is a total knock-out.”

  —Mystery Scene Magazine

  Tender Death

  All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the author, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine, or electronic publication; nor may any part of this book be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Bantam hardcover edition, 1990

  Bantam paperback edition, 1991

  Baker & Taylor, Replica Books, hardcover edtion, 1998

  Baker & Taylor, Replica Books, trade paper edition, 2000

  Copyright © by Annette Brafman Meyers 1990, 2012

  All rights reserved.

  eBook edition, 2012

  ISBN (Kindle) 978-1-936441-39-6

  Cover Design: Allison Black

  For

  Dolores Bullard

  and in memory of Hazel Osborn

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Books by Annette Meyers The author wishes to thank Mary Bryant, Kevin Jennings, Marcia Lesser, Linda Ray, Chris Tomasino, Howard Weiss and especially Marty, tried and true. For the one and only Kate Miciak and her nurturing professional Bantam team, the author is eternally grateful.

  Buy everything, buy America ...

  Ivan Boesky to one of his traders (apocryphal)

  Where else can so many honest people make so much money legitimately?

  Leslie Wetzon, Partner

  Smith and Wetzon

  Executive Search Specialists

  1.

  THE MAN ON the sofa was bleeding. Thick gouts of blood bubbled from his nostrils and rolled down his gray mustache.

  In the first shocking moment, nobody moved. Not even the victim.

  “My God!” The harried young woman at the reception desk dropped the phone and jumped to her feet. “Mr. Mitosky! Sir!” She ran out of the room, crying, unnecessarily, “Wait there, I’ll be right back,” and ran down a museum-like corridor leaving an impression of a too smart suit with a too short skirt.

  Wetzon, who had been standing at the reception desk waiting for the envelope Bobby Kohn had left for her, yanked a packet of Kleenex from her handbag and began to pull tissues from it. “Here, please, let me help you”

  “Izz notting, notting, please, don’t vorry, please. Happens all the time.” The man spoke with a Russian-sounding accent as dark red blood continued to gush from his nose, over the crooked mustache, down his chin, onto his white shirt and the lapels of his brown tweed suit. He took the proffered tissues and pressed them to his nose, making an attempt to rise. His eyes were blurs behind dense glasses. A brown fedora with a jaunty feather in its band lay on the sofa beside him; a cane leaned against the arm.

  “Please, Mr.... er ... Mr. Mitosky. It’s better that you put your head back.”

  The receptionist returned with a mass of wet paper towels and a plastic bag full of ice cubes, but by this time the torrents of blood had lessened considerably as soon as the man had tilted his head back.

  It was then that Wetzon noticed his makeup stopped at his chin, leaving his neck several shades lighter than the unhealthy gray of his face. She stopped in midthought. Makeup?

  “Would you like me to call a doctor?” The receptionist offered him the wet paper towels, her face registering real concern.

  “Oh no. No, please.” His fine hands trembled slightly as he began to blot himself dry with the wet towels.

  Two clean-cut young men in dark pin-striped suits, looking as if they had just stepped out of a Paul Stuart ad, came toward them from the wide, subtly lit corridor.

  “So I told him, you don’t like how I’m handling your effing account? You think you’ll get better service from this bimbo at Bache? Well, do me a favor, transfer. You shoulda heard him scream, beg me to keep him ... I told him, shove it—”

  “Ungrateful putz. They’re all the same. You make them money, you lose them money, and suddenly they don’t remember you made them money. Did you see the financials on Eastern Norfolk?”

  “Yeah, looks like management is up to something—”

  “Jerry has a buddy who knows someone whose sister is making it with someone at Wasserella. They’re supposed to be taking a look.”

  They passed the scene in the reception area without curiosity or comment and went through the double glass doors to the elevator bank.

  Wetzon walked across the plush pale blue carpet dotted with cream fleurs de lis to the large windows that looked out over the New York harbor. To her right was the peace and serene beauty of the Statue of Liberty on her pedestal; to her left was the jumble and frenzy of Wall Street, the financial hub of the world.

  Why was the man wearing makeup to make himself look older— because that’s exactly what the gray blend did. She remembered that well enough from her chorus dancing days in the theater. Now everyone was so obsessed with looking younger. Mitosky’s hands were those of a much younger man, and he was wearing a phony mustache.

  The phone system buzzed and the receptionist picked it up. “Yes?” She listened for a moment and replaced the phone. “Mr. Mitosky, sir, the cashier is ready for you now. Do you need any help? It’s the first desk on the left.”

  Mr. Mitosky clamped his fedora on hi
s head, and reaching for his cane, stood. He seemed none the worse for the nosebleed as he limped stiffly down the hall.

  On the sofa where he’d been sitting was a crumpled envelope. Wetzon picked it up and smoothed it. It was torn open and empty. The return address was Bradley, Elsworth Securities, in whose reception area she was standing. The envelope was addressed to Dr. Maxwell Mitosky, 601 East Seventy-second Street, New York, New York 10021. Wetzon put it on the reception desk, and the receptionist, who was on the phone, nodded.

  A girl in a green suede shirtwaist dress came clicking down the hall in high heels, carrying a manila clasp envelope. “Ms. Watson? Mr.Kohn said to call him after you’ve read the report and he’ll fill you in on the numbers.”

  Wetzon smiled and took the envelope. Bobby Kohn was giving her the directory of the brokers in his office. “Thank you very much.” She placed the manila envelope into her briefcase. “Tell him I’ll read it quickly and get back to him.” He had promised her he would make notes next to each name in the directory, bless him.

  She squeezed on to the elevator with the lunch crowd and came out in the black marble lobby. Most of the clerical workers and a goodly number of the VPs took the escalator down to the underground level where a cafeteria served everything from salads and burgers and pizza to top-quality delicatessen and fresh fish. Something for everyone.

  Only the traders and many of the salesmen and -women ate at their desks. Since trading had gone global, lunch hours had virtually disappeared. Most firms had even gone so far as to have a gourmet luncheon catered free of charge to their traders to keep them at their desks and on the phones. One lost window of opportunity could mean millions made or lost for the firm. The trader-feeding program is what it was called; it made Wetzon think of animals in zoos getting fed by their keepers.

  She paused at the news counter to read the headline in the Post: BUSH BOOSTS TAXES. So much for campaign promises. She took the revolving door out to the gray marble steps that led down to Water Street.

  “Hello, Donna Rhodes,” she said, recognizing the woman who had been about to enter the revolving door she had just come from.

  “Wetzon! Hi.” Donna’s masculine features softened into a smile.

  Donna Rhodes worked for a small regional firm with a specialty in muni bonds, though presently, thanks to the new tax laws, brokers couldn’t get enough tax frees to fill the orders from eager clients wanting to lock in tax-free dividends. Not even at Merrill and Shearson, whose bond inventories were legend.

  “How are you? How’s business?” Wetzon stepped aside, out of the pedestrian traffic, as did Donna.

  “Oh, okay, I guess.” Her pale-yellow-tinted glasses in rimless frames turned her ordinarily sallow skin golden in the fall sunlight, but the corners of her mouth drifted downward. She wore her thick brown hair short and flipped back behind her ears and in each lobe Paloma Picasso silver “Scribbles.”

  “Come on, what’s the matter?”

  “Oh nothing, I guess. Burned out. Bored. The market’s not going anywhere. There’s nothing to sell. I’ve been sort of thinking of getting out of sales, maybe being a portfolio manager, or something like that ... at a bank....”

  Wetzon touched the soft, buttery leather of Donna’s black coat. “Let’s go get a cup of coffee and talk about it. I can’t believe I’m hearing this from someone who told me after the crash that she loved the business and would be around forever.”

  “Oh, Wetzon, I can’t now. I’ve got a meeting with a pension client, but I’ll call you.”

  “I want you to promise me you won’t do anything rash until you talk to me.”

  Donna smiled and nodded. “I promise.” She waved at Wetzon and was about to enter the revolving door when the door spun violently, and a man in a brown tweed suit burst through, plunged jubilantly down the steps two at a time, and hit the sidewalk at a run.

  Donna smiled and shrugged and waved to Wetzon again. Wetzon waved back and then slowly followed the man to the street, watching as he dodged around people like a quarterback. He had an umbrella tucked under his arm, which he suddenly thrust into a garbage can on the corner of Water and Wall Streets.

  Only it wasn’t an umbrella, it was a cane.

  2.

  WETZON SLAMMED DOWN the telephone. “Oh no, he couldn’t do that to me.”

  “Do what?” Smith asked absently. She had spread a mass of financial reports on her desk and was studying them.

  “Greg Castalde—he’s left Merrill,” Wetzon said, flushed, distressed. “I’m really upset about this. He promised me he wouldn’t move this time without me.”

  Smith looked up. “I told you never to believe what brokers say. They’re all scum. Where did he go?”

  Wetzon had picked up the phone again and was viciously punching out the numbers. “Greg Castalde, please,” she said, making her voice pleasant. “Shsh—” she cautioned Smith. “Oh yes,” she said in her best Patsy Preppie imitation into the telephone, “I’m looking for Greg. I’ve just learned he’s no longer with you. No.” She smiled, knowing the smile would carry through the telephone, “I’m not a client ... just an old college friend ...” she quickly checked the suspect sheet, “from Northwestern. I’m only in town for the day, on a buying trip ... and there’s no answer at home ... oh, how nice of you ... thank you so much.” She replaced the receiver, pleased. Though why she should have been pleased when the bum had moved without her, she couldn’t say. Small victories. And she did love to extract information from the unwary.

  “Well, where is he?” Smith demanded.

  “Smith Barney, can you believe it?” She was already dialing the number the sales assistant at Merrill had given her.

  “Greg Castalde.” Great, he’d answered his own phone.

  “Hi, Greg, it’s Wetzon.”

  There was a blank silence, then the sound of explosive laughter. “I don’t believe this. You tracked me down again. Wetzon, how do you do it?”

  “Vibrations,” she said.

  “Okay, okay, now look, I’m really sorry I moved without you—”

  “Greg, I’m happy for you.” Behind her, she heard Smith emit a soft, derisive snort. “I hope you cut yourself a good deal ... or did you work with another headhunter, you rat?”

  “What me? Wetzon, would I do that to you?”

  “You, Greg? Never. After all the years we’ve known each other ...”

  He groaned. “Aw, don’t do that to me. Come on, give me a break.”

  “Well,” Wetzon said cheerfully, “you might make amends by sending me your old office directory....” She hung up the phone and shrugged at Smith.

  “That sleazebag.” Smith straightened their Andy Warhol drawing of a roll of bills bound by a rubber band, tilting it slightly. Wetzon had seen it in a gallery on Madison Avenue and dragged Smith over to look at it. Somehow she had persuaded Smith that it was a good investment, and they had purchased it with part of the commission on their first placement. Wetzon loved it.

  “I’d rather it had been thousand-dollar bills,” Smith always grumbled, but she was as pleased as Wetzon that their investment had increased tremendously in value, especially so since Warhol’s untimely death.

  Smith winked at Wetzon. Her exotic green eyes turned up on the outer edges.

  “It wasn’t crooked,” Wetzon commented.

  “It’s always crooked,” Smith responded. She shook her dark curls and pointed a bright red manicured fingernail at Wetzon. “And you’re trying to change the subject. I’ve told you hundreds of times, brokers have no sense of loyalty.”

  “Can’t win them all,” Wetzon said philosophically. “With the list of brokers from his old office, we might strike gold.”

  “Humpf,” Smith said. “What were his numbers?”

  “About half a mil. Don’t torture me, Smith.” She tucked a loose strand of her ash-blonde hair back into the dancer’s knot on top of her head. “I’m well aware that would have been a forty-thousand-dollar fee.”

  Smith turn
ed back to the papers on her desk. “You are such a Pollyanna, Wetzon. I don’t know how you do it, after all this time in the business ... Well, I must say, this is really wonderful.”

  “What’s really wonderful?” Now Wetzon stood, wriggling her toes in her boots, reaching upward with both hands and then down to the floor, straight-legged, palms flat on the floor. She was still in fairly good shape, but not quite as good as when she took classes regularly and danced eight shows a week. Headhunting was a sedentary job, so much of the work was done on the telephone.

  She was glad that Smith was onto something else and the subject of Greg Castalde and her naiveté was forgotten. She held her stomach muscles tight and came up slowly, vertebra by vertebra.

  Smith turned around in her chair and grinned. “I heard all of that creaking and cracking. Sounds like you’re getting old.”

  “Well, I’m not getting younger. Neither of us is.” Wetzon rolled her head from side to side. “Sitting all day with my phone crooked in my shoulder is not exactly conducive to relaxed neck and back muscles. I’ve just got to make time to take a class.... What’s so wonderful?” She came over to Smith, who had turned back to her papers, and stood, hand resting lightly on Smith’s shoulder, looking down at piles of accounting statements.

  “This company I invested in last year. Can you imagine, it’s in the black already, after only one year. It’s absolutely amazing.”

  “Very impressive,” Wetzon said politely, but not particularly interested. “What kind of business is it?”

  “It’s a referral service, for the decrepit and infirm. Exactly the right business at the right time. Everyone we know seems to have aging parents or grandparents or uncles and aunts.”

  “Except us.” Wetzon’s parents had died long ago—the year she had come to New York to be a dancer. A drunk driver had run a stoplight at high speed and had hit their car head-on.

  “Don’t sound so sad,” Smith said. She rarely talked about her parents or her childhood, except for once in a while when she let something slip. “Aging parents are a tremendous emotional and financial drain on people like us who are just starting to make it. We should consider ourselves lucky”

  “Then I wouldn’t mind being unlucky, Smith, in this case.”