Tender Death Page 18

Smith pursed her lips. “Maybe I will. But you must promise me you’ll call me after dinner.”

  “Oh, that’s what it’s all about. You just want to be sure I tell you everything I’ve learned about Arleen and give you the cassette before I go out into the night and get mugged or killed.”

  “Wetzon—” Smith dropped her plastic fork into her salad. “That is just terrible of you. You don’t know how to accept the fact that I love you and care about you. Sometimes I think we have a very one-sided relationship.” She looked hurt, and Wetzon felt a pang of guilt. It always ends up like this, she thought ruefully. And who was right? Probably Smith. Smith was eccentric and hard to figure out, and Wetzon got tired of all her double talk and vague put-downs. She kept trying to keep the relationship mostly business, but Smith wouldn’t let her.

  The phone rang.

  “Okay, okay. I promise I’ll call you.”

  “And we’ll go meet Teddy Lanzman together.”

  B.B. knocked on the door. “Leon for you, Smith.”

  Thank you, Leon, Wetzon thought, relieved. She got up and went into the bathroom.

  “Hmmm.” Smith picked up the phone just as Wetzon was closing the door. “Maybe Leon should come with us, too. Hello, sweetie,” she breathed into the phone. “Hold on a minute ... Wetzon, I think Leon should come with us.”

  Wetzon slammed the bathroom door.

  30.

  THE FRONT OF the Trattoria, where in spring, summer, and fall there was a lively outdoor cafe, looked desolate as Wetzon approached. The vast area, denuded of gay tables and chairs, had been shoveled clean of snow, but was freezing slick underfoot and dank. Beyond it were the bright lights of the restaurant.

  Wetzon went into the Trattoria through the Pan Am Building. Men and women, mostly young, were standing and sitting around the bar, two and three deep. The crowd was boisterous, rowdy even.

  Without taking off her coat and beret, she strolled around the U-shaped bar, eyeing the drinkers, trying to keep her face bland but friendly. She wasn’t feeling friendly. She was annoyed with herself and De Haven for the nebulous quality of what should be a professional meeting.

  A man with graying sideburns, drinking something bourbon-colored, caught her eye and gave her a studied wink. She nodded at him noncommittally and moved on. He was too old for De Haven, but one had to be wary. People often described themselves quite differently from how they looked when she met them.

  Two men and three women in their twenties were whooping it up as Wetzon came around the right side of the U slowly. She looked them over as she passed. One young man was tall, dark, and attractive, if you liked the type. Very smooth, well-dressed in a dark blue pinstripe, crisp white shirt, and yellow power tie. A stud. The other young man looked like a fighter, tall and barrel-chested, florid, with small pale blue eyes, tightly curled blond hair, a turnip-shaped face with high cheekbones narrowing to a small chin. His pinstripe was light gray, and his wide tie was blue with white polka dots. A hair too Broadway. The three young women were sitting on barstools, laughing loudly at whatever the handsome young man was saying, while devouring runny red Italian-style hors d’oeuvres from a plate they were passing back and forth.

  Wetzon made a mental bet with herself that the stud was Kevin De Haven, but took another turn around the bar.

  To her left, the dining area was less than active, but the linen-covered tables were set and ready for the dinner crowd, which usually consisted of a mix of tourists and locals from the corporations in the area. There were at least five brokerage firms with branch offices in the Pan Am Building. And Grand Central Station, which was attached to the Pan Am Building, was the biggest intersection for commuters in New York, handling New York State and Connecticut.

  She traveled along the U again, noticing the middle-aged man had been joined by another, short, stout, balding. They both eyed her as she did her tour, turning obviously on their stools. Fuck off she thought, unbuttoning her coat. It was warm.

  When she came alongside the two men and three women this time, she paused in front of the attractive young man. The girls stopped laughing. One flipped her long dark hair back over her shoulder with a slender, scarlet-tipped finger.

  “Kevin,” Wetzon said.

  “I told you you wouldn’t have any trouble finding me.” He had the easy smile and slick way of a man who was equally successful in sales and with women. “Come on, sit down. What’re you drinking?” He had a half-finished beer in his hand.

  “Heineken. How about taking a table?” She pointed to the small tables to the right of the bar. The women were watching her, ranking her competitively.

  “Nah. It’s okay here. A Heineken here, and another for me,” Kevin told the bartender. He motioned to the young women. “Take off, girls. We’re going to talk serious business now.” The women picked up their drinks, slid off their stools, and stood around the florid young man.

  “This is my buddy, Joey,” De Haven said. He gestured at Joey. “Come on over here and meet Wetzon.”

  The barrel-chested young man came forward and shook Wetzon’s hand. “Joey Mancuso, Wetzon. We’ve talked.”

  She remembered her brief conversation with him. It had been about two months ago. He was a braggart, full of how important he was, how much money he made. “I remember. We should talk again soon.”

  “I’m not ready to do anything yet, but call me.” He was friendly. She heard little of the bombast she’d gotten over the phone. But she knew that didn’t mean anything. She had discovered early on that brokers usually revealed themselves to her as if she were a shrink, either on the phone, which was their couch, or on a one-to-one meeting. They knew they could trust her.

  Joey Mancuso took the girls a little way off and De Haven sat down next to Wetzon. The bartender poured beer into her glass from the green Heineken bottle and set the bottle down in front of her. He gave De Haven something on draft.

  “Stay on top of Joey, Wetzon. He’s my buddy and he’s a good man.”

  Wetzon remembered how the broker who had originally referred Joey had described him: “A time bomb waiting to go off.”

  “Let’s talk about you, Kevin. How’d you start in this business?” The bar was noisy and overcrowded, and she’d have to concentrate on his answers because she didn’t want to make notes in the open.

  “Well, let’s see, while I was at Seton Hall, I got a job as an assistant trader at Jersey Coast Securities. It’s a small institutional house in Jersey City. Then after I graduated I came on board as a trader.” He let his eyes rove over a tall blonde with Farrah Fawcett hair and a red fox coat down to her ankles. She returned his sensual stare with one of her own and moved on.

  Wetzon waited, fixing her face with its most pleasant smile. It was not unusual for brokers to treat her like Mom, a sexless accepter of who they were, who would love them regardless. “And how did you get to Merrill?” she asked, studying the package he was and wondering why she did not find him at all sexy.

  He turned back to Wetzon without embarrassment. “I met my manager, Jim Black, on the Path train. He’s one hell of a guy, by the way. He’s been like a father to me. He got me over here.”

  “What kinds of clients do you have? What kind of business are you doing?” The beer was giving her a small glow.

  “Hey, they’re hedge funds, you know, they’re institutional. I write big syndicate tickets.”

  “So you need a big wire house firm. Okay. Next, the million-dollar question is, why do you want to leave?”

  “Now, don’t get me wrong, Wetzon. I don’t want to leave. They’ve been real good to me, and I love this guy, Jim Black. I’d do anything for him. But they want to reduce my payout on my institutional accounts, and that’s just not right. They made me promises when I came here and now they’re breaking them.” He was talking with sincerity raised to the nth degree, looking straight at her.

  She didn’t believe him. Something smelled wrong. “I’m surprised they’re letting you keep institutional clients at all—�
�

  “Yeah, well if they mess with me I’m out the door.” He grinned at her, a big charming lopsided grin. “So, Wetzon, pal, what can you do for me?”

  She’d have to think through very carefully how she could present him. “Who have you talked to?”

  “Smith Barney. They love me. Have a nice up-front cash offer. I’ll probably take it.”

  Oh yeah? She knew that Smith Barney didn’t make nice up-front cash offers. At least not since it had been bought by Sandy Weill, the brilliant and respected Wall Street strategist, who had built Shearson into a megafirm and then sold it to American Express. But then, they could always change their minds for a gorilla. And Kevin De Haven was definitely a gorilla. “You should see Prudential-Bache before you make a final decision, and Shearson. Shearson is probably the strongest syndicate firm right now.”

  “Set ‘em up right away, okay, Wetzon? Tomorrow if possible. And listen, Wetzon, don’t talk to Joey until I’m set.”

  “Okay.”

  The bartender sidled over near them. “Anything I can get for you folks?”

  “And I’m not saying I’m leaving Merrill either,” De Haven said, ignoring the bartender, giving her a movie star smile. “This guy Jim Black is a prince, a real prince. And he’s been darn good to me.”

  “Check, please,” Wetzon said, and reached for her wallet, but De Haven stopped her arm.

  “No way,” he said. “No lady ever pays a check for me.”

  “Well, if you put it that way ...” She smiled. She would dine out on that for a long time because brokers never pick up checks. But for that matter, why should they? Who invited whom for a drink?

  They exchanged business cards, and she hopped off the barstool.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow with some appointments. Don’t rush and accept something without thinking it through. You’ve got to see other firms for a basis of comparison.” She shook hands with De Haven, waved at Joey Mancuso, and went out in the cold to Vanderbilt Avenue where she caught a cab up to Patek’s on Madison and Eighty-ninth to get Hazel’s dinner.

  Wetzon left Patek’s balancing a heavy shopping bag and her carryall. The sidewalks were spread with sand and salt, but walking was difficult because of the slick spots. Snow lay in dirty frozen mounds in gutters.

  The mercury streetlights threw eerie shadows on the icy landscape of Carnegie Hill, as this area of Manhattan was called, because the beautiful Carnegie Mansion on Fifth Avenue had presided over the neighborhood since the early part of the century when this was all open farmland. Now the Carnegie Mansion was the Cooper-Hewitt Museum and Carnegie Hill was a mix of giant stone-and-glass buildings, low storefronts, elegant town houses, brownstones, and old brick pre-World War II apartment houses. Hazel lived in one of the latter.

  When Wetzon turned east on Ninety-second Street, she felt rather than saw a car make the turn as well. The streetlights were out and the street was dark. About halfway down the block she stopped briefly to switch hands, shifting carryall and shopping bag. The car that had made the turn was a shadow, its lights off. It stopped behind her in front of a brownstone. Wetzon kept on to Hazel’s small apartment building just off Park Avenue. The only light on the street came from the windows of apartments.

  The sound of a motor behind her made her aware of the car again. It crept along behind her almost as if watching her progress. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Wetzon walked up the two steps to Hazel’s building, opened the door, and went in, closing it quickly. She placed her bags on the marble floor and turned. It was hard to see anything on the street because of the darkness, but she thought she saw the car, not moving, waiting in the front of the building.

  Without thinking, she stepped outside. Another car made the turn and, lights glaring, came down the block, its driver leaning on the horn. The lights suddenly came on in the waiting car, blinding Wetzon. The waiting car gunned its motor and with tires shrieking, sped away, turning right on to Park Avenue and disappearing. The second car followed at top speed, and as it went out of view, Wetzon saw the second car had been a cab.

  31.

  IT WAS HARD not to connect this incident with Judy Blue, the peripatetic cabdriver who had kept appearing in her life, always under strange circumstances. Had Judy Blue been driving the cab? Who was she? Wetzon knew coincidence played a peculiar part in life in New York City. She always seemed to meet people who knew people she knew. Her life was made up of giant links in a great chain of connections.

  But Judy Blue? Was Judy Blue following her, and here was the real puzzle. Could it be connected in some way to Peepsie Cunningham? Come on, old girl, she thought, it was only a cab and there are thousands of cabs in New York City.

  “Five, Ms. Wilson.” Hazel’s elevator man—there was no doorman— broke the spell. Most elevator buildings in Manhattan in good neighborhoods had either doormen or elevator men, depending on which a majority of tenants preferred. The best buildings had both. Hazel’s elevator man took the heavy shopping bag and carried it down the hall to Hazel’s door as Wetzon followed.

  An insistent buzzing sounded from the open elevator. The elevator man set the bag down on Hazel’s brown sisal doormat and headed back to the elevator.

  “Thank you.” Wetzon rang Hazel’s doorbell as the elevator doors closed.

  Hazel, in the same pink-and-white robe and pink-ruffled cap, leaning on the cane, opened the door and gathered her in. Wetzon loved Hazel’s openness, her warmth, her joy in life. It was supporting, contagious. The joy is in the journey, Hazel always said.

  “I can’t stay long. I’m due at Le Refuge at seven-thirty.” Wetzon hung her coat and beret on the Victorian oak coatrack in the foyer and pulled off her boots. It was already six-thirty. She picked up the bulging shopping bag and her carryall and followed Hazel’s slow progress into the kitchen, placing the shopping bag on one of Hazel’s carved oak kitchen chairs. She plopped herself in another chair and watched Hazel unpack the goodies.

  “You look pretty perky,” she said, smiling at Hazel.

  Hazel’s blue eyes sparkled as she peeked into a small paper bag. “Oh yum, brownies. I do love brownies.”

  “I thought the shrimp and pasta salad looked luscious, so I brought you some.”

  “Lovely.” Hazel opened the old-fashioned glass doors of her kitchen cabinets and took down china plates, placing one in front of Wetzon. “For tasting only,” she hastened to say as Wetzon started to protest, at which point the tea kettle began to whistle. “Tea?”

  “Oh yes, but not old rope.” They laughed. It was their joke. Wetzon could never remember the name of the tea that Hazel had given her to taste long ago when they’d first met, but Wetzon had told her it tasted like oily old rope and it had stuck. Hazel loved old rope. She had first sampled it in India and had found it again in specialty stores here when she got back.

  “Irish Breakfast?”

  “That’s more like it.” Wetzon flexed and pointed her feet. She was just starting to warm up.

  Hazel measured leaves from two tins into two covered individual teaspoon strainers, placing one in each teacup. Then she poured boiling water into each cup and set one cup in front of Wetzon. Wetzon took a deep breath, inhaling the steam.

  “Oh, how I’d love to be having dinner here with you tonight instead of—” She stopped. She was embarrassed that she’d let Smith manipulate her into eating with Arleen and didn’t want to tell Hazel.

  “You work too hard, Leslie dear.” Hazel opened the rest of the containers with little exclamations of pleasure. “Oh! Um! Ah!” Her face was blotchy, scaly in spots, red and pink and white.

  “How are you feeling?”

  Hazel ignored her and put a single shrimp and four green fusilli on Wetzon’s plate.

  “Taste this. It’s wonderful.”

  “Okay,” Wetzon said. “I get it. Well, kindly let me know when you’re ready.”

  Hazel gave her a flinty look and Wetzon laughed.

  “They think they’ve located Marion, thro
ugh the State Department. Isn’t that wonderful? I’ll tell you, Leslie, it’s such a relief.” She dipped her fork into the chicken curry and lifted it to her mouth, closing her eyes, smiling, chewing slowly. “Um. This is quite my favorite.” She put her fork down and swirled the strainer in her teacup. “You see, Peepsie named me as one of her executors, and I’ll tell you truthfully, once Marion gets here I intend to resign and let Marion and the lawyer handle it. She left a sizable estate, mostly to Marion and a great deal to her favorite causes. The Metropolitan Museum, Connecticut College, of course. I had no idea there was so much money ...” Her voice drifted off sadly.

  “I’m sorry, Hazel.”

  “Oh dear. Life goes by so quickly.”

  “‘The joy is in the journey,’ as you’ve always said.”

  “Of course.” She smiled. “We had so much fun always, all of the Peepsies.” She sighed and picked up her fork again. “Why don’t you tell me about Little Odessa? I want to hear everything.”

  Wetzon spun out the story, dramatically, picking at the spread of food on the table as she did so. Hazel interjected light comments until Wetzon came to the attack outside the ladies’ room, and Hazel’s pale blotchy face turned white under the frilly cap.

  “Oh my, this is terrible. Leslie dear, I feel responsible for your getting involved in this. I’m worried about you. I will never forgive myself if ... Have you told your nice young man?”

  “No, I haven’t told my nice young man.” Wetzon smiled, gently mocking Hazel’s words. “He’s on a big case and I haven’t seen him, but really, there’s nothing to worry about. It was an attempted mugging and that could happen anywhere. And he didn’t get anything and I’m not hurt. See?” She did not roll down the neck of her sweater. In spite of Wetzon’s reassurances, Hazel was becoming more and more agitated. “Hazel, come on, please, I promise I’ll tell him, but it’s not related.” She then described what happened to the Tsminskys.

  “Dreadful. Those poor people. They come all this way, from such a terrible place, and then this.” Hazel clucked and shook her head.