Tender Death Page 26
“Yeah, that’s the guy. I said okay but don’t take too long. I got an offer I’m sitting on from Smith Barney.”
“You told him that?” Brokers talked too much. About themselves. About their clients. About their firms. And about each other.
“Yeah, why fool around? I want everything on the table so we can deal. And that’s the other thing, they don’t make deals. I won’t go anywhere without a deal. I told you that.”
“I know, Kevin. But I hate to make a judgment without giving them a shot at you. Let me get you some feedback. Remember, you have Loeb Dawkins at five o’clock this afternoon, at 440 Lexington, ninth floor. Jay Campo.”
“Later, Wetzon.”
She confirmed the appointment with Jay Campo, then dialed Dick Magundy at Shearson.
“He’s good, Wetzon, but I don’t know if I want to handle him. He’s going to take a lot of work and he’s a burnout candidate. I’ve got a lot of people here to share syndicate with. He won’t get enough in my office. I’ll fix it for him to meet Matt Rogers and maybe Matt will find another office for him, if Matt wants him.”
“That’s fair.”
“The other thing is, he’s looking for a deal, and we don’t buy brokers. You know that.”
“I know. I was hoping you guys would fall in love with each other.”
“He’s got to look at it as a career move. We’re the best firm on the Street now—”
She hung up the phone. Firms that didn’t make deals used expressions like “it’s a career move,” and “we don’t want anyone looking for a deal,” and “we don’t buy brokers.” And every goddam firm she represented thought it was the best on the Street right now. She was probably wearing too many hats. It was something to talk to Smith about.
She dialed Gary Greggs to find out what he thought of Maurice Sanderson. “Forget it, Wetzon. That guy is an antique. Send me the living, if you don’t mind.” What was she going to do with Maurice?
She took out her client book and flipped through the pages. Under Misc. Firms she saw she’d written First Westchester Securities, 120 Broadway, and the phone number. Frank Willkie, a broker she knew, had become manager there recently. He was looking for brokers. Maybe he would take Maurice.
She got Frank Willkie on the line. “Listen,” she said after they had taken care of amenities, “I have a broker I’m working with I think you should see.”
“Okay.”
“Frank, he does steady business, but his gross is in the neighborhood of a hundred thousand.”
Frank groaned.
“And he’s seventy years old.”
“Jesus, Wetzon.”
“You’d be doing a good deed and it wouldn’t cost you anything. You can make money on him.”
“What do you mean?”
“You could just give him a higher payout—say, fifty percent for six months—”
“Ha! That’s all I’d be willing to do, but I’d still have to pay you.”
“Okay.” She was ready for that. “How about if you give me three percent on his trailing twelve and five percent on his future twelve?”
“No way. Let’s face it. I lose money on the deal. Come at me again.”
“Jesus, Frank.” She thought for a minute. Smith would kill her. “Okay, how about three thousand down and five percent if he does over a hundred and fifty in a year?”
“How about two thousand down and five percent if he does over two hundred?”
“That’s it?”
“That’s the best I’ll do.”
“Okay. When can you see him?”
“Right away. After the close, today, tomorrow. Don’t wait too long or I’ll change my mind. Have him call me and I’ll set it up with him directly.”
She called Sanderson and gave him Frank Willkie’s number. “I really would like to go to a big name firm, Wetzon, like Shearson or Bache,” Sanderson said, without gratitude.
“They won’t take you, Maurice. I’m telling you the truth. You’re just not doing enough production. Two hundred is their cutoff, and you’ve been in the business too long from their point of view to be doing just two hundred.” She felt squeamish about telling him the truth, but he had to know what the climate was so he could make the right decision. She got him to commit himself to calling Frank Willkie and hung up thinking she worked harder on the small producers than the big ones. And if Maurice Sanderson should be hired by First Westchester, she and Smith would probably never see more than the two-thousand-dollar down payment. There was no way he would do two hundred thousand in gross commissions in the year ahead. Even if he lived. Damn, why was she being so negative?
She called Silvestri at the Seventeenth Precinct. So what if he was mad at her and never wanted to see her again, she’d better fill him in on the stock certificate scam theory, if Michael Stewart hadn’t done it already. Silvestri wasn’t there and neither was Metzger. She left word that she’d called. Good. She’d done what she’d promised.
Her next call had to be to Diantha Anderson. She located the earlier message among her message slips and was about to call her when Smith came breezing in carrying Wetzon’s raccoon coat on its hanger.
“You bought a fur coat? You sneak. Without me. Here, put it on so I can see it.”
Wetzon laughed, taking it from Smith. “It was an accident, Smith. Honest. I had to meet Laura Lee, and she was going to her furrier—”
“I’ve always told you if you wanted a coat, you should use my furrier. You don’t know anything about dried-out skins ... It’s so easy to get cheated.”
“Oh, Smith—look—do you think I got cheated?” She modeled the coat for Smith.
Smith studied her grudgingly. “Well, it does suit you. Although mink is so much richer ...”
“Yes, for older ladies, not for me.” She didn’t look at Smith as she took off her coat and hung it next to Smith’s mink and came back to the office.
Smith was standing, waiting, arms folded. “Humpf. I suppose you meant that to be funny.”
“Oh come on, Smith, laugh. It was a joke.”
“Close the door,” Smith ordered. “I have to talk to you privately.”
Uh oh, now what? Wetzon closed the door. “I got home too late to call you last night.”
“You never return calls anymore. I don’t know, Wetzon ...” She sat down on the edge of her desk and eyed her fingernails.
“What do you want to talk about?”
“Leon thinks we should buy Arleen’s business.”
“We? You and Leon?”
“No, you and me, of course. Wetzon, really. Why would Leon and I buy her business? Leon is not my partner.”
“What would we do with her business, Smith? It makes no sense to me.”
“Run it. Of course it makes sense. It makes very good sense. She has an extremely profitable business.”
“We have enough to do running our own business. I don’t want to buy another business. We’re making nice money. I don’t want to risk our capital. And if her business is so profitable, why does she want to sell it?”
“Wetzon, sweetie pie, you always think too small. It’s your background in the arts. I want you to think about it and we’ll talk it over with Leon.”
“Just tell me this, why does Arleen want to sell her business all of a sudden?”
“Well, I’m not saying she does. What would you say if I were to buy it myself?”
“It’s entirely up to you, of course, but who would run it?”
“She would continue to run it. I would own it. That’s the way Leon would set it up.” Smith seemed tense and jumpy; her words came in jagged phrases. “But, sweetie, I’m not going to take no for an answer. Really, I want you to promise me you’ll think about it. The financials are wonderful—”
“No more about it now,” Wetzon insisted, turning away sharply and tearing a gigantic hole in her hose on her desk drawer. “Damn!” A new pair, too. She took the spare she always kept in the drawer and went into the bathroom to change, ignoring
Smith.
When she came out, Smith was on the phone. Good. Wetzon opened the door to the front office. “B.B.” B.B. was making notes on a suspect sheet. “Any good prospects you want to go over with me?”
“I have two more people on my list to call,” B.B. said. “Here’s the mail.” He handed her a rubberbanded bundle and she took it back to her desk to sort. Then she dialed Diantha Anderson.
“Anderson Associates,” a cool female voice answered.
“Diantha Anderson, please.”
“She’s not here right now. May I take a message?”
“Yes, this is Leslie Wetzon. Just tell her I returned her call.”
“Oh, Ms. Wetzon. She asked me to arrange a meeting as soon as possible ... today. At your convenience, but she said to tell you there is some urgency. She’ll be calling in for her messages.”
“It’s really not convenient.” Wetzon thought for a moment. “But I know she’s been trying to reach me. Ask her if she can meet me in the street lobby of the Hyatt on Forty-second and Lexington at five-thirty this afternoon.”
“I’m sure that will be fine.”
“Call me, please, if it’s not. I’ll be here all afternoon.” She left her phone number and hung up.
She took a call from Arthur Margolies assuring her that she was not a suspect, but that she was a material witness and, therefore, could not leave town.
“I have no intention of leaving town, Arthur. Should I return Bernstein’s call?”
“I’ll do that for you. If I feel you should talk to him, I’ll call you back.”
That was a relief. She felt she was in good hands with Arthur.
“Let’s go to Bloomie’s tonight,” Smith cut in. “I feel the urge to spend money. And we can have dinner at Yellowfinger’s.”
“Can’t. Have to go over prospects with B.B. after lunch and I have a meeting at five-thirty. How about later in the week?”
“You’re on, sugar. Who are you working on?”
“I may have found a place for Maurice Sanderson.”
“Oh, please, I thought we were rid of that old fart.”
Wetzon reported her conversation with Frank Willkie. “We won’t make much, but—”
“But we’ll go to heaven,” Smith finished. “Okay, okay. God gave me Pollyanna as a partner.”
“De Haven saw Shearson this morning. It went well. Dick wants him to meet Matt Rogers.”
“Matt’ll love him.”
“But will Matt love him enough to give him an up-front deal?”
“I doubt it. You know how Matt is about money.”
“Yes. He’ll try to cheat us out of our fee.”
“Nice, Wetzon.”
“True, Smith.”
“Where else are you sending him?”
“He sees Jay Campo at Loeb Dawkins this afternoon. Keep les fingairs crossed. Would be a lovely fee.”
“Wouldn’t it just.”
The phones heated up in the afternoon and, intermittently, Wetzon went over the interviews B.B. had done.
“Here, for example, we need more biographical information,” she told him. “Degree, when he graduated, is he married, children.” And, “Get home address and phone number whenever possible. You can sometimes get a relationship going by relating to where he lives. Also, you can sell him on working closer to home.”
Silvestri called just before four. “What’s up?”
She caught Smith’s teasing look. “Would love to but can’t right now.”
“When?” His voice sounded dead.
“Later?” She hesitated. “Maybe after seven?”
“Right.” He hung up without saying whether he would call or come by.
It hurt. She had let him get to her, she had gotten involved, felt vulnerable. She stared down at her appointment book with blind eyes.
“Anything wrong, sweetie?” Smith asked. Did she sound hopeful?
“Not really. We’re just having scheduling problems. He’s been working nights.”
“So he says.”
“Oh, Smith.”
The next call was for Smith, and she was still talking when Wetzon put on her coat and beret and said good night. It was almost five, and she was running a little late.
It was a relief to be out on the street and away from Smith. Too close quarters. The office had begun to make her feel claustrophobic.
“Need a ride, lady?” A cab stopped for her. “Hey, don’t I know you?”
It was Judy Blue. “Judy Blue. Why do you keep turning up all the time?” Oh, but of course, Judy Blue must work for the Department, too, just like Michael Stewart. “How’s Silvestri?”
“Who? What? Who’s Silvestri?” Judy Blue was doing a good job of pretending to look puzzled.
“Okay, Judy Blue.” Wetzon got into the cab. “You can take me to Dollar Bill’s on Forty-second and Grand Central.”
Judy Blue spoke into what looked like an intercom. “Fare to Grand Central.”
After Judy Blue dropped her at Dollar Bill’s, Wetzon went upstairs and bought a half dozen pairs of sheer black hose, put the package into her carryall, and walked the half block to the lobby of the Hyatt.
No sign of Diantha Anderson. She’d give her twenty minutes and that was it.
A gray-haired man in a corduroy car coat was berating a meek little woman, probably his wife, about the shopping bags and bundles she was carrying. “We always end up like immigrants with packages.” The woman looked humiliated. Wetzon felt sorry for her.
Leaning against the marble wall on the left was a tall, athletic-looking man in a tan trench coat reading The New York Times. He looked up momentarily and then went back to his paper. The door to the street opened and another tall, well-built man in a tan raincoat came into the small lobby and walked toward her as if he were going to ask directions. Beyond him, Wetzon caught a glimpse of Diantha Anderson approaching the glass entrance door.
The man reading the Times folded it, set it on a nearby marble ashtray, and strolled toward Wetzon. “Leslie Wetzon,” he said, taking her left elbow. The other man in the trench coat stood on her right. Wetzon looked from one to the other. What was going on? She saw Diantha’s alarmed face. Saw her pause several feet away, near the crowd of conventioneers who had just disembarked from a chartered bus with masses of luggage. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“We’d like you to come with us, please,” the first man said. “Without making a disturbance.”
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“Federal Bureau of Investigation,” the second man said.
41.
“STOP! THIEF!” A woman screamed.
A group of luggage-laden foreign tourists who had obviously just gotten off one of the airport buses pushed forward, disconcerted by the woman’s scream, responding, perhaps, to all the terrible stories they’d been told about life in New York. On the verge of panic they pressed against Wetzon and her two companions in the small lobby, jabbering and shoving. The men in the trench coats resisted, vainly trying to hold back the surge.
“Look out!” someone cried. “He’s got a gun!”
“Where is he?” Mounting hysteria filled the area. Voices rose in fear and anger.
An arm came at Wetzon from the right, locked onto hers, and jerked her, stumbling, sideward. A clear voice enunciated in her ear, “Come with me quickly, no questions.” The voice had the sound of iron in it, and Wetzon was not about to argue.
She put herself into Diantha Anderson’s care as they burrowed into the confused and milling crowd of arms, legs, cameras, bodies, and luggage. Then Diantha pushed through a glass door to the right of the lobby and they were free and racing down a corridor with stores on both sides. They plunged into Grand Central Station along with the hordes of rush hour commuters streaming like lemmings to trains and subways.
“Okay, wait!” Wetzon shouted over the cacophony of people and trains. She stopped to catch her breath at a stand that advertised baked potatoes to go. “We’re free—”
“Let’s get out of here, get a cab.”
“No.” Diantha grabbed her hand. “It’s easier to get lost down here at this hour, if we just keep moving.”
They changed their route then, going farther underground, into a sloping tunnel that led to the West Side Shuttle trains, which ran every few minutes, carrying passengers from the East Side to the West Side. The tunnel, its walls advertising the glamour of New York, Broadway shows, restaurants, and films, was a virtual dormitory for the down-and-out. The homeless with their belongings in shopping bags, dirt-encrusted beggars, drifters sat on flattened cardboard boxes or stood along the tunnel, asking for money. Others slept, buried in newspapers or old carpet or towels; some even had blankets. The area had a putrid odor. Commuters poured without pause through the tunnel in both directions, eyes averted, unseeing.
Diantha came to a halt in a hollow where a passageway led off to Grand Central proper. “We’ve got to talk, but not here and not now.” Her eyes burned into Wetzon’s.
A man, his shoulders hunched, his hair matted in dreadlocks, edged toward them, his filthy hat outstretched. “Could you spare some change?” the drifter wheedled. He thrust his hat at them. Diantha pulled some coins from the pocket of her fur-lined storm coat and dropped them into the hat. “Thank you, sister, thank you.”
“I am not your sister,” Diantha hissed, turning furious eyes on him. The man scrambled back into the main tunnel.
Wetzon was losing her patience. She was tired of running from something she didn’t understand, tired of being so nice and cooperative. “Would you mind just giving me a clue?”
Diantha ignored Wetzon’s question and came back with one of her own, peering nervously back and forth in the tunnel, eyeing the crowds of people rushing home. “Who were those men? Cops?”
“They said they were FBI.” Wetzon spoke the words but she found them impossible to believe.
Diantha’s face clouded. Perspiration glinted on her upper lip. “Look, we can’t take any chances here. Before anything, we’ve got to lose them.”